Stained Protector by Celia Crown

Chapter One

Anya

 

 

My neighbor is the feast to my paranoid heart.

He wears kindness behind his smiles, but secrets drift through those muted blue eyes. His towering frame walks with history in his steps, an abyss of mysteries that can only be shown through his presence.

Levi has the spark, a meek candle flame, of gentle killings.

His name lingers in hallways like a vengeful ghost.

Delinquents were put in place after they disrupted his art session. Neighbors carefully avoided mentioning him because he had the smile of a venomous snake. The building committee couldn’t see the fear in residents, but some had subtle gut feelings.

None of it matters; many wholeheartedly believe he’s just an artist who keeps to himself. Women living on different floors hop onto mine, sauntering down the hall with their glammed-up appeals in hopes of catching a glimpse of him.

Levi’s very attractive. While he has a body that can shatter bones with a flick of his wrist, he is deemed a reserved man, albeit somewhat distant. He doesn’t socialize, often hunkering down in his apartment with faint whiffs of paint creeping into mine.

And I can never forget his disheveled hair when he came out to toss the empty paint cans.

It was Thanksgiving, and the building was bustling with joy and laughter. His apartment, like mine, was silent from the beginning until dusk. When his door opened, he wasn’t surprised to see me, as one might be coming across a neighbor, but he smiled so softly that the thought faded.

We exchanged pleasantries, nothing too in-depth, yet I couldn’t stop the whispers of danger in the back of my head. It was irrational, but he provoked my instincts. Perhaps it was simply his wide shoulders, broad chest, and looming height—just menacing overall.

So when I enter the apartment door after a long day at work, his face instantly flashes in front of my eyes. Things are moved, not more than an inch, but the changes are obvious to my thrashing heart.

I stay near the shoe rack as a draft zaps through the open door when the video camera footage starts playing. Waiting for it to load has my nails digging into the silicone phone case, and my stomach churns with incensed anxiety as it replays yesterday’s footage.

It ran out of storage space, so today wasn’t recorded.

A quiet knock on the door disconnects me from reality, and the brief moment of utter blackness sears fear into my throat. My eyes water as my lungs gasp for air, sudden coughs shaking my body to its core.

Someone’s voice is muffled as my ears continue to ring, but the concern and warmth offer a haven for my overwhelmed emotions.

“What happened?”

The bright yellow light casts a shadow over his head, and I squint through hot tears to see a blurry face.

His height would've given him away if it weren’t for his voice. Levi has a deep baritone that sends chills down my spine. It’s a hypnotic, almost aesthetic piece of music.

“I…”

A small pestering shard of hesitation digs into my tongue.

What if he broke in? It’d be stupid of me to ask him for help; he’d have a reason to say he was invited in and explain why his fingerprints were in my home.

“Would you like a glass of water?” he asks, tilting his head toward his apartment.

My body and intuition hold hands, a pair of star-crossed lovers destined to fall into the limbo of disaster. Neither side wins, not by a mile, and I know he sees the conflict on my face.

As he holds a bag of groceries, his shadow creeps down to my neck while he steps back.

There are mere inches between us, and I realize with dread that he could reach out to snap my neck before I’d sense danger. However, those dark blue eyes are mesmerizing, slowly summoning a trickle of courage to nod. A compulsion, a hungry need to capture the life in his eyes.

I remember why I’m hesitant to get to know him. He’s a black hole; everything around him is bright and lively, but my attention is always drawn to his enigmatic and reassuring presence, as if he’s the center of the universe.

A smoke screen. A hazy fog of ambiguity. People like him—beautifully dangerous with a tongue of honey—are poisonous. The seed of festering curiosity will bloom into temptation, roots of addiction taking a seat in my veins and arrogantly pulling me toward him, where I’ll eventually be burned to death.

I’ve seen it happen to my sister and the man she refused to let anyone meet. Selfish, petty, and obsessed, but she said their love needed to be protected.

Even to this day, our family has never seen this unnamed man.

A learned mistake opens its cover, freely giving me all the signs of heartbreak, but I willingly walk into the apartment of a man that every cell in my body denies.

“Here.” He hands over a water bottle, the cold plastic calming the flaring heat and tremors in my palms.

“Thank you,” I croak, paying close attention to the cap and its clacking sound as a twist breaks the seal.

I watch the muscles on his back tighten as he pulls out the groceries. His long legs effortlessly take him to the stainless-steel refrigerator, and those burly arms raise to place the brown paper bag on top of the fridge alongside the others.

Sharp lines and harsh black ink peek from his sleeve. I stare in admiration, wishing for a few more seconds to marvel at the contrast between the stunning design and his skin tone.

I take a deep breath, eyes falling on the uncapped water, before drinking more to subdue the hideous purr in my throat.

Apprehension and suspicion never leave, just sitting on the sideline as they helplessly watch curiosity break through the fragile glass of vigilance.

Stop, stop, stop…

The soothing smell of a candle devours the mantra. Then, his scent latches onto my thoughts, circling aimlessly as he takes a seat not too far from me.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, lacing his fingers together loosely as his forearms lean on his knees. “You were a little pale.”

“Just tired from work.”

We fall into silence, and my toes curl awkwardly in my socks. At least I wasn’t dazed enough to forget the decency to take off my shoes.

Levi doesn’t pry, instead offering a helpful suggestion. “If I’m not at work, then I’ll always be home. If you need anything, just knock.”

Out of courtesy, I nod with a smile. I’m not going to jump up and start accusing him of breaking into my home when I don’t have proof. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if it’s him.

Ruling out monetary motives, which I have none of, I can’t think of anything that would explain why someone is so obsessed with my apartment. Way too many horror references to count, but there is a movie about the miserable concierge chloroforming women for sinister purposes.

Could it be about the missing women the news has been covering over the last few months?

The Phoenix police department hasn’t released a statement yet, but some people are starting to notice the pattern of physically similar women disappearing. Their personal, work, and social lives don’t overlap, nor do they have much in common for the police to draw a serial kidnapping conclusion.

“Have you seen anything suspicious the past weeks?” I ask tentatively.

“Specifics?” His gaze climbs from my neck, sealing a firm connection between our eyes as my back grows colder.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” I mumble and squeeze the crinkling bottle. “I know it. My things aren’t where I left them, and I can smell it—the cigarette smoke, it’s there.”

There is a no-smoking and no-pet rule in the building. It doesn’t stop some tenants from hiding pets and smoking habits, but the stench shouldn’t only come from my apartment. It’s faint, not the way it would travel from where the smoker was.

Levi’s room smells of the lit candle, acrylic paint, and a woody aroma. It reeks of art.

A grim tremor rises, worsened with laughable comfort that I naively accept solely from the soothing atmosphere instead of fleeing.

“Ah, the police from before,” he voices, a tone of understanding. “I gather they couldn’t help?”

His correct assumption is an arrow to my gut.

“I can have a look at your locks tomorrow,” he poses, and the suggestion waltzes through my hazy fatigue.

His voice is like clockwork, ticking persistently as the edges of furniture and distorting book spines start to fiddle with my eyes.

I’m not so naïve as to believe he’s helping me out of the kindness of his heart when black curtains are drawing over my consciousness.

*

It’s the weight of a blanket and fluffed pillow that piece back the patchy message of this is not my home and the need to leave immediately. I shoot up from the couch, strands of hair slapping my cheeks and plopping onto the side of my shoulder.

It’s bright, quiet, and…

I slept the whole night. Impossible. Absolutely no way in a million years.

My bed offers me roughly seven or nine hours of sleep, give or take, while most nights are light sleep, but nothing like this. This is the rejuvenated and contented equivalent of winter hibernation.

This is a coincidence. Stress does that to people, and napping in strange places isn’t unheard of.

“Good morning,” he greets from the kitchen, plating food with nimble fingers and putting the dirty pan in the sink.

“Morning,” I say, a robotic gurgle tumbling on my tongue.

“I made breakfast.” His eyes idle on my unkempt hair and furrowed brows. A small smile forms on his lips as he carries the plates to the dining table.

How did I go from thinking he was the intruder to eating breakfast with said man? I don’t know, but he does make great breakfast. The food melts in my mouth, and the cup of coffee is sweetened how I usually have it.

His iced Americano looks so miserable.

“I fell asleep,” I start, regretting the way it comes out. I hope he doesn’t hear the accusing implication or see the tight curl of my fingers around the fork.

“I don’t sleep well,” I mumble, eyes running to table objects for distraction. “Especially when I’m not at home.”

“Insomnia?” he asks, stirring the ice in his coffee.

I shake my head. “Work and…”

Two jobs were fine at first. The extra cash helped loosen financial constraints, but exhaustion is a hefty price to pay. If I don’t find a higher-paying job or a less physically draining one, I’ll see a haunting number on my next medical invoice.

However, none of that justifies sleeping in a stranger’s house.

“I can send you the link to that.” He points to the corner of his ceiling, a camera aiming at the entire apartment from the best vantage view. “It’s the best one I’ve tried,” he says while pulling up the footage of last night. “I have to keep my projects safe.”

I play the recording, fast-forwarding it from when I walked into the apartment to now. He was near me once to put a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. The rest of the night was peaceful until he came out of his bedroom in the morning, about an hour before I woke up. He just sat by the window and stared outside, then went to make breakfast.

Now, there is no way he doesn’t know I thought he was a man with nefarious intentions. I’m thankful he lets the embarrassment die in peace.

“I want it,” I mutter, ears so hot that they could be on fire. “Please.”

A small, strangled noise leaves my lips. That sounded inappropriate, and he gracefully smiles in response.

He taps on his phone and shows me the screen. The link to the product is in the message box, waiting for me to put my number in. I don’t think twice about it since lots of companies require phone numbers for delivery.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say with an obliged grin. “I’m sorry for intruding.”

“Don’t be.” He stands with me, holding a hand up to stop me from cleaning the dishes. “A good night of rest is what matters.”

I give him a more sincere smile, the bias against him ebbing away little by little. He’s not that bad; I let my own thoughts and other people’s assumptions mislead me. He’s reserved and modest, not stuck-up and rude like some have said, because he wouldn’t stop to have a conversation with them. That deemed him as “too good” for the “average folks,” as one offended husband had lamented to another.

“I better get going,” I say and look around for my phone.

It’s next to a pile of sketchbooks on the coffee table. They’re wrinkled, puffed up, and the top one has a quarter of sleek paper left.

“You draw,” I note, an observation with no intention to pry.

“Freelance artist.” While I look for his projects, he tilts his head to follow my gaze.

