THREE #2
Scarlett had somewhat sharpened it again. Every moment with her pulled me back to that raw, visceral energy I used to pour into my stories. She was under my skin. A goddamn firestorm lit in my chest.
Christ, she had been such a good girl last night – obedient, aching, open to possibilities. And yet, I knew I shouldn’t let myself hope that she would go the full circle with me. Hope was a vicious little thing, and I’d been mauled by it before.
Snapping back to reality, I frowned at the empty page again, a bitterness coagulating at the base of my throat.
I was supposed to be the kind of dark romance writer readers turned to for twisted, gut-wrenching passion and psychological kinks. But lately, my words felt hollow, my characters lifeless.
Vinnie had been blunt about it, as he always was.
‘You’re losing your edge, Cain,’ he had said over drinks a few nights ago. ‘You write like a guy who hasn’t been laid in years. Your stories are starting to feel… safe.’
Safe. I almost laughed aloud at the thought.
Nothing about me had ever been safe. My past, my desires, my habits – they all existed in some murky grey zone where the rules didn’t apply.
And yet, here I was, struggling to inject that chaos, that rawness into my work.
Vinnie had thought I lacked love in my life. I thought I lacked everything.
The truth was… I’d been numb for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel anything at all. Work, life, desire… it had all faded into muted tones.
And then Scarlett came into my world, a jolt of colour and chaos I hadn’t realised I needed.
From the moment she stepped into that room, she’d shifted something in me.
The way her crimson lips parted when I spoke, the soft tremble of her body beneath the blade – it wasn’t just her surrender that captivated me.
It was her strength, the way she emerged from something dark and met me at the edge of fear and need, daring me to take her further while breaking out of her shell.
I tipped my weight into the backrest, her memory surging to the forefront. Her scent, her taste, the way she responded – it had haunted every quiet moment since, pulling me back under her spell.
My fists clenched, pressure coiling low in my stomach as my mind spiralled back to her over and over.
My mouse moved almost on its own, the glow of the Obsidian logo spilling over my screen like an illicit promise. A portal to the world where everything I craved was possible – and the one place where I had found her.
My username, Ghost_666, flashed at the top of the screen as I logged in. The site’s calendar buzzed with requests and appointments, but I ignored them all, zoning in on the only name that mattered: Scarlett.
My heart beat quickly as I booked our next session, the anticipation already building like a slow burn.
She wasn’t just a muse. She was a threat.
I had checked her calendar three times already this morning.
If I hadn’t booked our next session now, I might’ve stalked Obsidian just for a glimpse to see if she was seeing anyone else.
What the fuck was happening to me?
She even dared to ask me if she had done something wrong.
The question had nearly undone me even as her voice wavered, her eyes searching mine for some kind of reassurance.
She had no idea what she was doing to me – how close I had come to losing every ounce of self-control I’d ever had.
Seeing her come alive beneath my hands – it was invigorating.
She met every touch, every command with a surrender so complete it left me breathless.
But it wasn’t just about control and surrender any more.
It was about her – what she unlocked in me.
No… Not unlocked. She thawed the emotional frost that had been building inside me for so long.
I had to stop. There had been no other option. If I’d kept going, I’d have crossed every line, broken every rule.
She’d signed the contract, like I did. Two pages of limits. One red word that could end everything. Obsidian wasn’t play – it was a blood-stamped ritual.
But when she looked at me with those deep brown eyes like she wanted to take my hand and drag me into the darkness with her, it took everything I had to send her away.
And when she said she would never tell?
‘Fuck,’ I said aloud.
I almost touched her then. Almost.
And I still wanted to. Right now.
Shame unfurled inside me at the notion that I’d contemplated following her last night. Just to see if I could get her to kneel.
My hand twitched at the thought.
I was fucking breaking.
I knew it.
But the worst part? I didn’t care.
The second the door closed behind her, I had torn off the mask and let myself unravel.
The pressure had been unbearable, my body screaming for release.
I gave in, my mind full of her: the curve of her lips, the soft tremor in her voice when she picked the knife out of everything else I’d laid out.
She’d looked at me as if she’d wanted to be the one to undo me, to take me apart piece by piece only to reassemble me again.
I growled low in my throat as I shoved at the desk, the chair rolling me back with a screech. My fists clenched at my sides as I stared back at the page – blank and smug as if it knew I had nothing to offer because my mind was elsewhere.
The night with her couldn’t come soon enough. But until then, I had to find a way to survive the ache she’d left behind.
Because Scarlett wasn’t just another session.
She was different. Possibly as broken as I was.
I could tell. There were moments – tiny fractures in her control – that gave her away.
The sharp intake of breath when the blade grazed her collarbone.
The way her eyes darted to the door just a little too often, as if a part of her wasn’t sure she should be there.
I’d seen the panic, though brief and quickly buried, but it was there. And I would have pushed anyway. Because a part of me had wanted to see what would’ve happened if she shattered.
It happened too fast; it felt too natural – the fact that she became my undoing so quickly. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be put back together.
A sharp knock on the door snapped me out of it.
I looked up just as Vinnie strode in, his ever-present, self-satisfied grin firmly in place.
As usual, he wore a shirt one size too small, the fabric straining over his broad chest and bunched-up muscles.
Just watching him made me wince. How in all hell could anyone tolerate being restrained like that?
It was the end of spring, and the creeping warmth of the season had already started to seep into every corner of the city.
Surely, wearing something so confining was a special kind of masochism.
‘I’ve got two outside,’ he said, leaning casually against the doorframe as if delivering good news.
I blinked. Twice, my mind struggling to catch up.
His grin faltered for a split second before his expression melted into mild shock.
‘Do not fucking tell me you forgot,’ he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was the one suffering here. ‘The assistant writer interviews? Today?’
Oh, that.
Damn it.
I had completely forgotten about it. My mind was still stuck on Scarlett. I’d dreamt of her last night – except in the dream she wasn’t sitting on that chair. She was running. And I was following. Hunting. Fucking her into the ground like an animal.
I had awoken hard, drenched in sweat, pulse hammering like I’d chased prey across a battlefield.
Well, hypothetically, I had.
The haze of Ghost, Scarlett, and every other thought that consumed me had left no room for trivial things like interviews.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, cutting me off.
‘Just don’t fucking say it,’ he snapped, his tone somewhere between exasperation and resignation. ‘You’ve got three deadlines, Cain.’ He raised a hand in a pleading gesture – the kind that said, please don’t fuck this up for both of us. ‘And four emails from the publisher.’
I got it. I really did. Vinnie and I had invested a lot into this office space, this business.
It wasn’t just my books paying the bills any more.
We were selling – the books, the merchandise that went with them – and selling well, thanks to his relentless marketing efforts.
I might have been the writer, but I wasn’t na?ve enough to think my words alone were responsible for our success.
Vinnie was a damned good manager. And maybe that was why I let him get away with saying things I would normally punch someone for.
‘Fuck,’ I grumbled, leaning back in my chair. ‘Yes. Let’s do this.’