SIX
Crouching low on the fire escape, I pressed my fingertips against the cold metal rail, eyes locked on the soft moonlit glow bleeding through the sheer curtain.
There was a camera in the far corner of the ceiling.
Another above the front door. A third, tiny and near-invisible, nestled between the bookshelf and the smoke alarm. She knew how to dance with monsters.
Clever girl. My girl.
But she never thought I’d be the one watching over her, keeping the darkness away.
Her body shifted beneath the spill of white sheets – barely a ripple – and I almost groaned.
The silk clung to her skin as if it were jealous of the air.
Pale blue. Nearly translucent in the moonlight.
It slid up her thigh as she turned, baring the curve of her leg, the crease of her waist, the swell of her hip where my hands could rest.
The moon painted her in silver and bone, turning the slope of her shoulder into art.
She slept like she did everything else – delicately, unconsciously cruel. All softness and shadows without a clue what she did to the men around her. What she did to me. I wondered if she remembered…
She hadn’t seen me at Obsidian. But I had recognised her. She looked the same as she did now. No—
More.
Brighter. Wilder.
Her features had been hidden beneath the wig and the mask, and I’d been relieved to see her hair was still blonde when she took the wig off earlier – like a halo hiding beneath sin.
She wore lace as if she had been born in it; let another man touch her – command her – as if she didn’t already belong to someone. As if she wasn’t fucking mine.
But I understood.
She wasn’t betraying me. She was returning to me. Finding her way back.
All of this – her moving here, the cameras, the silence… it was all a part of the gift.
She’d been given back to me. Wrapped in silk and moonlight.
God always gave the devout what they needed. And from nothing, He gave me her.
She didn’t understand the kind of peace that came at the edge of breath.
Not yet. But she would. I’d seen it – I’d watched the soul bloom behind the eyes when the body stopped fighting.
That trembling moment between life and whatever came next, when everything slowed, and there was nothing but stillness, and skin, and the shudder of something eternal slipping free.
People thought death was ugly. Messy. But they’d never really looked.
They’d never had the privilege of holding a woman so tightly that her fear blossomed into surrender – and then silence.
Of the purest kind. I’d seen beauty in its cleanest form: naked, gasping, weightless. And I wanted her to be like that too.
Not because I hated her. I could never hate her. She’d been made for this. The soft column of her throat, the way her pulse undoubtedly kicked just beneath the skin like a secret and an invitation… Every breath she took was a prayer I hadn’t answered.
Yet.
My own personal benediction to absolve me of all sins so we could both ascend in peace…
I sucked in a breath, almost feeling the warmth of His holiness coming over me.
When I finally answered her, it wouldn’t be quick. It’d be sacred. Slow. I’d be gentle with her, the way one handled a sacred relic. She’d cry, maybe, but she’d understand. She’d feel it too – that exquisite quiet that only came when everything else was stripped away. When she’d be mine completely.
In body.
In silence.
In death.
Working for D’Angelo, I’d expected coffee-fetching and condescension, but he had surprised me.
He’d got straight to business.
He was a master at keeping himself contained, as it seemed.
Everything about him – the calm in his voice, the stillness in his posture, the way his gaze rarely lingered too long – spoke of control.
It was disarming, really. I’d imagined something else entirely after that interview.
But this was professionalism – his ability to keep the man-woman thing out of the dynamic was… refreshing.
I focused on the draft he’d assigned me, letting my fingers move swiftly over the keyboard as I made notes.
The text was raw, unsettling in the best way, pulling me into the dark tension he was known for. I could see where he wanted the pacing smoothed, the tension stretched, the transitions tightened. It was meticulous work, but I liked that. It gave me something to sink my teeth into.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him adjusting in his chair, his attention fixed on his own screen.
His movements were fluid, without a trace of impatience or restlessness.
For someone who wrote about chaos, shattered characters and unravelling minds, he carried himself with an almost unnerving calm, making me feel like I could focus on the work without the fear of being judged or having to second-guess myself.
He wasn’t going to pull rank or let his ego get in the way.