The walls are bare, books lined perfectly by color on the shelf, and muted hues dominate the room. He must notice my interest and the creased brows when I don’t find evidence of his artwork.

“My work studio is down the street.”

Nodding, I scratch the back of my head sheepishly. “I thought you worked from home.”

“I prefer separating it from my personal life.” A ray of sunlight spears through the window, smashing apart the cluster of dark blue in his eyes.

A cozy sunny day, but the sapphire glow shines the brightest.

As interested as I am in his work, some artists are under pseudonyms for privacy. His work must be selling great if he can live in one of the most expensive zip codes in Phoenix without a second job.

Maybe he has an inheritance.

I’m considering moving once I get a better job. Bills and the terrifying incidents in my apartment are wearing me down.

“Sounds fun,” I mutter as I chuckle under my breath. “Art, I mean.”

“It’s therapeutic,” he says and stops the pile of sketchbooks from toppling.

A piece of paper flies out from the cover and lands in front of me. I pick it up and return it to him, but the words jump into my eyes.

“Hiring an assistant?” I read slowly.

And, lord, the hourly rate. I have dollar signs in my eyes. I didn’t see the qualifications, but part of me knows it says to have a Ph.D. and ten years of experience for an entry-level position.

I swear those job postings use the same template.

“I am,” he confirms and hands it to me. “I don’t mix business and personal matters, but I can make an exception. I haven’t heard bad things about you from our neighbors.”

Nervously, I risk a glance up. He studies my face with genuine consideration, just like I’m searching for a joke among his sharp features and alluring eyes.

These are pennies from heaven. The hours are similar to my day job with double the salary, but the expectations are similar without the absurd criteria.

An accounting manager’s assistant to a freelance artist’s assistant. So tempting.

“We can have a trial week if you’re interested.”

I throttle a happy squeak and nod enthusiastically. I’m entitled to two weeks of leave with one paid week. This is a fantastic opportunity, and I ignore the nagging worry about the timing.

“Think about it and call me when you’re ready,” he says, chuckling at my flushed cheeks.

He shows me to the door with the paper in my hand. I thank him again for the opportunity and say I’ll call him soon. He watches from his door, waving a big hand as I key open the lock and step inside.

The lady from unit 301 opens her door at the same time, and outrage strikes her face faster than a diving meteor. Her infamous gossip mouth opens and gasps so loud it draws the attention of her friends in the room.

I hurriedly shut the door and lean against it. I pick up the chatter, hushed shouting about me snagging the man she’s been eyeing since he moved in, and how dare I just come in like that.

For one, I moved into the building first.

Sighing, I groan loudly. I can’t wait to hear what they thought happened in his apartment. Why can’t they pretend we were having a tea party? A man and woman can be knitting friends.

My phone buzzes with his message: Have a wonderful day at work.

Two simultaneous emotions—deep-seated stress and humming serenity—dissipate in a split millisecond. The moment falters, pausing my rumbling heartbeats, and fades out around me.

I can breathe.

Anxiety has been crashing down on me for a long time, and I've almost forgotten how to function normally.

I set a reminder to buy baking supplies so that I can give him something as a thank-you gift. He unintentionally provided me with one of the nicest nights of sleep, even though it was on a couch, and an opportunity to break free from this never-ending cycle of no savings.

Scrubbing a hand over my face and pinching my cheeks, I scrutinize everything in the room. Things are the same since last night, with no cigarette odor.

Maybe my brain is playing tricks on me, and there isn’t an intruder fixated on my apartment. A rare moment of clarity swings into my mind, swatting at the wariness from further conspiring to hurt me.

I purchase the recommended camera without a shred of hesitation and pay for overnight shipping. The faster I can debunk my suspicion, the better I can freely live my life.

With the order confirmation email in my inbox, my fingers dance on the keys as I message him back spiritedly.

Thank you. Hope you don’t mind sweets.

His reply comes the next second. Is it bribery? I only accept half the sugar.

I laugh at the playful undertone.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Levi

 

 

The red dot moves swiftly, leaping through streets and stopping at a place for about five minutes.

It’s very trusting of her to click on the virus-infected link I sent her, but it’s for her own good.

If I can’t be in her home, then I should have digital access to her life. Despite having people around her, she is vulnerable during the day. It’s even worse at night when she is sleeping.

Tapping on the dimming screen, I review the places surrounding the red dot. Anya will be at the studio in ten minutes for her first day of work for me.

I had no doubt she would accept the position. I see her coming home from work, dragging her feet and ready to fall asleep standing up. Her weekend job is an afternoon shift, making the rest of the day unproductive after she gets home.

Work has taken over her life, leaving no time for her to meet me. That’s awful. I want to know her better, and I know she feels the same.

I’m used to being stared at in the building, from buying a drink at the café by the lobby and taking out the trash to picking up mail at the mailbox.

I’m not the tallest or physically the biggest in the apartment building. Unit 605’s weightlifter practically lives at the facility gym, and 707’s road racer has his legs devoted to the stationary bike.

The feeling of eyes glued on me is disgusting, like fire ants creating havoc on my skin, and I can’t scratch it. Though, I’m a hypocrite. I always stare at Anya a little longer than appropriate whenever she’s in the building, yet she doesn’t feel the heat of my gaze.

Whether she’s good at brushing it off or isn’t aware, she can’t stop me from doing it again.

I wouldn’t live here if it wasn’t for her; I relocated here to keep an eye on her. She exudes an exquisiteness that no one else I've met possesses. Beautiful women and men are common once you know where to find them, usually in places with expensive price tags and deep pockets.

With the right price, they’ll compliment dandruff on their Santa Claus.

Their partners are called inamorata in lieu of arm candy.

Respectful and eloquent, they say, while leering repulsively at the person perched on their lap as they allude to a business contract. That was the first sign to reject the collaboration because a business owner with half a brain knew to never discuss sensitive information with a third-party present.

A twitch hammers on my temple as I sigh. Learning new things is great; some are beneficial, but some hit me with utter exasperation.

When dealing with business, I was prepared to meet eccentric people. Nevertheless, that part of my life is over, along with other periods of the man I was.

I want to do what makes me happy, and that’s to be close to Anya and draw her.

Two years of merely watching from a distance have given me a better read on her. Anya has good instincts that malfunction at times; she knows someone is watching her and has been in her home without leaving evidence, but the mistrust perishes with purposeful kindness.

She thought it was me. Should I take that as a win? I was on her mind a lot, enough to form a baseless conclusion that was debunked just as groundlessly. Now we’ve established natural contact, and we’re on a friendship and employer level.

Spiderweb is my rule. Each string has its purpose, one breaking won’t tear down the whole plan, and there is space for multiple prey to get ensnared.

I’m impatient with her. I want to fold her up into my suitcase and roll her out to our new home—to ensure whatever is haunting her doesn’t find out, of course. I don’t take her safety as a joke. She would be happy, living a life of freedom. I have a handful of homes she can choose from, or we could buy one she likes even better.

I open the camera app and switch it to her apartment view, knowing my infiltrated access is well hidden. I may not be as tech-savvy as some associates I know, but they don’t say no to a job, delivering the link within an hour.

Anya rushes to put her purchases away in her home and fix her mop of messy hair by the window. She sends a message to me, saying she’ll be at my studio in five minutes. I close out the app in time to see the final payment for the custom project I sent to an anonymous client.

Everything is off the books, deliveries through specialized carriers and payments through offshore bank accounts. When clients supply props for inspiration, the art piece becomes pricier.

I send a small amount to Anya’s bank account that she gave me to send automatic paychecks.

Her text asks about the money and wonders if it’s by accident. Most workplaces have a signup bonus, and I’m following the norms to overshadow how abnormal this situation is.

That job posting was for her eyes only, and it never had the intention to be in public.

She won’t willingly close our distance, so I’ll have to do it myself. Expecting her to make a move would be like pulling teeth, and I waited two years just to see how she steps out of her comfort zone.

Disappointed but predictable. We lingered on limited greetings because she doesn’t know how to interact with people. Even better, men can’t be more than passing strangers. I'd probably hurt the person she has feelings for.

Her knocking on the door pulls my attention.

When I open it for her, a little bolt from a stray heartbeat hits my chest in response to her weak smile. She has her hair up neatly, her clothes supporting a business-casual style, and her attitude sparkling with positivity.

My pretty baby, I think.

I gesture to the chairs where she can put her bag. For the sake of today’s purpose and not what I want to do, I show her the studio and have her familiarize herself with where things are.

I emphasize the room down the hall, where she can go in, but she must wear gloves because the chemicals will burn her hands. I prefer handling them myself despite her reassurance that she won’t mess up.

Her eyes impatiently explore the room, her plump lips parting in astonishment as her smile turns infectious.

It’s a regular art studio, nothing special about it. Although a little cluttered, the overall atmosphere is calming to work in.

She looks twice at the box of limbs, unable to believe her eyes as they exude horror.

A stifled rumble prods in my throat, my pulse skipping under my fingertips as fear circles her face. The startled tremor shakes her like a leaf, also resembling a petrified little bunny cowering at the bloody teeth of the predator inches away.

“They are props,” I clarify, swallowing a burst of laughter as she inches closer cautiously. “They won’t jump at you.”

Her ears bleed red, lips forming a small pout while narrowing her glare down at the pile of limbs. Hands, arms, legs, feet, and other body parts of different sizes aid a better visual when I paint. I hold a silicone heart to her and set it on her trembling hands.

She fumbles with the texture, turmoil battling with disbelief on her expressive face as she squeezes the fake organ.

“It’s so real,” she whispers, her eyes staying wide with skepticism.

“You didn’t think I’d use real bodies, did you?” I ask, and I’m serious about what seems to be a rhetorical question.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I didn’t know they could make it this real. It must be really expensive.”

It’s adorable how gentle she is with a lump of silicone. That small pair of hands would feel amazing as she maps out my body, trailing over hardened muscles and sharp grooves the same way I would trace her soft curves and delicate skin with callused hands.

Anya asks questions and trips over words from excitement, which I answer with surprising patience. She likes art, but she doesn’t have a gift for it. Many artists start with determination, working on basics and mastering their style to be a talent of singularity.

“I tried,” she says, grimacing as she wiggles her fingers. “It looked monstrous, and I was drawing a tree.”

“You haven’t found your style yet.”

Anya rubs her neck, roughly rubbing out pink marks while drumming her fingers on the column of her throat. I’d love to slip my hand around it, curling almost possessively to enjoy the sparks of distress and confused chaos in her eyes.

