ELEVEN
An hour had passed, and my fingers were hovering over the keyboard as if they’d forgotten how to move. The cursor blinked back at me impatiently and accusingly.
Cain’s voice echoed softly in the back of my head.
Did he use that voice with other women? I wondered.
He hadn’t flirted. Not exactly. But the way he described Damien guiding Chloe… it wound me up. And now I could taste him in every sentence I wrote.
Chapter Twenty of Cain’s manuscript.
I’d been staring at the title. Not a word written. Not even a sentence started. The screen glowed back at me with a blank intensity that felt too personal, too accusatory. As though it knew what I was really thinking about. Not plot or pacing.
Him.
Ghost – with Cain’s voice.
Shit, I was slipping.
I sank back into the couch.
The soft throw blanket curled around my legs, but was now useless against the slow-burning ache that crept deep enough to numb my toes.
Leaving Obsidian last time felt like surfacing after being held underwater for too long. Like the first gasp of air when my lungs stopped screaming and I’d realised I’d made it. I’d survived.
The session had wrecked me in the most profound – but necessary – way.
I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t even ashamed. I was exhausted. But not the kind that drained – the kind that cleansed. As though every cell in my body had let go of something so heavy that was never meant to be carried.
And it terrified me because I wasn’t sure if it was because of Ghost and how easily he did that to me – or because I was so broken I’d let him do it without putting up a fight.
It wasn’t normal to feel safe beneath the cold touch of a knife. It wasn’t normal to feel seen behind a mask.
A tremor worked through my fingers as I brushed them over the laptop keys. I couldn’t write about fiction when my reality was still echoing with both Ghost’s and Cain’s voice.
That kind of poison had to be dosed slowly.
I’d wanted to stay with Ghost. I would’ve stayed all goddamn night curled beside that jagged man with his phantom voice and his haunted hands. I’d wanted to disappear into his ruin and let him keep me.
But he wouldn’t let me.
And maybe…
That was the kindest thing he could’ve done.
Because I could already feel the shape of addiction forming under my skin. Not just for the pain, or the release, or the control. For him.
The way he spoke. The way he moved. What he did to me. He hadn’t looked away when I’d shattered – he’d steadied me, guided me, held me together with nothing but a word, a command, and his restraint. And it had fed his own hunger.
I hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Free… Beautiful.
My gaze dropped to the blinking cursor again.
How was I supposed to write when all I could think about was how I’d made it to the surface – and how desperately I already wanted to go under again?
With him.
I drew a shallow, unsteady breath. And started typing.
Not with intention. With need.
It was meant to be a turning point in the book – the chapter where the female character’s walls came down, where she let him in, fully and without fear. Where the masks slipped and nothing was safe any more. A scene of utter undoing.
Just like they made me feel.
My mind wandered back to Ghost’s duffel.
To the glimpse of silver I’d caught last time – a sleek, heavy plug tucked beside the restraints.
Purposeful to the point of hurt. I’d never used one before, but I had an idea how it worked.
What it was for. And the thought of him using it…
of pushing me further with nothing but that calm voice that promised punishment and release in one…
I took in a deep breath, the cool air sobering me. My thighs shifted instinctively, the phantom of his fingers still branded between them.
The scene I wrote blurred into memory: her on her knees, him behind her, one hand on the base of her spine, the other guiding her to breathe, to open, to take.
The rhythm of the words pulsed like a heartbeat. Like a warning—
And then my phone buzzed.
I jumped, half-gasping, as if caught red-handed. The screen lit under my thigh. I fumbled to grab it, scowling towards the clock – 03:04 am.
Probably one of my brothers texting from the States.
But it wasn’t.
Cain: Go to sleep.
I froze.
Blinked at the screen, heart hammering as something primal curled low in my belly. How did he know I was awake?
Slowly, I glanced at the open document on my laptop.
His profile icon glowed quietly in the corner of the collaborative workspace with a tiny green status mark – online.
My cheeks burned. Had he been watching me type?
I hesitated, unsure whether to close the app or keep writing. But then the cursor jumped – highlighting my latest paragraph.
My phone buzzed to life again.
Cain: Consider making this moment more about her surrender than his technique. There’s power in her trust, not just his control.
Professional. Real. Editorially fucking correct.
Why the fuck was my pulse thrumming this way?
