Chapter 15, Xan
I step into the elevator, the sleek mirrored walls reflecting the image of a woman who should feel safer, who should feel grateful. Xan gave me this lavish escape, this sanctuary high above the city, yet all I feel is restless. A drab ache of dissatisfaction coils in my stomach, deeper than boredom—much closer to longing.
The hotel bar is haloed in murky light, bathed in a golden glow that makes everything feel slow, hazy, intimate. A grand chandelier hangs above the curved mahogany counter, its crystals reflecting the amber hues of expensive whiskey in crystal glasses. The scent of aged liquor and faint cigar smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the soft notes of a jazz tune humming through the speakers.
I slide onto a green velvet barstool, crossing my legs deliberately, ignoring the way the dress I threw on clings to my damp skin. The bartender approaches, all polished charm and sharp features, offering me a smile that probably works on every woman who walks in alone.
“What can I get for you, Miss?”
I could ask for something strong, something that would burn, but instead, I ask, “Something sweet.”
As he nods and moves to prepare my drink, my fingers drum idly against the smooth bar top, my pulse a little too quick, my nerves a little too sensitive. I have no business being here. I was meant to stay upstairs, in the safety Xan carved out.
Maybe that’s the problem. Safety. Controlled environments. Locked doors and dictated choices. I want to feel something else. I want—
The bartender sets the glass in front of me, a cocktail in deep red, garnished with a curl of citrus. I take a slow sip, letting the strawberry warmth settle in my chest. Maybe if I sit here long enough, if I push the boundaries just a little, he will come. I beg myself to stop wanting. But want is written in my skin.
Would he be angry? Would he drag me back upstairs, growling? Or would he stay in the shadows, watching and waiting, letting me churn in my own desire?
I shift in my seat, exhaling sharply. If he won’t come, then maybe I will just have to give him a reason to.
The ice in my glass clinks softly as I swirl the crimson liquid inside, my fingers tracing absent patterns along the rim. The hotel bar is barely illuminated, an ambiance of quiet luxury that hums around me, wrapping me in a cocoon of muted conversation and soft music. Though my mind is absent, because it is still upstairs, sealed in that penthouse suite with him. Or rather, it should be. I cannot shake the irrational hope that, any second now, he will appear behind me.
I take another long sip of my drink, my heart quickening at the idea. Again, would he be jealous? Would he yank me from this stool, whisper venomous threats against anyone who even dare look at me? The thought sends a thrill curling low in my stomach. I want him to come and find me. I want to push him. I want to see what it takes to break his self-control.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a figure slides into the seat beside me. My breath stills. Black gloves. Black jacket. Mask. He says nothing. Just reaches for a bottle behind the bar—a movement so casual, so practiced, that it sends a delicious shiver down my spine. Without a word, he pours a glass of a dark smoky drink, setting it before him with a slow motion. I smirk.
“So, you changed your mind?”
Still, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, as if studying me and slowly trails his gloved fingers along the stem of my glass before nudging it closer.
A subtle invitation.
My lips part, my tongue flicking out to wet them. He is playing a game. A dangerous one. And I want to play too so badly.
I savor the liquid; my gaze focused on him. He shifts closer, just enough for his knee to brush mine.
The moment lingers. My pulse thrums against my skin. Without a word, he stands and starts walking away. I hesitate for half a second before finally following.
The elevator ride is silent. Tense. His gloved hand presses the button for another floor—not ours. That should give me a pause. Instead, I am drawn forward. I want to see where this leads.
When the doors slide open, he steps out first. I trail after him, biting my nails as we move down a long, dim hallway. The whole thing feels surreal, like I have stepped into someone else’s fantasy. He stops in front of a door, swipes a key card, and pushes it open without looking at me. I smirk.
“A second room, huh? Getting creative.”
No answer.
I step inside, my heels clicking softly against the floor. It is smaller than the penthouse, but still insanely luxurious, the lights lowered to a soft glow. The door shuts behind me, and a thrill of anticipation runs in me.
Without warning, his touch lands on my breast.
I gasp—not surprisingly, but from the sheer urgency in the way he moves. No teasing. Just hunger, hands gripping my waist, pressing me back against the wall, his body flush against mine. A gloved hand skims up my thigh, pushing the fabric of my dress higher. My breath catches.
Still… something feels off. The way he touches me—it is not the same. There is no slow, careful build-up. No controlled dominance. Just impatience.
My fingers grip his wrist.
“You are different tonight,” I murmur. “Less… refined.”
His head tilts as he finally speaks for the first time of the night.
“Disappointed?”
The voice is wrong.