Would she regret trusting me? Am I playing a prank on her? Is this newcomer hazing? Am I going to kill her?

Too many questions, and I don’t have the answer for her. I wouldn’t know what to say, either. Do I make her happy and say it’s a joke? Do I make her upset and reveal my true intent?

Which one will have her staying by my side like a good girl? Willingness means I have to keep up the deception, and fear is such an enticing weapon.

“Oh,” she whispers, choked. “You’re…”

The pseudonym I use for my work is spoken like a cursed secret. It sweetens my depraved desires, a gluttonous wish to have my name etched onto her tongue. Over and over again, like an echoing chamber where she’ll lose track of how many times she begs for a glimpse of sunlight. 

Huh, I ponder briefly. It contradicts what I thought before.

Another challenging decision to make. Have her feelings come naturally or break her to form grotesquely maddened love?

“I’m a big fan,” she mumbles shyly as she eyes the open sketchbook of my latest work.

What I put on public platforms and what is purchased by anonymous clients are different. It comes with the territory when clients request custom work of iniquity; I don’t judge when money is in my accounts.

Not tapping into a well-paying niche is stupidity at its finest.

“I’m glad,” I say to draw her attention, curling my hand into a fist as her pink tongue wets her bottom lip. “A fan as my assistant who will treat me and my work with respect is a pleasure to have.”

She nods strongly, the force nearly popping off her head as she grins with pride. I never let anyone near my work, legal or illegal, and I deserve to test out this special pretty baby.

After all, my frigid heart chose her.

If she fails the test—truthfully, I kind of want her to—I have an ocean-side view room and engraved chains. As fun as facades can be, I get tired of wearing them.

Relationships built on lies don’t last. So, more reason to be myself. Maybe she’ll surprise me with acceptance.

Ah, I want to play this out. Sadly, life is inconsiderate of its rules.

“I promise I won’t let my feelings interfere with work.” With fire in her eyes and determination puffing up her cheeks, she beams with vivacious commitment.

I give her some easy tasks, organizing the shelves and cleaning the paint brushes from this morning.

I take a seat in the corner and simply observe while she works. There are no extreme emotions or crashing thoughts, just moments of peace that I crave.

Every day feels like drowning. Darkness weighing me down, choking under bloodlust pressure, and inducing pain in people are ceasing in effectiveness.

Searching and trying new ways to heighten the adrenaline clashes with my desire for peace. The serenity found in art and Anya suppressed much of the bloodlust, but the beginning of an itch takes shape in my fingertips.

I flip to an empty page on the sketchbook and outline her supple body. Dainty ankles straining to push in a book on the shelf as small fingers curl over the wooden frame for support, and her pinched cheeks lighten after successfully finishing the last book.

I’m twice her size. Her head comes up to my chest when I imagine her sitting on my lap and fretting at the controversial colors I put on the canvas to enrich her loveliness.

I’ll time it right to ask her to model for me with the hands-on approach. Touch has endless possibilities of intimacy and pretenses.

I don’t understand myself and how I became this person I don’t recognize. Well, emotions are unpredictable, and brain activities are complicated. There is an unfounded reason for my obsession with her, a connection of chemicals aligning or whimsical love theories, but none convinces me.

I simply like Anya… now and two years ago.

I’m fascinated. The feelings weren’t a fleeting, superficial idea. They grew in waves like a pebble dropped in water and rippled into something akin to a storming tsunami.

“Am I doing it wrong?” Her hesitant voice dominates the lulling drone in my ears.

She drops her wet hands from the brushes, leaving them in the correct position to dry. I smile at her and voice approval. Anya’s shoulders drop, magnifying the self-doubt about her basic knowledge of art.

“I’m finished,” she says and wipes her hand with a paper towel. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Sit.” I motion to the floor and press my lips together to bury the pleased smile. “You’re giving me inspiration.”

There’s incredulity in her eyes as she sits and waits quietly, but she doesn’t let them fester. Her strength in self-control compels my fingers to mimic it on paper, knowing it won’t live up to the real thing.

“Talk to me,” I say, my voice not above a whisper.

Late winter dreariness disturbs a warm breeze as it groans like hollow ghosts, and February’s sunlight wards off the wind’s cries. The walls emit a chilling air, and I throw a sweater at her after she shows signs of shivering. She wears it with a blush, string uneven, and hair slightly static.

“Weekend plans?” I intone, pressing a conversation from her silence.

“I’m meeting my sister for dinner,” she says and motions aimlessly. “She’s in the area for business.”

She talks, I sketch, and the peace is extraordinarily satisfying. Budding brutality feels like defeat, and it’s a downfall I would sell a soul to keep.

It’s easy to pretend her voice is singing in my ears, mouthing tender kisses down my cheek, and running a playful tongue across my throat. I’d hear a whine or a plea to kiss her back when her lips hover over mine, and then she’d bury her red face into my chest after I deny her.

“It’s been years since her last relationship,” Anya mumbles, grimacing vehemently. “He was bad for her. But she’s finally moving on. This weekend is going to be her blind date.”

“You’re going, too?” The pencil soundlessly chips under my grip, and the gray graphite darkens the harder I dig it onto the paper.

“For her safety,” Anya denies and waves her hand hastily. “She’ll meet with him after our dinner for dessert. But she said her date is bringing someone to make sure he doesn’t drink too much.”

The corner of her lips twitch, a flash of discomfort lingers, then it’s replaced by a huff of defeat.

“Bad feeling about him?” I note, loosening my fingers and watching them shake above the white paper.

“All her ex-boyfriends are unlikeable.” The effort she uses to squeeze out a description as inoffensive as she can is endearing.

“Sisters have similar tastes often, so I would think she picks better ones.”

Anya blushes, shoulders drawing up as she rubs the sleeve of my sweater absently. Her breath hitches, a meek squeak sounding when she stammers incoherently. I’m too drawn to the way my clothes swallow her body, enriching the space for my imagination to fill in.

“I’ve never dated,” she blurts, then seals her lips to a pale line and fights the blushing futilely.

I want to bite her cheek and leave an obvious mark there. Possessive, but I have no shame.

“I was busy with school,” Anya mumbles, and a train of anxious rambles block the hollering wind. “A lot of coursework in college, too. After graduating, I focused on work.”

Setting aside the sketchbook and pencil, I inch closer and sit directly in front of her. Her unfocused gaze is on me, but she doesn’t fully grasp the stealthy proximity.

“Nobody liked me.” She ends up confessing, her face fiery red as if she’s spilled a humiliating secret.

I like you; the voice of a devil strikes fast.

Her withdrawing body curls in smaller, then she looks up in vain to appear unaffected and chokes at our distance.

Desperate and ravenous, her face calls for my hands to cradle her and kiss away the doubts. An open book, she is. I could read, write down details of her thoughts, and use them to study her.

One moment she’s biting on her bottom lip, and the next, I’m pulling it from her teeth and reeling at the plumpness. A peek at her tongue burns another layer of control as I drop my hand, withstanding the imposing invitation to press two fingers on her tongue.

A group of children’s laughter nicks the tension. I glare at the sound, the threads of composure cementing back to form a stronger bond.

“S-sorry,” she yelps and scrambles back, her limbs lurching as she stops at a safe distance.

“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping the pencil apathetically. “That was rude of me.”

The lie halts in the air.

“Be safe this weekend,” I say, leaning an elbow on my raised knee. “I’d hate to not see you on Monday.”

 

 

 

Chapter Three

Anya

 

 

It was a few months back, a year at most, that an urban legend was whispered after dark about a malevolent figure snatching sacrifices.

It’s true, factual as the filed police reports and tearful families, but the rumors loom with uncertainty on skeptical minds. Families fund searches, and residents forget until the next disappearance, at which point more conspiracies of supernatural forces emerge.

Whether the whispers are reliable or there’s a connection to my apartment, the faint footsteps behind me are as real as the heavy rain soaking the cotton of my clothes.

Afraid and cold, I speed down the empty street. Five steps land me under the brightest glow of streetlights, but the danger behind pushes me to the next light.

Raindrops splash on my hair, clinging to the ends and streaking under my clothes. There is no life beyond the racing cars down the street, and a torchlight of hope drips fuel under my feet as I rush closer to the noises.

A pinch of recognition, a familiar sensation clinching the back of my neck, instills raging terror in my burning muscles. Eyes lurking in secret stare fixedly on the back of my head, and it’s an unmoving force of clustered wasps.

Chills flare up my arms.

The wind picks up, whipping frosty bites on my skin as a hand grazes my head. It’s cunningly gentle, that mere second of touch, and a nasty tug on my drenched hair reels my eyes up to the dense ashen clouds.

A scream lodges in my throat, my head spinning with searing pain as the brick wall cuts the side of my head. I hear the man call a woman’s name, one I never heard of, and coos with a note of concern that nears berating.

“Why reject me when you’re nothing but a piece of useless—”

I can’t hear what the rest is; the pain numbs my senses too quickly, leaving my body slumped to the attacker’s mercy. The disgusting snort when he drags his nose along the side of my neck draws a gurgling cackle from him, remnants of copper fanning my cheek as the smell unfurls a quiet gag.

“What are you doing to my wife?”

The furious sound of rain stops, and the man gripping my hair forcibly snatches his hand back when a long shadow lazes on my freezing skin. I topple to the side when he shoves me forward, his footsteps hurriedly fading away like a rat scampering back to rancid darkness.

The edges of gravel dig into my palms as I push myself up, my dazed eyes prowling up a pair of long legs and the blistering polish of blue in Levi’s eyes. They meet mine, and I’m drunk on the composure and dauntless power spiraling in his pinned pupils.

Then, he smiles. The forgotten memories resurface, rushing to be the first recognition of his name on my tongue.

Two years ago I graduated from college and went to celebrate with my family. A night with laughter, happiness, and confidence for the future was sullied when I fell behind with bags of gifts after my family went to get the car.

If it hadn't been for the choked shout of someone in pain, I would’ve kept walking past the dark alleyway behind a restaurant.

Levi, donned in fitting black clothes, effortlessly held a man who looked bigger than him by the throat with his hand. Veins strained against the back of Levi’s hand, and muscles swelled with power, but he was calm and nonchalant.

He turned to me and ignored the purple-faced man.

“Congratulations, pretty.” He had the most riveting yet heart-wrenching smile. “Go on, have fun tonight.”

That day, a blue-eyed soulless snake slithered into my dreams.

Why didn’t I recognize him?

“Where did you go? I’ve been looking for you,” he says as he crouches down.