I could feel Ghost in that sentence. Not just Cain.
But it was my boss. Sitting behind his screen at three in the fucking morning, probably in some cold, expensive penthouse with perfect lighting and one too many cans of Red Bull.
Clearly.
I shifted slightly on the couch, staring at the cursor for half a heartbeat before replying, trying to keep my tone neutral.
Me: Noted. I had her see a plug in his drawer. Thought it might add layers.
There was a pause. The little icon showed he was typing. Then not. Then typing again.
I imagined him scowling at his screen, his pristine shirt ironed even after sitting for too long.
And then his text buzzed:
Cain: It’s her first time, keep it realistic. Start with something small. Tapered. Silicone. Easy. He wouldn’t overwhelm her – not if he knows what he’s doing.
My stomach flipped.
‘Holy shit…’ I said aloud. ‘He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.’
Sure, he worded it clinically – like a writer. An editor. But it felt… lived.
Something stirred inside me, and I felt a flush of shame blooming. I couldn’t help feeling as if I was cheating on the man whose real name I hadn’t even known.
More importantly, how the hell did Cain know this off the top of his head without Googling?
I bit my lip. Tried to pretend I wasn’t sweating.
Me: Wouldn’t he want to test her limits?
Another pause.
Then:
Cain: Testing limits doesn’t mean violating trust. A good Dom stretches – never snaps. Anticipation is power. The first insertion should be more about what she imagines than what she feels.
I threw the laptop onto the sofa as though it had bitten me, and leapt off the seat, cushions flying everywhere.
That did not read like a man fucking Googling advice for a manuscript.
I paced left. Paced right, glancing at the closed door of my walk-in wardrobe where pieces of Scarlett slept. I suddenly imagined her sniggering behind that door – at me. At how little I knew about this.
I shouldn’t write anything else.
Not after what I’d been through these last few days.
As I sat back down, I reclaimed my machine.
Quick and crisp, I typed back on my phone:
Me: Thanks. I’ll adjust the tone and language accordingly.
His reply was instant:
Cain: Sure. Tomorrow. Go to sleep.
A command.
I stared at the words. No emoji. No signature. Just three short syllables that landed like a palm against the small of my back.
I exhaled slowly, the screen’s glow catching the soft tremble in my fingers. It shouldn’t have affected me. But it did. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was him. My limbs were heavy, my skin still taut from everything I hadn’t written.
I closed the laptop like it was the only boundary I had left, then slid into sleep – not one filled with dreams, but with a pulse still echoing in Ghost’s voice.
My room in the penthouse was always steeped in silence in the morning, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the city stirring to life. My body was heavy against the rumpled sheets.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment, every sound, every tremble of Scarlett’s body from last time. She was hypnotic, not just in her submission but in her ability to strip away the darkness that clawed at the edges of my mind.
But now, with the room hollow and the quiet creeping back in, the ugly reality returned.
I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t even tried. Sleep was a fragile thing, and I knew it wouldn’t come. Not with the new threat looming over me – the man who had once terrorised my childhood, now awake from the blissful silence of the coma – one I’d graced him with.
And still, somehow, the ghost of his voice had followed me here – into my new home, my office.
Ezio D’Angelo.
The name tasted bitter, even in my thoughts.
The image of his face, lined with age and softened by years of stillness, haunted me in a way I hadn’t expected.
The past few days had been a haze of resurfacing memories and old wounds reopening with the force of a hammer.
His words, in those familiar though aged notes, played on loop in my mind.
I pushed off the bed, the late spring air licking at my damp skin. The looming summer had done its worst last night – leaving me drenched in sweat and disgraced, like some unwanted lover. And considering my activities last night, that shit was as true as the pain between my temples.
With a sigh, I muttered, ‘Bloody season’s changing.’ And wiped myself off on a towel. But then decided I needed something more thorough.
By the time I stepped into the shower, the scalding water did little to wash away the tension that festered in my chest. Reluctantly, I scrubbed away the remnants of the night, but the thoughts clinging to me were far harder to cleanse.
Yanking on my long-sleeved T-shirt and light jeans, I realised the rising heat might not play ball with long sleeves and denim.
I stepped out on the terrace and found the air was cool.
‘Fuck it,’ I ground out and returned inside.
The mirror reflected a composed, controlled man, but the turmoil beneath was harder to conceal.