Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Henrik
She's back in town, and now everything's fucked.
That's how it goes with my mother.
The attention.
The guilt.
The neediness.
The way it fires me up, spins me away from what's important—what's mine.
Being the dutiful son means catering to her whims.
It means theater tickets and long lunches and pretending I give a damn about what she thinks of the city's cultural pulse.
It means I'm not where I need to be.
I should be thinking about Mia, wondering if she's sleeping, if she's eating, if she knows I’m keeping an eye on her.
Instead, I'm babysitting.
I can almost feel the distance stretching, me on one end, my toy on the other.
I sit in my office, finishing up a conference call.
Thank God she left me alone long enough to talk to my investors.
Who knows what sort of rubbish she would have spewed if I’d let her have her way and sit in.
Words buzz in my ear.
Synergy.
Opportunity.
Projections.
All I hear is I'm not with Mia.
Then a soft humming creeps in under the door and across the walls.
That damn song.
The one she used to sing when I was a kid and she was still normal.
Still a mother .
I hang up the call, barely mumble a goodbye before I do, and I wait.
There's a pause, that silence before the storm.
The humming gets louder.
And there she is, sweeping in like a breeze scented with nostalgia and Chanel No. 5 .
"Henrik," she says, eyes bright, cheeks too pink to be natural. "Is your conference call done? It's a beautiful day. You should come out and enjoy it."
This is what she does—arrives with fanfare and expectations, flipping my world upside down.
I love her, but only to a point.
And this point, right here, feels dangerously close.
Before I can answer, she's clapping her hands together, a smile too wide to be real. "I can't wait to see the city with you. What should we do now? Maybe a gallery, or we can swing by yours? Shopping? Lunch?"
She gives me no time, no room, no chance to breathe.
Inside, I'm stewing.
Outside, I sip my coffee, trying to hide the boiling underneath.
I only want to be alone, to think about Mia.
To envision my cock sliding in between her lips as she opens wide, sucking me down.
She's across town at art school, and who knows what could happen in my absence?
I've heard about the shit that goes down there.
Those students and their bohemian dramas.
She's not safe.
She needs me.
"Meetings," I say finally, each letter a hard stop. "I have meetings."
Then I do the thing I always do, the thing she always makes me do. I relent. "I’ll come home as soon as I’m done."
Her face lights up like she's won something.
I guess she has.
"Perfect. I'll shop around while you're busy. I want to look nice for dinner tonight."
She's fake, so fake in her mannerisms, never noticing how I grind my teeth.
Finally, finally , she leaves the room.
I rub my temples, fighting that feeling of helplessness, of inevitability.
My life has become this swirling, uncontrolled mess since she arrived.
My focus, my desire—it's all scattered, tangled in obligations.
And Mia, she's on her own for now .
My mother's heels click away.
I sit here, jaw clenched, watching her go.
It's always like this.
She sweeps in and leaves my life in tatters.
Hell, years ago I thought I'd never forgive her.
She's the entire reason Anastasia ran out of the house that night.
The reason she got in the fucking car, and hours later I no longer had a wife .
Once she's out of the room, I exhale a long, slow breath.
It's temporary, I tell myself.
She's only here for a week.
I just have to survive until then.
But in the pit of my stomach, something twists.
That distance between me and Mia.
It gets longer by the second.
I head home as soon as I can muster the courage.
It’s still afternoon, but hopefully she isn’t there when I walk in the door.
She's thrown me off orbit, left me circling what I want but unable to land.
Moody and restless.
That's me.
An addict with no fix, hungry for Mia but stuck with motherly obligation.
I feel the walls of this place getting tighter, pressing me into corners where I don't belong.
Mia should be in my sights.
I should know what she's doing, where she is, if she's still safe.
If she’ s still mine .
Then again, she'll always be mine.
I won't let anyone else have her.
The longer I'm away, the more I feel it unraveling.
That distance.
That dangerous void where things could shift.
It makes me anxious, not being there.
Not being the first thought in her head.
Not seeing the understanding in her eyes, those green flames, when she knows I’m near.
Unfortunately, due to my mother staying here, I had to give her the week off.
An entire week.
It’s unacceptable on the best of days, but these aren’t the best of days.
They’re the worst.
Because I’m stuck with her.
It's all slipping, and I can do nothing but grit my teeth and pretend my mother matters.
That she's not dismantling my life, thread by careful thread.
Standing by the window, I peer outside.
It’s quiet.
There’s no car to signal Mia’s presence.
No passers-by walking.
Nothing.
I leave the window .
Pace the floors.
Check my phone for any sign, any missed text, any reason to drop everything and get to her.
But it's empty.
Quiet.
As dead as my fucking social life.
Inside, I'm spiraling.
Wondering if she thinks of me.
Wondering if she’s feeling my absence.
Does she know I'm coming for her?
Or is she moving on, the way girls do when they think no one's paying attention?
Is she safe?
She's got no idea I'm always there, always looking.
Always wanting .
It's only a week, I tell myself.
I can survive a week of this.
A week of performing like some trained animal, doing tricks for family I barely care about.
It feels longer, stretches like gum on my shoe.
A lot can change in a week.