The threat of death clouds my mind. A blink of light, the emergency vibration of an Amber alert, lands wickedly across his face as my heart pounds against my ribs. The similarities in my memories are overwriting themselves, mirroring the replicated smile from two years ago.

It’s beautiful, the way he smiles so effortlessly charismatic, yet the simple act can bring about such a visceral reaction. His gaze ghosts over the chills flowing over my shoulders, zoning into the dark alley until eight erratic heartbeats pass my ears.

His eyes edge back toward me; each second and all burning trails send waves of dread surging through me. The alert stops and shuts down the bright screen, but once the serene sapphire is lightened, it doesn’t dim with the swarming duskiness.

The derisive air seeping through his body relents, instantly leveling the agonizing heat under my shivering skin.

Down the alley end, a kicked beer bottle shatters against the wall.

No words from my dry throat, just a cracked hiccup. Levi opens his arms, slowly approaching me like a frightened animal, and holds me against his chest.

He’s warm, almost burning my freezing skin, but it’s a jarring sensation that breathes refuge into my ears. I bury my face into his shirt, tears running down my scrunched cheeks as pain wracks my shoulders.

He strokes my back, and the tenderness nearly breaks apart the curling strain in my throat. A low timbre resounds, a signal to wrap his arm around my back and under my weak knees. I keep my face in his chest as he stands gently, quietly, and at ease.

“I’m going to take you back to the studio,” he whispers, the tone even while leaving the plaguing crime scene. “I have a friend at the department; he’ll take your case.”

The walk is tense and hushed, with cars screeching on wet ground and murmurs of pedestrians weaving through crowds. Once the deafening silence is taken over by liveliness, my stomach flutters in relief and grogginess.

I’ve memorized the number of steps to the elevator from the entrance, the seconds going up to his floor, and the rest of the strides to the studio door. He balances my weight on his forearm—a moment of silent respect for his power passes through my body—and enters the ten-digit code, after which the door closes on an automated lock.

The inconspicuous routine helps ground my racing mind.

He sets me down inside the bathtub and takes off my shoes. He leans on the slanted corner, seemingly lost in thought, and cups my cheek gently.

“I’ll get you a change of clothes, then I’ll make the call.” His big hand ruffles my hair, splashing cold droplets onto my face before giving a light pinch to the left cheek.

Somewhere between him returning with dry clothes and me standing up, I lose count of how many small scratches are on me. Flaring itchiness draws a frown on my lips as the hot water storms down my back.

The insinuation makes sense after I’m already dressed in his clothes and halfway shoving my nose into the long sleeve. I scrounge up my shattered dignity and put my arm down, reminiscing the heady scent with a shameful lip quiver.

I shuffle out of the bathroom and peer out into the wide space, art supplies scattered on tables and practice canvases leaning on top of each other against the wall. He’s not disorganized, but he can get in the zone and work through hours without stopping.

There is a certain fascination about him when he’s focused; the world ceases to exist and abandons him in a timeless ambiance.

“Come,” Levi says and waves his hand.

He thoroughly scans my frame, stalling on worse injuries with a disapproving scowl. I push my curled fingers onto my lap, partly eating up his attention as it warms my heart from his worry.

What if I get hurt again?

The perturbing and reprehensible idea shouldn’t exist. I refrain from slapping myself, but it’d teach me a good lesson. A thought like that has to mean my morals need fixing, and he can’t be the one to help when it possibly stems from him.

“Let’s get your statement in first,” he says and rubs the top of my head. “While it’s fresh in your mind, the details won’t be too misguided by trauma.”

His shampoo and laundry detergent bicker to be the dominant scent in my lungs; no arguments necessary as I like both equally. It’s fitting to the mood; rain pitter-pattering on the arched window hidden by thick curtains, the sweetness of green tea in my stomach, and his unwavering attention protecting me from the wraiths waiting in the exposed paintings.

His art is too realistic.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of my cheek softly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

He opens an ajar laptop, and a man’s piqued expression crumples uncomfortably. He shoots a toothy grin at me, but there isn’t an ounce of sympathy in it. His droopy eyes smooth his features, giving him laid-back and cool characteristics.

Objectively, he’s attractive by society's standards.

“I’m Detective Davis,” he introduces offhandedly while adjusting his posture.

The busy background is a police station, and as he leans in for a better look at me, a woman's extraordinarily large hair whorl draws my attention away from his bent shoulders.

“Name?” he asks, clicking his pen and hovering the tip on a lined notepad.

I answer him nervously even though they are customary questions to prove my identity, but my hunch rejects the invasion of privacy.

As our meeting dives into the attack, Davis pinches the raised arch between his brows and exhales loudly.

“What are you standing there for?” the detective huffs and points his pen at the screen. “Do you want to be on the stand as a witness, too?”

“She’s a victim,” Levi corrects icily, “I’m here to observe. Unless Anya is being detained?”

The temperature takes a nosedive as they stare at each other, neither willing to lose the bizarre eye-contact competition.

Detective Davis’s jaw ticks, clearly wanting to say something until someone walks behind him. He takes the laptop and moves it to a quiet room to talk. The screen never shows the inside of the precinct, just the ruckus of someone asserting their innocence in the background and officers telling them to shut up. When the screen clears up again, the room is white-walled.

Davis squints, slowly cataloging the wounds that have been irritated by the hot water.

“Huh,” the detective drones and tilts his head to cast a deliberate side-eye at the man next to me.

Davis interrupts my thoughts with a series of unexpected questions. I do my best to answer them while he jots down the specifics of my incident. Levi stands off to the side, offering privacy, but he can step in if I become overwhelmed.

Though, he’s not safe from Davis’s cynical jab. “It sure looks like you don’t have a concussion.”

Detective Davis interrogates me like I’m a suspect and operates on the theory that I’m making this up based on the blasé glances he gives me when I’m recalling the attack. He makes an impromptu comment about the recent disappearances of women who look like me, meaning my attacker could’ve been responsible for the other crimes.

“Shocked you even got hurt,” the man mumbles over the scribbling on his notepad.

Something flashes in his bloodshot eyes before he clears his throat. “The suspect never hurt the women—hm, that’s not right. They’re still missing, so it’s hard to say how they were taken.”

“I’ll file the statement and follow up on it with you when I have more information.”

He types on his laptop, occasionally drifting his attention back to me while also supporting the same look on his face. I can tell he has something he wants to say, but he decides not to for whatever reason.

“Keep an eye on strange men,” he prompts curtly, “mainly the nearby ones.”

He finishes typing and goes over how to contact him if needed, then unceremoniously throws out that Levi was a cop, too.

I just nod courteously. The spark between them is one trigger away from a nuclear explosion. They must have a bad history together because the glacial chills on my back breach deep into my body.

“We’re no longer partners, but we can still be friends.” Levi presents a visibly mocking smile.

“What were you thinking? First, it’s CEO and then quitting to be a painter…” The detective smirks and disconnects, causing the black screen to display a lascivious angle of Levi's firm waistline.

I want to ask, but his past is his. Although, my mind has free rein on how he goes from a blue-uniformed officer to a CEO dressed in crisp suits before becoming a reclusive artist with tight cotton shirts.

“Finding my passion wasn’t easy,” Levi states, laughing playfully.

“You don’t have to tell me.” I didn't mean to spill my thoughts all over my face, and he's adept at reading signs.

“I’ll tell you the whole story another time,” he promises as he runs lithe fingers through my hair.

His fondness for petting my head like a cat surprised me, but I grew accustomed to it when he meant no harm. Maybe I'm touch-starved because I moved away from my family, or maybe it's his touch that I unconsciously seek; the intimacy is comforting.

He pops open the first-aid kit and raises my right ankle. One disciplining glare zips my lips and tramples the protest in my chest. His hands are big, rough calluses ghosting the thin skin on my foot as he applies the gel medication.

Methodical and impersonal, he examines the wound on my scalp with the precision of a professional. He brushes aside the strands and tests the area surrounding the swelling bump. It stings a bit, but it’s not painful.

He leans in for a closer inspection, and the fabric on his shoulder grazes my quivering lips as I desperately hold my breath. He smells so good, akin to a silken-sheet bed pledging a sweet dream.

As he falls back on his knees to avoid intimidating me with his towering frame, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise warbles in my throat.

“Stay however long you want, but I prefer until whoever hurt you is in custody.”

His reason is sounding. I work closely with him, so the studio is half a home for me. I’m not completely safe in my apartment yet, the new camera is doing its work, but I still feel eyes on me. Today’s attack solidifies my dire situation, and this will stay between us.

My sister will feel immense guilt after begging me to go with her on the blind date. Even though the date was a failure, she hasn’t laughed that hard since the last toxic relationship.

I purse my lips shakily. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

My mind is so muddled by everything. I haven’t gotten a good night's sleep since that one time, and I’ve been worried about an escalation in crime. I remember I left food in the microwave and forgot about it when I went to work. It was stored in the refrigerator after I got home. My hairbands and clips were missing, and one of my folded shirt corners had ruffles.

The old camera didn’t catch the intruder, and the microwave instance was the time I definitively knew someone had been in my home. Whoever has a grudge against me can hack cameras.

Nothing is going missing or being moved with the new camera. Except, the trauma lingers.

“Don’t worry about it.” Levi hovers his hand over mine shortly, sincerity branding my white knuckles as he covers them.

“You must be tired,” he says after a moment of stilled silence, “I’ll leave you to rest. Dinner will be brought to you soon.”

My stomach churns in protest. I nod while keeping my eyes locked on his pants. It would be impolite to turn down his generous offer, even though my throat is fighting back an acidic retch, and the thought of homemade meals hits me square in the belly.

A bite or two should show appreciation for his care.

“It’ll be in the fridge, and you can heat it when you’re hungry,” he compromises, far too generously, and skims a finger to tuck the hair behind my ears.

“See you tomorrow,” he whispers and gives a feathery pat on top of my head.

I flinch as his hand falls to his side. My eyes fix even harder on the ground, impulsively counting the rug’s microscopic threads.

“Goodnight, pretty baby.”

The entrance door closing didn’t mute his voice. It was clear, almost too deliberately soft, so my ears were forced to grasp onto them.

I shuffle to switch off the lights; darkness broadens my spatial awareness and unexpectedly builds a wall of bravery within me. I recall the placement of the couch and the folded blanket next to it.

After bundling the thick fabric into my arms, I stumble to the corner where Levi loves to work from. He may not be here, but the memory of his thick chest and flexed muscles rip apart my fear.

“Goodnight,” I whisper into the dark.

