EIGHT
I should have felt powerful.
I had shackled him. Pinned him down. Watched his skin pebble as I swallowed him whole, not even flinching when he growled like a man about to snap his leash.
And then I walked away wearing his silence like a crown.
So why did my ribs cinch tight as if I were the one still restrained?
My clothes sat wrong on my skin. My throat was dry. My thighs sore in a way that made my stomach twist with both pride and shame.
Had I crossed a line, or just stumbled into territory I wasn’t meant to claim?
His mask flashed in my mind – that moment he had let me push back. It hadn’t been submission – it had been permission. He hadn’t said the safe word. Hadn’t stopped me. Hadn’t even retaliated.
And still, something weighed on my chest – as if I had done something unforgivable.
I’d had boyfriends before, some incredible in bed.
But nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared me for Ghost. He wasn’t just a lover; he was like an extension of my own body, knowing instinctively how to unlock every pleasure point I never knew I had – and shatter the chains that held me back.
And damn it, I wanted to return the favour.
Sure, there was knife play, and I would wager he hadn’t been thrilled about me flipping the script.
But when I’d seen him lost in the moment – his guard lowered, his control fractured – something bestial and wicked surged in me. It’d been too delicious not to seize.
Watching him come undone was something out of a fever dream.
His muscles strained beneath those thick veins, his breath skipped, and that final growl as he surrendered…
it was raw, magnificent. For a second, I forgot about the mask.
No man hidden behind one had the right to look so damning and inviting at the same time.
When I released him, I half-expected retribution.
My shoulders tensed, bracing for the strike my body had memorised long before I had met him.
But none came.
His hands lowered when the chains clattered against the boards, as if he could read the panic pulsing beneath my skin, as if he didn’t know what to make of us in that moment. His eyes didn’t stray. And when his palm lifted, it wasn’t to hurt. It was to touch my lips.
A graze. Dangerous in its restraint. As if making sure I really existed.
Surrounded by weapons, chains, and shackles, Ghost offered both punishment and reward. A twisted sort of grace.
I had to leave before the softness could destroy me.
Climbing the stairs to my flat, every step was a reminder of the soreness spreading through me.
My body felt heavy with satisfaction, and for once, I didn’t feel the urge to pour a glass of wine, binge-watch romance dramas, or even write.
Those were my usual escapes from reality at the end of the day.
Writing had always done the trick. It had been my passion – but tonight?
Tonight, I just wanted to shower and sleep, replaying Ghost’s touch until the warmth of it lulled me unconscious.
When I slid the key into the lock, the door gave way – already ajar.
My entire body locked down. Every instinct screamed.
The hinges creaked open an inch more.
Too slow. like an inhale before the kill.
A cold flush rippled down my spine and paralysed me on the spot.
I held my breath, feet bolted to the ground. Staring into the dark seam of the doorway, I couldn’t stop the dread pooling like ice water in my chest.
My fingers, numb and useless, fumbled for my purse—
Uncle Alessio’s voice barked in my head, ‘If it’s not locked, you do not go in. You aim first!’
I reached for the gun with shaking hands, pulse thundering loud enough to drown out the silence.
My uncle had understood enough. Maybe not everything, but enough to be afraid for me.
‘Better to have it and never use it than to need it and be too late,’ he’d said, pressing the gun into my hands with a look that almost begged: move in with us, stay safe. Don’t do this alone.
He couldn’t stop me from renting this place.
But he’d made damn sure I wasn’t walking into danger empty-handed.
The gun sat solidly in my grasp, defying the tremor that ran through me as my thoughts scattered. I’d practised at the range, sure – I’m a proud American, after all. But practice targets didn’t look back at you with a set of cold blue eyes.
However… would I really be able to aim to kill if he was waiting inside?
I nudged the door open with my foot, every nerve in my body screaming.
Shadows stretched across the corner tiles like the tentacles of a beast.
Unsteadily, I pushed the door open further, my gun cocked and ready as the hinges creaked with foreboding. Darkness greeted me with all my fears and insecurities, windings itself around my chest.
The alarm began to churn in warning, its mechanical sound calmly counting down the seconds as though the door hadn’t already been breached.