And yet, there was something else about him. Something restless. It wasn’t overt, but I could feel it. It wasn’t directed at me, not explicitly, but it was there, like a current running through him.
It stunned me – that he would let me thread my fingers through his story. If the roles had been reversed, I would’ve guarded my pages like a wounded animal.
I couldn’t help but wonder… what would he do if I pushed too far? If I rewrote more than just one line?
Would he correct me?
Punish me?
‘The scene on page eleven,’ I said as I highlighted a section in the document, sensing that purr of mischief and curiosity tickling low in my chest. ‘It’s strong, but I think the build-up could use a bit more.’
The skin between his brows puckered slightly. I clicked another section, he followed the live changes on his end.
‘The tension’s good here, but it hits too fast.’ I tapped the keyboard, leaving a comment in the margin.
Cain glanced up briefly, his face impassive as he nodded.
‘Show me what you got, DeLuca,’ he said simply.
Smiling, I turned back to the draft.
Interesting.
It was going to be easy to work with him like this – no unnecessary words, no awkwardness, nothing forced.
Just focus. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could settle into my work without looking over my shoulder.
Whatever Cain carried within him, he kept it firmly in check. And because of that, I could breathe.
But the contrast scraped at something inside me.
Cain was calm, professional. Unreachable.
Unlike another man I had recently met – Ghost was hot steel, prying open the locked boxes I’d buried in the dark corners of my mind.
I wasn’t sure if I was aroused or deeply disturbed to find myself inclined towards both.
Nevertheless, the day came to a close, and the pressure that had been swelling all day finally burst.
Cain wrapped up fast, his movements almost restless, as if staying still a second longer might’ve snapped something inside him. There were no lingering pleasantries. Just a curt nod, a clipped, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and a look that burned a second too long.
When I stepped out, the faint trace of his cologne chased me down the hallway like an exam problem left until the very end: the hardest one, the one that haunted you even after you’d walked away.
I hurried home, my heart already thrumming with anticipation as I stepped into the shower. The warm water rushed over my skin, washing away the day’s tension but doing little to calm the restless energy pooling in my chest.
Tonight, I would see Ghost. Just the mere thought sent a shiver down my spine, my body already responding in ways I couldn’t control.
After drying off and slipping into my costume, I reached for my phone, noticing a notification from the Obsidian app.
My heart skipped a beat.
A change request from Ghost. Anxiety bloomed in my chest as I opened it, terrified that he might’ve cancelled. My mind raced, replaying our last session.
Had I been too needy? Too vulnerable?
I winced at the memory. I was needy – desperate for him. For his voice, his touch – though we hadn’t been allowed that yet. The anonymity, the rules… it all made it easier to let myself unravel in ways I never had before.
But as I read the notification, the air grew sparse, the heat in my chest climbing to a fever pitch. He hadn’t cancelled.
He had upgraded.
From Starter package to Gold.
Staring at the screen, my pulse roared in my ears. Gold. My heart leapt into my throat, and heat licked up my spine as my gaze skimmed over the words again, half-convinced I’d imagined them.
I scrambled through the app’s rules, needing to see it in black and white – proof that I wasn’t imagining it.
And there it was.
The Gold package – where touching was allowed.
Touching.
My mind spun, images flashing unbidden – his broad chest, the flex of his tattooed forearms, the sheer size of his hands as they strapped me into that chair. And now, I could touch him.
My body tingled all over, anticipation curling in my stomach like a tightly wound spring.
I hesitated for only a moment before checking the agreement box. My hands trembled as I hit ‘Submit’, my palms already damp despite the chill in my flat.
Tonight… I’d be able to feel him.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady myself, but the tension was already thrumming in my veins.
This wasn’t just a session any more. This was something else entirely.
The door clicked softly shut behind me as I stepped into the lounge, my heart fluttering in my chest. I hadn’t felt this nervous since I’d fled the US.
The air felt heavier tonight, laden with shadows that pooled in every corner.
The room was darker than I’d remembered, the only light coming from the overhead fixture that cast a faint glow over the black leather chair at the centre.
The low hum of music throbbed faintly in the background, a rhythm that echoed the pounding of my pulse.