Stupidly, I hoped and prayed there would be a low, guttural chuckle following my name. Then, he’d look at me with eyes stolen from the ocean, and the badgering helplessness would escape my veins like receding tides.

Folding the edges of my blanket, I curl into a ball and chant a childish belief that monsters can’t hurt me.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

Levi

 

 

It’s the seventh day she’s been living in my work studio.

I insisted on her living here until the dust settled. Anya struggled to navigate the place for sleep and work, but she got more comfortable after some time. When I returned to the studio the morning after, she was sleeping on the ground.

My fault for not being specific. The bedroom down the hall was hers to use, but she thought she had been intruding enough. She refused to take the room, and she had the determination of a vast starry sky—bright and steadfast.

The couch is not bad, and she fits on it well. She’ll sleep in the bedroom when the back pain catches up to her, so I leave her to the stubborn pride.

I sit on the arm of the couch and watch her sleep. Seven o’clock sunlight wins the spot as the film of dull haze withdraws with nightfall.

She had let me into the studio at five o'clock to finalize the last details of a project. She passed out the moment she sat back down on the couch.

She mumbles in her sleep and nuzzles my finger stroking her cheek. Such a small, innocuous act of trust, yet I gain great joy in training her body to cherish my touch. My knuckles graze the side of her skull, nodding with prideful triumph that she healed impeccably in my care.

“See, this is what happens when I don’t look after you,” I murmur, her soft strands swirling tantalizingly around my fingers.

Anya stirs, her lashes flutter as a distressed noise knicks my heart. I untangle her hair and leave the couch, pretending I’m merely a respectable boss she sees me as. My tongue presses on the aching sharp tooth and tuts quietly, the label inscribing a curse into my chest as it scorches with emptiness.

It’s not enough, and it’ll never be enough.

I ignore the urge to palm the growing thickness in my pants and swallow the rest of the bitter coffee that’s been diluted by melted ice. I have no extravagant taste for caffeine, but sugar is banned from my cup.

“What are you doing here?” she mumbles, confused.

Anya blinks, heat coloring her cheeks as she scrambles to sit upright while brushing her fingers through her tangled hair. As she glances through her terrified eyes, the smooth column of her throat bobs.

“I-I mean—”

“You fell asleep,” I say, laughing under my breath as I make a fresh drink.

“What?” Her rosy lips press tightly together when her brows furrow deeper with uncertainty.

“We were talking, and you fell asleep.” While waiting for her to make another tongue-tied noise, I take the kettle and pour the coffee into the mug.

“I did?” she slurs, scratching the back of her head.

She fits well in this illuminated place, dressed in clothes I bought her and trusting enough to sleep in the presence of a man who has one string of control left. I extinguish the candle with two fingers and watch delightfully as the ash-gray smoke twirls through the air.

Not bad for a new product made with natural chemicals to aid sleep; I’m satisfied with this trivial investment that was disregarded as a flop.

Davis calls me insane for quitting the partnership and throwing away the gun for a fountain pen. The adrenaline of chasing after criminals helps to curb the need for breaking bones, but it’s the complete access to Anya’s life at my fingertip that really does it.

But I realized that a cop's pay would not be enough to provide her with what she deserved.

I took some time to build myself up and create a resilient foundation for my company. Businesses are rarely profitable during their first year, so I decided on a better strategy. With some convincing and blackmail material—maybe there was a life-threatening accident to the previous CEO—I secured an executive seat at a mid-sized company.

It was embarrassing seeing how incompetent the standing CEO was at running the business.

Davis doesn’t call me a snake for nostalgia. We grew up together, and he saw how I behaved when I wanted something.

Proving my worth took six months, bending those old bags of executive bones to my will took another month, and sitting in the CEO chair fell into line right after that. Gradually, with a systematic plan to multiply the company’s annual profit, my work and patience wore off.

I sold the company to the biggest rival for three times its worth, and the betrayal on everyone’s face was spectacular. They cried about foul play, and the new boss had the pettiest grin as he wished for a great year with them.

As if luck wanted to reward my efforts, a string of kidnappings happened. I caught wind of it when the fourth woman was gone because the newscaster showed a picture that looked like Anya. I wanted to put a protection detail on her, but given her wariness, she would have noticed.

Then, the number increased to eight, and I knew I had to keep her under my protection.

“You’re laughing,” her sweet voice grumbles, “I look messy.”

She’s beautiful with tousled hair, drowsy eyes, and pouting lips. She has been stunning since the day I saw her in that deserted, putrid alley.

It’s fate pulling on strings, just like the devotion of her name carved on my sinned soul. Why else would love at first sight be a favored concept?

Plenty of married couples swear on it, betting on vows and bonds.

My experience is not unique. I’m certain there are people out there, much crazier and less tactical, who meet their beloved half and feel the universe explode in their eyes.

I want to fall in love with cotton crammed into my brain and hands of denial around my throat, our names beside each other, sealing the love with a signature and a wedding ring—but the feverish taunts, so diabolical, plead to rip her heart to shreds and swallow the life in her eyes.

A middle ground, I ponder. There must be one.

“What do you have planned today?” she asks, straightening her posture.

Not much different from yesterday. This week’s public artwork is done for the week, and the custom piece has been shipped. That part of my life will not come to light, not before I have her wrapped irrevocably around my fingers.

I’m pleased with the process; she blindly trusts what I say, lowers her guard to sleep in my territory, and accepts the flitting touches on her fragile body.

She said her sister has a toxic taste in men, and Anya shares it, too.

We have common qualities, but she retains the sweet innocence, so we’re also the opposite.

Opposites attract, and similarity lures.

“It’s a slow day,” I suggest, pausing to think of a tactful way to express my concerns.

Anya nods, concentrating on the left and most likely pinpointing what the responsibilities are. I grip her jaw and direct her gaze to me, silently chastising the shock in her eyes. When I speak, I should have control of her mind, not some filthy brushes.

“Have you thought about what to do next?”

She blinks, and realization leisurely squirms on her face. Pretty eyes flicker up for a split second, then she drops them to the loose collar of my shirt. My lips twitch, unable to stop the smile that forms as her face shines with redness. It’s softer, the tinge of solace, and it elicits vague desires to be nice.

Nice, my mind chews on the irrelevant notion.

I’ve tried something similar to it when dealing with people, a formality of sorts, but there was never a genuine moment to it.

“I’m not sure what I want,” she says, “I’m not a fan of weapons, but I might need to get one. There’s a popular martial arts school a couple of blocks down.”

“Ah.” The flat tone slips from my mouth, but I didn’t hold it tight anyway.

Imagining men or women putting their hands on her, adjusting her form, and talking beside her ears pours acidic poison on my hands to disintegrate the idea out of her mind. I worry that she’ll come to work with delight because someone with the audacity to cross my boundary has asked her on a date.

Years of self-discipline would go down the drain, and I’d be forced to retrieve the violence locked away in my blood.

“Strangers touching me…” Anya winces, her lips curling in agitation as she shudders. “I’m fine with people I’m close to—”

The instantaneous blush marks her cheeks when her eyes wander up to mine, intensifying the heat searing in my stomach.

“People I know,” she corrects shyly, “I don’t flinch when it’s my family and you.”

The last word flees in between two loud heartbeats, and it begins an unrelenting rhythm as the melodic tune washes tranquility down my spine.

“I’m happy to be special to you.”

And smoke can emit from the tip of her red ears.

She coughs into her fist and dodges my shrewd gaze. “I’ll think of something later.”

Contacting Davis sounds like her next step. That man has no qualms about work ethics, but it’s not shocking when the core of him is as rotten as Eden’s forbidden fruit. He’ll use Anya to anger me, and doing so will snap a cord of humanity.

We’re not a good pair. He hinders the changes I want to make in myself, good or bad, and Davis walks a narrow path of vile games.

He knows I want to kill him. I said it to his face, and he never hides the fact he wants to see how long I can play on the good side.

He hasn’t overstepped once, so he’ll continue to stand on the sidelines of my life. Although, there are times I want to hack off the foot that toes the line.

Why do I keep him around? That question can’t be answered, and it’s too much work to care.

“I can help.”

It’s a cruel thing to do, the way her head tilts with eyes shining expectantly, but I snatch the leaving breath at the last second. The sensations I feel, fickle emotions, they’re boundlessly thriving in my heart with abundance.

“I was a cop,” I say, searching for guidance in her eyes. “I can protect you.”

“As a bodyguard?” she intones as skepticism sways in her fidgeting limbs. “I don’t want to trouble you. And besides, you’ve done plenty for me already!”

I have done way more than I can remember doing for anyone. Not my parents, who died in a kayaking accident. Not the foster home. Nor do I feel indebted when a family adopted me. Especially not Davis, who has been with me the longest.

If I have to describe our relationship, it’s purely business.

The gears move in sync, turning out an idea I nearly forgot. It was an accidental slip of the tongue, but it rolled so fluently. It felt like a dose of sugar sprinkled on a thick layer of honey, and the revolting sweetness latched onto my tongue for the longest time.

“As your husband.”

The words fly over her head. She dazes through the tweeting birds, the distant plane, and a picturesque sight after the morning dew. But as she looks at me with intricacies parading in each blink, I want to understand the emotions.

I’ve never seen them before, not in books filled with clinical meanings or people orbiting sins of life—she’s different, that’s why.

A logical part explains love needs patience and cultivation, a safe foundation to establish a deeper connection, and, most importantly, it needs commitment and honesty.

Some things are not meant to be forced, they’ll wilt and perish, but lies have been one of the greatest aids in success.

“What if…”

I steel my resolve at her hesitation. My patience chips at the corners, but perhaps it’s not meant to be intact.

“He’s taking single women,” I state taciturnly, “women who look like you.”

Something gnaws under my skin, and it prances dangerously above the steady pulse in my neck. I wait and stare; the sham of benevolence writes off its own existence, and in replacement are a pair of white fangs from an evil incarnation.

“Okay,” she whispers, and a sense of normalcy returns to her eyes.

Then she says it again—for the sake of clarity or confirmation. I can’t get a read on her, and there’s an invading force of frustration.

I don’t like the way I’ve become. Uncontrollable. Reckless.

Levi comes and goes, an hour or days, and leaves with melancholy as if he came to vacation for the holidays. I, someone I can’t distinguish, take over the same body and zealously set backdoors to return at any time.

The voices get louder and more demanding than they used to be when I was alone and hurting people for amusement. Now, they’re angry, understandably upset. They don’t like change because I don’t, and they’re a part of me.

But this is Anya, I hiss back—so shut up.

“Nice to meet you, my wife.”