A chill slams me violently, as if I have been doused in ice water. My stomach clenches. My heart stutters. I shove at his torso, hard. He barely stumbles.
“Take off the mask,” I demand.
To my horror, he does—no hesitation. The second the mask is gone, I know. The smirk on his face is cruel, mocking.
Not him. Not him. Not him. That is not Xan.
I turn to run, but he’s faster. A hand fists in my hair, yanking me backward. Pain flares down my scalp as I am thrown to the ground, my breath knocking out in a sharp gasp.
As he crawls on my body, I thrash. He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head, his breath hot against my cheek as he chuckles darkly.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” while pressing his knee between my thighs. “You looked so eager a second ago.”
Panic claws at my throat. I scream. I writhe beneath him, my breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. His grip tightens around my wrists, his gloved fingers biting into my skin as he leans in closer. I snarl, twisting my body, but his weight is suffocating.
Not him. Not Xan.
“Get the fuck off me!” My voice is a breathless snarl, but it only amuses him.
“Why?” he laughs. “Because I’m not him, Xan? Need his permission maybe?”
I freeze. His hand drags along the inside of my thigh.
“An anonymous man in a mask,” he muses. “Or another. What does it change, really, once you lay on your belly?”
My stomach turns. “Fuck you,” I spit, bucking hard against him. His hold tightens, but I see it now—that flicker of thrill in his expression, the power trip. He thinks he has already won.
Fool.
I throw my knee up, aiming for anything I can reach. Expecting it, his hand catches my thigh, squeezing hard enough to make me wince. He leans in, his breath warm and vile against my ear.
“Come on baby, you came here looking for a masked man to wreck you. Does it really matter which one it is? Just close your eyes and let a real man finally rail you how you have been craving.”
I should have never dared challenge life like this. I should have listened to Xan, stayed in the safety of his presence, let him protect me like he always promised.
But no, I had to push; I had to test the limits and now look at me—trapped in this goddamn nightmare, tangled in my own mess.
I hate the place I’m in right now, the helplessness that is creeping in. More than anything, I hate myself for stepping so far into danger, for thinking that I could play with fire and not get burned. I hate myself for ever believing he would always be there to pull me from the flames, to save me from whatever I got myself into.
Because now I see—he is not here, and I am completely fucking alone.
The rush of blood in my ears drowns everything else out. My limbs lock up. My stomach is lurching. I fucked up. His hold crushes my arm, yanking me closer. I jerk back, twisting hard, but he’s stronger. The back of my head slams against the wall, pain exploding through my skull. He moves in, pressing me into the door, his knee nudging between my thighs.
“Relax. You were willing a second ago? Why stop now?”
I swing. Hard. My palm connects with his face, nails dragging across his skin. He curses, gripping my jaw so tight my teeth ache.
“Feisty.” He licks the blood from his lip. “But not for long.”
My pulse slams against my ribs as he reaches for his belt.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My brain scrambles for a way out, but before I can move, the door explodes open. A blur of black. A thunderous impact. The man is ripped off me so violently he barely has time to make a sound before he is crashing into the dresser, the lamp shattering on the floor.
Xan.
I lurch away as I watch Xan completely unravel with just raw, unfiltered brutality. Every hit is intense, purposeful, designed to break. Blood splatters across the pristine carpet, staining it in chaotic patterns. A wet, choking sound escapes the man’s throat, his attempts to shield himself growing weaker with each impact. He is barely conscious, his face swollen and unrecognizable. Clearly, Xan gives zero fucks.
He’s going to kill him.
Stopping him crosses my mind. So does speaking up. However, all I can do is stare, my breath shallow, my body trembling. Xan finally exhales, his shoulders rising and falling like a tempest barely contained. His knuckles are drenched in red as he finally lifts his gaze to mine. His mask is still in place, but his presence—his fury—is animalistic.
He steps closer angrily.
“You think you can just fucking wander off?”
I open my mouth, but no words come. I don’t know what to say.
I wanted you to follow me? I wanted to see if you would come after me?
He grabs my chin violently, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Say something now,” he demands roughly.
I stay speechless. Because the only thing I can focus on right now is the way my body reacts—how, despite the terror, I want him. Right here, in the wreckage of this room, with anger still thrumming in his veins and blood staining his knuckles.
I want him to take me, to claim me in the chaos he created, to make me feel every ounce of the rage that is still burning beneath his skin. I want him to show me what defying Xan truly means. To make me understand just how much this pushed him past his breaking point. To punish me for thinking, even for a second, that I could walk away from him.
Still unable to form a single word, I reach out, my fingers trembling as they move toward his face. He grabs my wrist in an instant, his grip savage, unyielding.