Uncle had insisted on the system, too – a failsafe that activated if there was no movement in the flat for over an hour.
It was supposed to make me feel safe, but tonight, it felt sinister. Mocking.
There hadn’t been any alerts on my phone. The app should have blared the second someone tried to force their way in. I had tested it myself, over and over, until I was sure it was infallible. But there had been nothing. No notification. No warning.
But that slow creak of the door opening onto an empty void…
With a shaky hand, I clicked the light switch.
Brightness flooded the room, and I held my breath, my heart clenching as I willed the shadows to stay empty.
I never prayed before, but now I wished I knew how to.
Because I don’t want to see those eyes. Blue, haunting eyes that had stared through me a thousand times before.
He can’t be here.
I forced the rising panic back down my throat.
Travis was in prison, I reasoned with myself. Half a world away, locked, where he couldn’t hurt me any more. He couldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t possibly know where to find me. He doesn’t even speak Italian.
I reiterated those words until they took root in me and bloomed into enough courage to invite me further in.
Leaving the door open behind me, I stepped inside, my free hand fumbling for my phone. I swept through the security app’s live feed, frantically checking each camera.
Empty.
The flat was empty.
If anyone had been inside, the cameras would have caught them. I should have felt relief, but it didn’t come. The knot in my stomach only tightened as the realisation struck.
I’d left the fucking door unlocked? Was I that stupid?
My mind raced, replaying the night. I’d been lost in the haze of Ghost and the package change – the anticipation of his touch, his voice, the way he could make me forget everything but him. Had I been so reckless, so desperate, that I’d left the goddamn door wide open?
After everything I’d done to keep my presence here a secret, all the careful measures, the painful precautions, I’d nearly blown it. Like some na?ve teenage girl consumed by lust, I’d left myself fucking exposed.
The initial fear ebbed, replaced by something colder. My teeth pressed tight together, bitterness burning hot behind them, but even that couldn’t hold back the reality from crashing down on me.
All the satisfaction, the relaxation I’d felt earlier – it was gone now. Shattered. The warmth of Ghost’s touch felt like a distant memory, eclipsed by the suffocating dread creeping in from the edges of my mind.
Reality had sunk its claws in, and there was no escaping it.
Sighing, I gave in and reached for that bottle of wine after all.
The cork popped with a satisfying thunk, and as I poured myself a glass, I peeled off my wig, tossing it onto the back of a chair.
My scalp prickled with relief as I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the tension ease ever so slightly.
After viewing a day’s worth of camera feed on fast-forward, I realised I had been stupid enough to leave the door open. Between the moment I’d left and the moment I’d returned, there hadn’t been a soul in the flat.
Cursing at myself, my eyes dropped to the laptop on my desk that waited like a silent judge, and I knew there was no avoiding it.
With another sip, the tingling sensation of panic retracted its jagged grip on me.
I fired up the laptop, nestling into my couch, the screen casting a pale glow across the room.
I guess I was going to write after all.
Ghost’s fingerprints still lingered upon my skin, but Chapter Fifteen of D’Angelo’s story was calling: the tale of an abused woman fleeing her sadistic husband – only to stumble into the arms of his equally sadistic brother.
It had become disturbingly cathartic to write.
Her twisted preference for his flavour of pain and torture wasn’t just an escape.
It was a choice. A dark, deliberate choice.
And as much as I hated to admit it, I could relate.
Memories morphed into fiction, ideas bled through, and my fingers flew across the keyboard.
Steamy, vivid descriptions poured out of me as though the words had been waiting, lurking in the dark all along.
This was the kind of scene broken women like me would devour – raw, passionate, laced with a flavour of danger that’d make their pulse shatter.
And after my session with Ghost, and the jolt of finding the door open, I was left with a strange cocktail of lust, adrenaline and paranoia swirling in my veins.
Desire still hummed under my skin, tangling with the fear.
Not the clean kind – the kind that made me wonder if I’d left a part of myself behind in someone else’s hands.
And then I froze as my eyes combed through the last passage.
I stared at the last paragraph, heat rising to my cheeks as the realisation hit me.
Fuck. I’d just described D’Angelo’s face.