The silence crickets and floats like a piece of corroded wood in the ocean.

She laughs; the corners of her eyes are a little red, but it suits her. This time, I don’t fight the unusual sensation roiling with the cadence of heartbeats.

Anya places her hand in my extended one. Two puzzle pieces from different pictures miraculously fit together.

Her hand is small, delicate fingers intertwining with mine and curling them. Her nails graze my knuckles, and the strokes also teasingly brush my heart.

“For how long?” she asks, her lashes fluttering warily.

“Until he’s caught.” I take her hand in mine and help her off the couch.

I think about holding on forever. Or letting go and watching her run toward me, crying amid frantic pleas to never leave her behind. Whatever it is, she’s here, and it’s bidding on a countdown.

I tighten the grip, and it feels right, so the tension in my back stops. Go with the flow. Just us and the peculiar glass of tenderness.

Does she feel the pulses in my palm? I do, and it’s everywhere.

No words are spoken when we leave the studio, closing the doors on paintings that somewhat mirror the horrors in me. But they don’t compare to the severity of the commissioned pieces.

As the elevator descends the floors, her attention sticks to a section of black ink peeking from my sleeve. I pull it down, not from shame or to appease her apprehension, but to blend into the crowds.

“We’ve met before.” She patches together stumbled words and wrings her fingers, the tips of her ears turning pink from jitters.

“Once,” I concur. “I had just caught a suspect when you showed up.”

She nods with pursed lips. I used proper force and procedures to immobilize the man, so her reaction is a bit bizarre. Even the department approved of the arrest process, although that place reeked of corruption.

I blended in flawlessly.

“I must have frightened you. I’m sorry,” I say, thrilled as her stiff shoulders relax.

“You were doing your job.” Her lips stretch into an adorably wide smile.

I was having fun.

Basking in the sun and replenishing fresh air in my lungs, I tug her down another street for breakfast. She gets lightheaded without it, and she’ll power through the dizziness when she’s too lazy for food.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she questions, shaking our hands in emphasis. “What if that man sees us and just snaps? ‘Destroy what you can’t have’ kind of thing?”

Some wild people don’t follow the script for crimes. This assailant would either go after Anya again or switch focus to her sister. Anya’s features overlap more with the missing women, so I’m betting on her.

It was impossible to miss the anger and insanity in the man’s eyes when he held Anya by the hair. His filthy, undeserving hand. He better hope I don’t catch him before the hostile storm inside me blows over.

“I’m strong enough to protect you.”

The blue uniform has a standard physical requirement, and the daily crime-fighting required me to maintain the dexterity and strength I had from childhood self-preservation.

I protect my own back.

“I’m worried about you,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to get hurt. He’s after me, and I can’t forgive myself if—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” I interject as the ardor in her eyes brands my back. “I’m doing this voluntarily. I know the risks, but I want to do it.”

“Why?”

I mull over the question. The voices mock her, as expected and rather rude, yet they don’t offer torturous solutions.

A change of heart? Earth can end tomorrow, and they’ll pass a comment on world domination. This stupid power-play they do, it’s imaginative and often witty.

She doesn’t press the answer, maybe out of potential disappointment in the response. I put the answer in a box, set it to a corner of my brain, and wait for the right time.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I discernibly change the subject.

An automated welcome message sputters as the sliding door opens while hearty scents and chattering patrons control the atmosphere.

She orders her usual after the waitress seats us. I notice Anya chooses the safest choice from the menu, not sparing a glance at the enticing items in multicolored words. The dishes are extravagant and eye catching since they cater to indecisive people.

It’s a shame I’m not a safe choice, yet I’m the only haven she can seek refuge in.

Anya peers up from the menu and grins prettily.

Keep smiling; she’s beautiful with it.

Let’s try tears next time.

 

 

 

Chapter Five

Anya

 

 

My sister and her twelve-pound rebellious Manx cat are relocating to a city near Phoenix. It was a decision that had been brought up months ago, so the news wasn’t as shocking.

She deserves it, the recognition and a fresh start. Our old city, filled with cursed memories and nasty fights, is keeping her from being healthy. After months and years of steering her in the right direction, away from the selfish boys and toxic men, she recognized the cycle with the eighth therapist.

This is the one, she had said. We’re connecting.

I should’ve listened to the disparaging feeling in my stomach, but I was worried about her choking on a crispy samosa on a boring Wednesday.

I found out about the unethical relationship between them when she came home after a session with one false eyelash hanging by a string of glue and tear-streaked foundation. They were caught making out in his office after hours by his husband, and the cops were nearly called for the subsequent ruckus.

I learned to not scold, reason, or comfort her. She sees the atrocious relationships and terrible men as a part of her destiny, not a mistake.

If they are men and have an emotional spark with her, she’ll pretend morals and integrity are accessories.

That’s where my unease stems from.

I don’t want her to meet Levi. My knee-jerk response to her sharing the news through the phone was to hang up, but I didn’t and quietly listened to the grand plans she had for a new chapter.

What if she lays scavenging eyes on him and tags him? Dibs, she calls them. It’s an unbreakable childish tendency to claim men. It’s as if without men, she’d burst into sea foam like a mermaid.

My mind defends Levi’s character, fussing over the things he’s done for me and the way he treats me differently from others. An exception, special treatment, and the conflated whisper of selfishness.

I’m embarrassed to put myself on a pedestal, projecting self-importance when he’s simply being kind.

A mutually beneficial business relationship. An offer of shelter as an unspoken apology for not stepping in sooner to stop the assailant. An unearned title—husband, a dizzy voice drones—that’s saving my life.

He seems naïve when the facts are laid out.

He’s not, and he’s one of the smartest people I know. There are trails, a few articles, and court documents of his name being associated with a big corporation. He watered the talents and fostered them in order to expand his firm, then he quickly sold it, giving me whiplash even though I wasn't the one affected.

I’m not one to judge people’s choices. They don’t affect me, and I don’t know them personally. I don’t even do it to my sister, who steps on broken glass for an ill-fated heartbreak.

Maybe Levi had a reason to justify it, or maybe he didn’t and just wanted to.

I don’t know him well enough to judge, to evaluate if his character aligns with mine to stay in my life.

It sounds conceited when it’s said like that. Many friends go separate ways when opinions and fundamental beliefs don’t match. It causes too much conflict and long walks on eggshells.

“Anya?”

For a split second, I thought it was my sister’s voice. Visceral irritation pulls at my lips, and it takes a tense twist for me to turn around.

Levi raises a brow, his eyes drawn to the trembling paintbrush in my hand. He puts the scuffed red basket in his other arm and reaches over to press the back of his hand on my forehead. A frown mars his face, furrowed brows knitting slowly as he rechecks the temperature.

“I’m fine,” I croak and laugh sheepishly. “I got caught up in my thoughts.”

Slipping the paintbrush back to the shelf, I peer into the basket to see what he’s buying. A lot of expensive art supplies.

When I woke up this morning to him leaning on the counter with a bag filled with old supplies, he suggested using today to restock. Levi usually does the groceries on his own, and they favor my taste instead of his.

He came ready, knowing I’d argue, and convinced me that it was the least he could do when he occupied most of my days.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s my job as his assistant to help him in the studio where he stays until dark. Now that I think about it, he stayed overnight a handful of times to finish his projects.

This is crossing many professional boundaries. I brought it to his attention, and I’ve never seen so much hurt trying to curl in on itself through his eyes.

I’m helping a friend, he said. And at that moment, I was the century’s villain.

He forgives easily; all it takes is a mortified apology and a promise to treat him as a friend. Although bosses and employees don’t hold hands, some friends do. We’re doing it for show to make the kidnapper lose interest in me.

What’s a more permanent partner than a husband? A big, strong, and thoughtful husband who can be very scary at times. He keeps strangers at a distance with a candid stare, and women immediately deflate when he smiles at me so warmly.

I’ll drown in this blissful trap if I’m not careful.

When this is over, I might become a mirror image of my sister. Obsessed, blinded, and greedy to the core. I can see it from a mile away, the disappointed feeling when he lets go, and I plummet deeper into this fabled experience.

He’s a drug, an addiction, and withdrawal symptoms are expected, but I’m not confident I’ll succeed.

Something is broken in me. This situation is inexplicable, coercing me to endure waves of unfamiliar emotions with doses of adrenaline.

I could get kidnapped, and life would still be shoving a fairy tale down my throat.

One step at a time. These thoughts are too much for a day of leisure. Sucking in a volatile breath, I redirect my focus to the supplies and consider what else he needs to buy.

“I heard your sister is visiting you this week,” he mentions offhandedly as he plucks a black sketchbook from the top shelf.

I swallow, regaining my voice. “For business. She’s been going back and forth. She says this contract is her test trial, so she’s doing her best. Not that it’s stopping her from complaining about the train rides.”

He’s heard plenty of conversations between my sister and me because she talks like she’s bargaining at a fish market.

The mood turns somber as he hands over the basket to the cashier. She looks at him after every scanned item, her lips slapping on a gorgeous smile, but he’s staring at the framed painting of Ramesses the Great and Queen Nefertari.

A professor had once talked about their love story on a history channel, but I was scrolling through cat videos, failing to pay attention.

“While we’re here,” he notes as he puts the bags into the car’s backseat, “we’ll stay for a while.”

We’re miles from his studio because this art supply store is the best in the city. The owner is a retired sculptor with immense expertise in art, and he sells supplies he makes from his knowledge.

Anyone who can make granite look like silk veils is a legend.

“What do you recommend?” I intone, my fingers hovering over a list of popular places in the area on my phone.

He hums as he looks about, but nothing catches his eye, so he leans over my shoulder to read the list with me. The heady scent of his new shampoo has a hint of cool citrus to it, which is flattering for the beginning of a rainy spring.

My heart plunges, galloping against my ribs as his body drapes over me. His wide shoulders block the chilly wind carrying faint raindrops stolen from glistening green leaves.

I flinch violently, my head knocking harshly on his collarbone as I curl inward. The crushing fear, biting and angry, explodes in the pit of my stomach. His hand steadies me while rubbing soothing circles on the curve of my shoulder, but it doesn’t ease the thousands of needles stabbing under my skin.

“H-he’s here,” I squeak pitifully, “I can feel him! What do I—”

He shoves my face into his chest, blocking the world from my ears as his scent rages down my lungs. It’s good, relieving even, and my mind becomes stranded on an island he’s created through his velvet voice and inescapable touches.

He rubs my head with care while threading my hair between his fingers. I loosen my cramped fingers on the back of his shirt, mindlessly stroking the tight muscles while reluctance needles into my palm.