Maybe she’s pulling away already.
I imagine her alone, but not as alone as I think.
Other people seeping in like unwanted rain.
Other people watching her, holding her, getting into places meant for me.
My pulse kicks up, fast and erratic.
Panic creeping in.
Without meaning to, I walk to my studio.
I grab a pencil, try to focus the anxiety by sketching her.
Those scars.
That perfect tension of ink on paper.
It’s not right.
It’s never right when I’m like this, too scattered, too full of need.
I smear the lines with my hand.
Smudge them into oblivion.
Smash the page into the trash.
Then I sit, legs twitching, waiting for my mother to come back so I can finish my duties and return to my obsession.
God, how did I get this weak?
No sooner do I finish the thought and she’s there, leaning on the door watching me as I stand in the middle of my art studio.
"Henrik," she sings, all warmth and lipstick smiles. "Why did you move from your stuffy office to your stuffy studio? Let’s go out."
It's like she doesn't see the work piled on my desk.
The stacks of art books and contracts and sketches, everything I use to hold this life together .
She's always been this way, expecting my full attention, demanding my entire self, turning me into a child again.
I love her, but not the chaos she drags with her, the way she makes everything spin.
I shrug, trying to keep it light, trying not to snap. "I’m busy," I say, hoping she'll get the hint.
She doesn’t. "You really should take advantage of the sunshine. Come out and enjoy the day. Enjoy it with me."
Sweetness drips from her words like poison.
It’s how she controls, how she makes me feel guilty for having a life.
An agenda.
It needles me, the way she slides into town and expects to slide into my plans.
It makes me tense and irritable.
"Henrik," she says, louder this time, that edge of impatience sharpening her voice. "It'll be fun. We'll have the whole day together. I can't wait. I’m here, but not for long. Let’s spend time together before I go."
I watch the words spill from her mouth like they've already been agreed upon.
I'm irritated.
Pissed.
Everything's out of control, and I'm pinned here with my back against a wall.
Then she does it.
That look.
That look that says she expects more, expects it all, the way she always does.
"I'm swamped," I say, but it sounds weak, even to me.
Her eyes sparkle, like she's already won.
"You always make time," she says, like it’s a compliment.
“Go do something and meet me at the gallery later. There’s tons of museums you can go check out in the meantime.”
She’s disappointed, but I don’t give a shit.
With a huff, she leaves, taking her obnoxiously overpowering perfume with her.
Finally.
I can think about my girl.
The not-knowing burns.
I can't stand it.
I can't breathe.
This far away, anything can happen.
I need to be close, always.
I'm tight, too tight, ready to explode if I don't get to Mia soon.
She's in my blood, my bones.
This house, my mother—none of it matters.
It’s not what I need.
Not even close .
As soon as she's gone, I take a deep breath.
I know I have to move fast, faster than ever, if I’m going to salvage this day.
I can't waste a second.
Not a single fucking one.
I don’t want to think about what might happen if I’m too late.
Out the door, grabbing my keys, I feel the tension ease with every step that takes me further from my mother, closer to Mia.
I don't want to think about what happens if I’m too late.
If she's already drifting.
I don’t let myself think it.
I drive to her school, desperate to see her.
My speedometer goes haywire as I rev the engine.
I don't slow down.
I park across the street from the art building, watch for her, search for that flash of cherry red hair, those boots, that ghost of a girl.
And then I see her, my pulse thundering, my panic raw.
I spot her, but she’s not alone.
A group surrounds her.
Two girls.
And him .
Some guy—the one I'm certain that's going to be a problem.
It’s a shot to the gut, seeing him so close.
It pisses me off.
It pisses me off more than anything ever has.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Possessive.
That’s what I am.
It’s what I’ve always been.
She’s mine, and this… this space from her is dangerous.
A threat I can’t allow.
It creeps in the way I feared, makes me sick with irritation.
I see her there, but it’s like she's slipping away.
Like she’s already leaving.
He walks too close.
I’m ready to break him, smash the little fucker like an insect.
I know I can.
I know I will, if it comes to that.
But first I need to know— Why is he there? What is going on between them?
I watch from across the street.
I can't take my eyes off them, off her.
My mood spirals.
Relief turns to tension .
Satisfaction to fury.
I feel it all, and I know I have to act.
I’m not losing Mia.
Not today.
Not ever.
I see the way she looks when she thinks I’m not watching.
But I am. I’m always fucking watching.
My mind’s already plotting.
Already scheming.
I need to get close, need to break this up.
I need to know more than anything.
I need to know.
Mia’s not interested in the guy.
She couldn’t be.
Why would she be?
She’s never given me reason to doubt.
Mia smiles, says something, but her eyes aren't in it.
I know that look. I know she’s faking it.
Good girl.
The group breaks up, and the truth hits me hard.
She's not smiling now.
She was putting on a show.
I saw it wrong.
I saw it all wrong.
It digs at me, the way I misread.
It digs at me even more to realize how right I was.
She’s more alone than I thought.
More alone than she shows.
She's everything I knew she would be.
And that, more than anything, makes me want her.
Makes me know she's mine.
And I love it.
I love that I’m right.