“Don’t.”
The command is guttural, but I fight against his hold, forcing him to loosen his grip just enough for me to slip through. My fingers find his hair—dark, unruly, still damp with blood. His blood. Someone else’s. I don’t care.
I stroke a tangled strand, watching the red smear across my fingertips, staining them with evidence of his violence. It fascinates me. Hypnotizes me. I stare at my hand as if it holds the answer to unspoken secrets, as if it might unlock some deep, forbidden truth between us.
I know he is watching me. Studying me just as intently. I want him to understand that I am not afraid of his fury.
I crave it.
Steadily, I draw my hand back, trailing it down the dainty strap of my satin dress. I let it slip from my shoulder, exposing the curve of my skin beneath. His breath shudders, ragged and heavy. That’s when I see it—the way his cock twitches, thickening right before my eyes. My bloodstained fingers glide over my bare shoulder, down the slope of my collarbone, and across the swell of my breast, leaving streaks of crimson in their wake. A silent offering. A challenge.
Look, Xan. Look at what you make me do.
At how I come undone for you, how I sink willingly into this dark, twisted devotion. How I want you to keep spilling his blood until there is nothing left, until the room reeks of death, and you know—you fucking know—that no other man can ever touch me without paying the price with his life. I want you to destroy anyone who dares lay eyes on me. I want you to find me and break me repeatedly until I am nothing but yours. Forever.
I reach up, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw under his mask, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. He’s still furious. Still lost in whatever is raging inside him. My other hand drags lower, smearing streaks of blood across my own flesh. It is written all over his eyes—the way he follows the movement, his pupils blown wide with desire beyond lust.
“You’re still thinking about him,” he says roughly.
I shake my head, nails digging into his shoulder.
“What, no!”
“Liar.” His fingers tighten around my wrist, pinning me. “You let him touch you.”
I cannot believe what I’m hearing.
“Oh my God, stop, I thought it was you!”
His grip shifts, pushing my wrist above my head, stretching me beneath him on the floor until I am fully at his mercy.
“I don’t give a fuck even if you though I was the fucking pope.” His lips graze my ear. “You belong to me.”
All I long to tell him is that he is right, that he has conquered me in every way, that I am his now. That my heart bears his mark as clearly as my arm, indelibly stained with his presence, with his claim. I offer myself to him—surrendering in exchange for comfort, protection, and the promise of love that feels as tangled and consuming as the maelstrom he stirs within me.
I am still adrift in the uncertainty of whether I am nothing more than an object for him to possess—an item in his psychotic collection. Deeper still, I wonder if he can hold me close in any form other than the suffocating grip of ownership and dominance.
My devotion to him would be boundless, but he must show me, in the quiet spaces between us, that I am more than a mere possession. That I am worthy beyond the cold distance of control—that I am, in the end, real, human. Only then will I surrender fully, heart and soul. Until that moment, I remain lost in the swirling uncertainty of what he genuinely wants from me.
Xan senses the shift in my attitude immediately. I see it in the rigid set of his shoulders; in the way his breath slows. Just as swiftly, he pulls away. He steps back as if shrugging off an unwelcome weight, a presence he no longer wants.
Me.
Without a word, he pivots toward the door, his movements clipped, decisive. Confusion flares in my chest.
“That’s it? We’re just leaving him here?”
He turns his head slightly, unreadable, as if my question were no more than idle small talk.
“You’re right.”
Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a thick stack of cash and tosses it onto the bed. The bills land like fallen leaves over the crimson-soaked sheets, soft, indifferent to the ruin beneath them. His phone is already in hand, his fingers moving with that same calculated ease. A muted voice crackles through the receiver.
“Room 592. Floor 28. Premium cleaning.” Flat. Unbothered.
He ends the call without ceremony, tucking the phone away, and strides toward the exit without so much as a peek in my direction.
“Are you staying the night? Because I doubt he’s in any shape to make you come.”
The words are venomous, laced with anger, even jealousy. But it is the insinuation that makes my blood boil. After everything, he is still questioning whether I wanted that man’s touch. He still sees possibilities where there should absolutely be none. I exhale, pressing against the weight of my exhaustion, my frustration. Yet bitterness festers. Festers and rots.
“Funny. I think I’d have a better chance of coming with a corpse than with you.”
The second the words settle into the room, I know I have left a wound. Yet no reaction. No flare of anger. No flicker of suffering.
Nothing.
His stare is hollow, endless, gazing into the mouth of an abyss. Without another word, he turns, stepping into the hallway. His departure is a careful, unhurried severing. Just as he crosses the threshold, I hear it—so quiet I almost miss it.
“Should have left her to him.”