“Do you trust your instincts?” he asks, his lips pressing lightly on the shell of my ear.

It depends on a lot of factors, so I can’t confidently say. From choosing multiple-choice answers to rushing past a yellow traffic light or narrowly missing the detached wood logs from a truck—I’ve misjudged countless times. Thank goodness none resulted in injuries.

My biggest flaw is putting people in a group based on hunches. I misunderstood Levi in the beginning, and he turned out to be one of the nicest people.

“I trust mine.” The grounding touch on my back reminds me of who he is to me right now.

A protector and a husband. I sag in his arms and close my eyes, willing away the burning that rims my lashes.

“He’s watching you.”

I don’t want to hear it anymore. I’m upset at the police, maybe with displaced anger, and I want them to catch that awful man. Who does he think he is to mess with my life?

Drop dead, I think hotly. Just die already, you trash.

He hugs me tighter, and air gushes from my gasping lips.

“We can make it look more convincing,” he suggests cryptically, “I hope I’m not overstepping, but do you prefer silver or gold?”

*

It’s too late to call it overstepping when we’re standing in front of a massive display case. Diamonds and iridescent gemstones are polished to reflect tailored detailing, and the untagged rings sit innocently on a matte black tray, giving my fingers a ghostly weight.

The illusory weight of it feels burdensome and weird on my finger.

“They all look beautiful on you,” he says, his brows furrowing with a saddened sigh.

They’re beautiful because they cost a fortune, and I’ll save a limb if they accept discounts.

“We don’t have to go this far,” I whisper under intense staring from the poised woman. “A fake one works fine too.”

Levi chastises me, citing scientific facts on the chemical reactions of cheap rings. He misses the woman's curt smile as if she's trying to deflect her attention away from the height disparity between us.

In her eyes, she sees a man twice my size and older than me buying a ring for a special occasion. My discomfort and hesitation are red flags on my face. Explaining our relationship dynamic will make the situation awkward.

“This one?” Levi broaches as he picks a luminous ring from the row and blinds me with its luster.

No! Put it back, please. Oh, my god. What is he doing? Someone stop this man.

I spaced out and stared for too long, which he took as a sign. The woman secures the other rings, polishes the chosen one in front of us, and presents a velvet box.

“No need.” He grips my hand with stern power, an implicit warning to not move, and slides the ring on my finger.

The black card between his fingers shuts her up as she is about to protest. Her attitude changes with VIP shining in one eye and the other beaming with commissions.

The ringed hand stays in the camera frame, and the other tugs on his sleeve to shake some sense into him.

It was quite tough to persuade him to let me pay rent for the studio. He was adamant about not charging me, which made little sense from a business aspect. After I threatened to slide envelopes of cash under his apartment door, he relented with the condition that he buys groceries.

Our relationship was on a balanced scale until he pulled this stunt. How am I supposed to pay him back? What do I do with the ring after the perpetrator is caught?

Can this turn real?

I breeze over that question. It’s bloated with gullible fantasies, and once it pops, the only gift is pain.

He intertwines our fingers, a sneaky act when the woman returns with the receipt and his card. We’re deep inside the store, with only cameras and a few employees, but our act continues flawlessly.

He asks her to trash the receipt while nonchalantly pocketing the card as if it was a gym membership card. A spasm locks my fingers, forcing the tips to endure the faint pulses on the back of his hand.

“I’m going to wait outside,” I mumble, and my wobbly knees straighten with their last strength.

He nods as I walk away. I don’t stay to eavesdrop on why he isn’t leaving with me. Probably insurance and maintenance details.

The total price on the receipt pounds on my temple, laughing eagerly as it coos a happy ending story in my ears. That type of ending only happens in Hallmark movies. I do want to let go of the apprehension and trust myself this once.

Levi doesn’t seem like someone who can be controlled or coerced to do something, which he has admitted, and I want to take his word for it.

Nobody does these things with someone they don’t like.

Do I like him? I think so.

I often imagine waking up at the first ray of sunlight, casting a halo on him as he leans down to kiss me. I’d taste the diluted coffee, and he’d chuckle against my lips when I complain about the children at the playground disrupting my Sunday sleep.

Does he celebrate Valentine's Day?

The window stickers taunt me from across the street. Candy teddy bears, colorful chocolates, and pink paper hearts selling for thirty dollars. I haven’t forgotten about the holiday, just put it in the back of my mind to stop shameless ideas from growing legs.

Should I make something and give it to him? I’ll play it off as a friendly gesture, like the first time I baked for him as thanks for his hospitality. I’m afraid he’ll see through the lie and inherently ruin the peace.

If not for my job security, then at least for my sanity. Rejection is uncomfortable, and working so close to him could have my toes dig and craft a prison of awkwardness.

“Ready?” his voice grumbles from behind.

“Yeah,” I say as I turn, and the ending tone embodies a banshee.

What is that on his finger? That smooth, silver piece of jewelry screaming with lavish luminosity.

It better not be a ring. It can’t be. It looks odd, out of place on his long fingers. His hands have impressive bone structure, and the ring adds to their silent strength.

“Wedding rings are a pair.” He holds up his hand, showing off the band with a smile.

My heart stops, flatlines dangerously long, then speeds faster than a race car. My mind spins, unable to stop the hope for a whimsical future where we’re grossly in love and thrive in happiness.

It doesn’t irk me, the flustering feeling, and it builds a castle in the middle of the sky. After two weeks, maybe the emotions will leave, and I’ll laugh at the silliness.

“Anya!”

A bucket of ice water dunks on me. My sister appears in my sight, attempting to contain her excitement as her eyes gobble up the man beside me. Despite her best efforts to be disingenuously carefree, her body is leaning toward him.

“Who’s this?” she asks.

She’s not supposed to be here yet. Her job is further away, and she said she was going to be extremely busy today.

She clears her throat and introduces herself with a flirtatious tongue and all her coy glory. She sees the rings on our fingers. Still, she tries because she can, yet courteously holds back for sisterly love.

Disrespectful. I should’ve called her out on her behavior years ago. It’s funny that I only care now when it’s happening to me and not when some scorned woman yelled at her.

“I’m new to the area,” she alludes and bats her hooded eyes.

She’s coming at Levi with her dimpled smile and primed charm.

Blood coats my tongue as I bite down harder inside my cheeks. Fall back. Leave, hurry while I still can—

“I’m married,” Levi states firmly.

The sheer amount of relief that washes through my veins is laughable. And I should laugh, loudly and stupidly, because marriage is just a word to her.

I don’t want her to have him. I hate how her eyes sink their claws into him. I hate her, and it’s the only time I’ve felt so much animosity toward someone I cherish.

I try to readjust and rediscover the love I had two days ago, but she’s a hollow-eyed creature.

She hums, akin to a snake charmer. She won’t give up easily, not when she ogles through heavy lids.

A firm hand, reeling in possessive strength, wraps around my neck and hooks under my jaw. He lifts my face and presses a hot kiss on my lips. I struggle against his chest, trying to push him away as I feel the tiny stretch of a smile forming.

Humiliation reeks. It stinks up the whole line of thoughts and fuses with the mockery in my quivering heart. My sister has left, and he draws my attention back to him.

I want to kiss him again and again until I know the shade of blue that I’m drowning in.

“What are you doing?” I ask before wishing to take it back to avoid the dawning dread. “The apartment, the ring, and now, this.”

“I like you,” he confesses, a storm brewing in the aquatic hues of his eyes. “No other reason.”

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Levi

 

 

Emotions are such a troublesome thing.

Discarding Anya would get everything back in line. There would be no more sickeningly warm sensations in my body, no additional voices whispering depravity to confine her to the basement, and no more impulsive urges to open her legs.

That is, if I’m not holding onto this dream.

A fond smile tugs my cheeks when I reminisce about her soft lips. It’s a fading memory, leaving my lips tingling for more. The crass moment of her sister’s appearance resurfaces, and a miffed sigh rumbles in my chest.

There is no denying the want in her eyes, the unabashed gaze marking its territory while she’s short of calling me a trophy out loud. Well, she served a purpose. It brought out subtle possessiveness in Anya; her body tried to be innocuous when she curled herself to my side as the ringed hand unknowingly held mine.

A faint clink between rings resembles a keen chime among the chattering crowds.

All was well until it wasn’t. Now, I’m here with an impromptu plan. I hate spontaneity and unpredictable elements, especially with Davis.

I groan quietly as my fingers tug at the loose strands, smoothing my hair up for a better view of the lump on the dirt ground deep in the woods. I resist checking Anya’s location on my phone, mutely cursing the distance back home.

Time will help collect her thoughts. Whatever she chooses to do next, I’ll be there to guarantee she walks my pace.

“I need a massage.”

The culprit, who dragged me out of bed at two in the morning, plucks the long wig off his scalp. He wipes the coral lipstick on his sleeve, grimacing at the taste, and kicks away the wedge heels.

Davis pauses mid-hurl and changes trajectory to toss them into his backseat.

I lean on the hood of my car and cross my arms. Every cell wants to go home and sleep, but I have to stay awake to enjoy this buffoonery.

Davis rips off the clumpy fake lashes and rolls his dry eyes before pocketing the spider legs.

This is where he’s inconsistent; he’s lazy with police procedures and does paperwork last minute, but he’d go out of his way to apprehend criminals by any means necessary.

“It was so dark I could’ve been a yeti, and he wouldn’t have noticed,” he explains.

Why he thinks I care is beyond me.

I launch the camera app and zoom into Anya lying on the couch. She went back to her apartment for two days after requesting time off, which I granted her over text messages because she wouldn’t answer my calls.

She finds comfort under two large blankets, a cup of some hot drink between dainty fingers, and a movie to combat the silence. It’s either a boring movie or a tiring hour, her head bobbing as a sleepy pout rests on her lips.

“You’re pissed,” Davis notes as he lights a cigarette that he found from rummaging through the unconscious man’s pockets.

“She’s being…difficult.” I struggle to choose the phrasing since I’m new to these things. “It’s understandable.”

“That’s nice of you,” he jeers, his haughty grin taunting me.

After a pregnant silence, he adds, “Want me to let him go and scare her more?”

I close the app and place my weight more on the car. I contemplate, assessing the options, and the man’s foot twitches when the last idea forms. He still has value, only if he can stop foaming at the mouth from a blow to his head.

“Appreciate it,” I mumble.