Her isolation calls to me, makes me want her more.
She’s that pale star, burning solitary, burning bright, and everyone else is blind to it.
It’s beautiful.
I wonder what she hides.
Wonder how much she lets anyone see.
My guess is, not much.
My guess is, nothing.
Mia looks more alone than ever as she heads back to the art building.
Her cherry red hair catches the last light of day.
She walks like she’s a shadow herself, trailing behind everyone else.
It excites me, knowing I see through it.
Knowing I see her.
It excites me like nothing else, fills me with fire and purpose and raw, sharp need.
She’s got no one else.
My mind races and I’m certain of it .
No one else that understands, that knows her scars, that loves her in the way I do.
I know this side of her. I know she’s exactly what I thought, exactly what I need.
A rush. A pure, insane rush.
That’s what I feel.
That’s what I get from seeing it, from knowing her better than anyone ever could.
She’s harder to read than I imagined.
But I’ll figure her out. I always do.
I’ll wait right here until she leaves for the night.
My patience pays off as the sun dips lower.
She leaves, all by herself.
I don’t even hesitate.
She won’t see me.
Not unless I want her to.
It’s like she’s begging me to follow.
Alone and exposed, like she knows I’m the one watching.
As the sun sets, I keep her in my sights.
That cherry red hair, that trailing shadow.
I stick close, like I’m part of the dark itself.
There’s no debate. No question.
I keep my eyes on her. I follow like I’m wired to, like it’s in my blood.
I’m determined. I know she’ll lead me where I want to go.
I stay on her trail, slip through the stragglers walking down the street, close enough to hear her footsteps.
It fills me with the kind of energy only she can.
My heart races, matches her rhythm, the beat of her boots on wet pavement.
The excitement builds with every step, every second, every flash of her hair.
I watch, relentless, all-consuming.
I watch the way she doesn’t know, doesn’t even guess.
I need it.
Rain starts as we reach her neighborhood.
I pull up my hood, duck my head, stay just out of view.
The dark hides me, keeps me close, keeps me dangerous.
I pull on the bandana I brought with me.
I can’t risk her knowing it’s me.
Not until she’s mine.
Not until she craves me the way I crave her.
She’s at her flat now.
I can’t help myself.
I can’t.
She gets inside, but I’m not far behind.
My foot stops it from closing behind her.
And then it happens .
She turns.
Catches a glimpse.
Electricity.
Pure, insane, electric thrill.
She’s seen me.
But it’s not really me, is it?
She stares, like she senses.
Like she knows she’s being hunted.
Like she knows the shadow she saw was mine, is hers, is us.
I push inside her house, shutting the door behind me, locking it with a click.
This is just like last week.
Only then I didn't charge up on her.
But, God, the fear, the way she might scream—I fucking love this.
I know it so well.
Know the way it starts.
I let it hang in the air between us until it’s almost too much, almost ready to break.
And then I charge.
She asks what I want, her voice a quiver.
I let her feel the terror before I answer.
I force her to face the wall.
She’s shaking, breathing hard and looks scared.
It's exactly the way I want her to look.
“Haven’t you imagined a man ravaging you in the dark? Making you lose yourself completely?” I throw a British accent on thick, watch her freeze, watch her world close in.
The last thing I want her to know is that it is me.
Her voice is thin, like it might snap. “I don’t want this.”
I run my hands over her breasts, hard nipples like little pebbles.
“Your body says you do.” I murmur, low and dangerous, the kind of whisper that goes straight to her bones.
I’m forceful.
Intentional.
I undo her shirt, pull her breasts out, tease them with my fingers as I grind against her ass.
I’m as hard as I’ve ever been.
I could come right now.
The control. The power. The way I have her, the way she can’t say no, not really.
She stiffens, the last flicker of resistance before she goes limp.
I push her, get forceful, lift her skirt up.
No panties? Naughty girl.
I slide my cock along her ass, feeling the heat from her body.
Feel her start to give in, start to want.
I work between her wet folds, the place I know so well, and I ram myself in her .
She stiffens again, like she might get away.
She won’t.
I talk dirty in her ear, words I know she’s thought about. “You’ll be my little toy whenever I want you.”
By the time I’m fully seated inside her, I can barely contain myself.
She feels like heaven and hell.
Her pussy wraps around my cock, tight and warm.
Her little quivers leave my balls aching.
I’m disappointed when I feel the rush coming.
I wanted to draw this out, make it longer.
Except I can’t.
She’s too perfect, too beautiful.
I finish inside her, and she comes hard.
Really hard.
It leaves her shaking and leaves me hungry for more.
“Stay facing the wall until you hear me leave,” I rasp, taking a mental picture of my cum falling down her legs.
So fucking beautiful.
I leave her a mess of shaking legs and smeared lipstick, head back home for a quick shower, wash the night off.
By the time my mother returns, I’ve reassembled myself, but all I can think about is that scarred woman I left behind.
The water’s hot.
It scalds, makes me feel alive, makes me want to get right back to her, to see her again, to do it all over until I’m burned to nothing.
I’m already thinking of tomorrow.
If she’ll show up at the gallery to clean.
If she'll even show up at all.