Though, one could barely call it that. Davis was going to let him go anyway. He wants to be the chaser, the one dallying in the dark, and then pounce on the frightened prey. That man might last a day if he’s clever, and if he’s caught, begging for mercy will fall on deaf ears.

He’s pathetic, going after people who can’t pose a challenge. I remember him rambling after he attacked Anya, likely mistaking her for whoever hurt his brittle ego.

“Wait until my wife hears this animal is back at it again…” Davis taps the cigarette ash and whistles up at the cloudy sky with dejection.

He nods flippantly and extinguishes the cigarette on the car’s hood. "It is my honor to defend her as her devoted husband."

“She’s so invested in his crimes,” he grumbles, yapping away the minutes. “I’m getting jealous of him.”

Where is the forward button for his mouth? I don’t appreciate losing sleep because he wants an ear to his melodramatic performance. The dying blaze on the cigarette has me wanting to rope this talkative man to a tree and light the woods on fire.

“Side job?” Air expels languidly from my chest as I humor him in hopes he’ll spill his guts.

At this point, I’m open to actually taking a knife to his stomach. But I’d have to clean up the scene. I do it enough for the anonymous buyers with add-ons of severed limbs. Preserved appendages and decaying tissue stink for days, so I rarely take those commissions unless they pay double the price.

I’m grateful for candles; they are amazing at covering the putrid smell.

“Blood stains, gut smells, bones hard as hell,” Davis gripes, childishly stomping his feet. “I’ll lose my job from bad attendance.”

“Time management is a life skill.”

He whips his head toward me as his lips peel back to hiss dryly. His five-minute gibberish ramble dominates the creaking trees. Knocking him out sounds wonderful, and I should, as payback for whatever the hell I’m doing here.

“Sorry that I can’t run a multimillion-dollar business, stalk the love of my life, and be creepy at the same time.”

The crickets stop after his outburst, and on rare occasions, I might even be embarrassed for him. However, it’s two in the morning, so he deserves no sympathy. Not that I gave him any in the past.

“She finds me charming.”

“She ran from you.”

I meet his impish wink with a deadly glare. Sparing a disinterested glance down at the unconscious body, I quickly calm the anger swimming between my bones.

I hate that he left marks on Anya and will possibly leave fresh ones later. But she won’t learn if she doesn’t make mistakes.

She doesn't trust me fully yet, but she will come to me crying. I look forward to it.

Her smile took root inside of me. It created a safe harbor, saving my sanity from the crashing waves of desire and yearning. There is a nameless room in the asylum for me, but I’ll never step foot in there.

Why are my feelings dangerous? It is typical for someone to pursue something they are interested in by any means required.

The man stirs, moaning painfully as he staggers to his knees. The superglue causes his eyelids to wrinkle as he tries to pry them open with clumsy fingers.

He flails and promises to kill us, along with other pitiful threats. Davis cheers encouragement and kicks the man’s hunched back.

“The main road is three miles north of here,” Davis states and twirls his car keys on his middle finger. “I’ll play with you if you get saved by a car, or you could get lost and die.”

Davis laughs as he gets into his car, drives off down the dirt road, and abandons me with this moron thrashing on the ground.

He hurt Anya, and that’s unforgivable. The only suitable action is to snap his neck. There is plenty of space in the woods to bury him, and he likely won’t be found if he’s left alone.

“I’ll kill you, kill all of you! Everyone, those bitches, and that whore—oh, I’ll save her for last. She won’t escape this time.”

He’s got revenge on his mind.

Good, I want beneficial results, and he will give them to me. His life depends on it. Of course, it does. He’s not allowed to breathe another ounce of air after he finishes one last task.

I drive away from his angry cry.

*

Two days later, the plan moves forth.

“Nasty,” Davis contends as he takes a drag of his cigarette while leaning on the car.

While scrolling through Anya's resignation email, I make a note in the calendar and give the whiner half of my attention.

“What is?”

“You,” he says as his judgmental sneer pokes a hole into my profile, “and that man. Knight in shining armor looks so ugly on you.”

“Didn’t you get something out of this too?” I pocket the phone, and a hollering ambulance drowns my blithe chuckle.

“My wife is blowing up my phone,” he says, and on cue, another buzz moves in his pants. “I'd coddle her if she let me, but it's funnier when she's handcuffing us together to keep me from leaving.”

“Some thoughts can just be secrets.”

He says nothing about my jab, his head falling to rest on his forearm, and watches me turn off the engine.

“Time to grill a suspect.” Davis raps his knuckles on the door frame and walks off with a greeting wave to a doctor on her break.

Minutes tick by, voices muffling through my ears as I lean back against the seat. Another ambulance skids to a stop and reels out a car crash patient.

There should be a resemblance of curiosity, a tickle of compassion, or a reaction to the amount of blood on the patient. But it’s only apathy, something I’m acutely aware of as soon as I’m able to remember things.

Children have a vast selection of emotions and a sponge brain to soak up everything they experience.

I liked to watch them play, trip, and get scrapes on their skin. I don’t think about giving them comfort but wonder why broken glass wasn’t on the ground.

I’ve watched myself in reflections descending deeper and deeper into a bottomless void of malice. It’s the disassociation between understanding and caring about it. The advantage, as worrying as some have expressed, is that it removes pointless effort to do something because sympathy compels it.

I’m weak to her sweet voice, to the black and blue on her skin, the trust in her frightened gaze—she’s an intrusive form of poison.

So come to me, pretty, and we’ll decay together.

I’m scared, the text reads.

I smile with a light bounce in my heartbeat. Being the only person she can rely on, it’s a remarkably warm feeling. It’s not surprising when the butterflies merge with the lining of my bones, enforcing them with a layer of steel to power through the short distance to the entrance.

The front desk does their routine questioning before pointing me in the right direction. My steps are steady when passing two talkative officers, subtly picking up on their pity for what Anya went through.

Her head snaps toward the door after I knock. Her arms are bruised, and I’m certain parts of her legs under the blanket are also forming discoloration. She isn’t hooked to a needle, just a heart monitor, so she should be able to go home tonight.

“I didn’t know who to call,” she mumbles and crushes Davis’s business card.

“What happened?” I take a seat on the chair by her bedside, likely from one of the cops who took her statement.

I can guess the line of questions and how Davis’s behavior worked. He must have been borderline aggressive, not too blunt but enough to make a victim withdraw.

He made things easier for me, and I can’t waste this opening.

“I—” she chokes, glassy eyes darting left and right to piece her thoughts. “I was at home, and this man just broke in! I think I cut him with a knife, I don’t know—he came up behind me, and I was…”

I loosen her cold fingers and press my warm palm to them, quelling the fragile trembles with firmness as I hold them in silence. The best thing I can do right now is to give her support, and solving her problem will raise her guard. Because she only knows I’m in the dark about what happened in the last hour, it would be highly suspicious if I coincidentally have the next step ready.

That stupid cretin took two days to act. No articles or news mention a glue-eyed man, so he must have scraped the glue by himself.

Anya sniffles, teardrops falling like pears. I wipe them away and whisper empty reassurances that I brushed up on during the wait for her call.

She’s homeless and jobless now. A purr is concealed in my voice as I repeat nonsense because she’s so out of it that she does nothing when I pull her onto my lap. Rhythmically patting her back, I nuzzle the crown of her head and inhale her scent. Sweet, but it’s mixed with blood and antiseptics.

I won’t offer my help just yet. This is her punishment. My heart aches for the discontent it went through when she ran. That was my first-ever confession.

“Can you help me?” A stammer above a sob, small and vulnerable.

“He knows where you live, which compromises mine and the studio as well,” I note, my hand tracing up her back to knead her slender neck.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, guilt laced heavily in her sniffles.

“It’s his fault,” I chide quietly. “He broke in, he attacked you, and he made you scared.”

Rely on me again. She has no one to protect her. Family, friends, and the police show inadequate support.

The defensive playbook lands her in the hospital. Shifting her mindset to offense meets with resistance as she shakes uncomfortably in my arms. She’s not defending him, just morally against violent retribution, so she stays quiet.

“He didn’t succeed in taking you, and perhaps his goal is to kill you in a secluded area. He broke into your apartment many times, could’ve easily slipped sleeping pills in your drinks, or chloroformed you the first time he attacked you in public.”

He’s not here to defend himself about the break-ins, which I’m gladly passing the blame onto a scapegoat. A perfect name for him.

“He’ll try and try,” I say, hiding the detestable smile in her hair. “One day, you’ll die.”

Shivers wreck down her tense body as I deliberately rub my thumb over the cut on her shoulder blade.

“I know you’re still upset and don’t want to see me,” I broach wisely, hushing her frantic rebuttal. “We can put the past where it belongs.”

My offer is simple. We continue to be married in honor of my promise to protect her and move to a new home. I acquired it years ago as an emergency home, built into a gated community alongside other expensive vacation homes and covered by rotating teams of guards.

I wouldn’t mind her turning the extra space into a hobby room.

“Will he get to me there?” she asks, almost pleading for an answer that saves her from breaking down.

“Next week is Valentine’s Day, meaning hotels are fully booked. You could go to your parents or go back to your apartment.”

The implication pales her rosy cheeks, her cold body shakes harder, and those pretty little fingers hastily seek mine.

“I want to take care of you,” I urge, peppering kisses to her temple. “Can I?”

She’s nodding before I’m finished.

I press a rewarding kiss to her cheek, my fingers deftly untangling the wires hooked on the monitor. I took a brief and detailed scan of her charts hanging at the foot of her bed when I came in, so I understand the severity of her wounds.

The doctor recommends overnight observation for unexpected complications that arise with time. I prefer her at home, being watched like a hawk and stealing kisses after she sleeps.

“I’m taking you home,” I warn her, and it seems she’s in her head.

I shrug out of the jacket and drape it over her shoulders, enveloping her in fabric and warmth. Her fingers peek through the sleeves as she gathers the collars together, making her appear smaller than she is while color soars on her ashen cheeks.

The disposable hospital sandals tap-tap-tap beside me as we’re stopped by the head nurse. She warns that Anya is advised for overnight observation. Davis emerges from thin air, swerving fluidly between us with his goofy grin, and tells the head nurse that he needs to verify Anya’s statement at the precinct.

He sends a wink as I steer Anya away, and I could stab him with the passing nurse’s pen.

“Don’t look at him, Anya. You’ll get nightmares.”

She nods with innocently wide eyes and shuffles closer to grab onto my arm.

The world is dark blue skies and lit skyscrapers, revitalizing the nightlife as busy EMTs reel in an overdose partygoer. Anya sits with tense muscles, wringing fingers while her unflinching eyes zone out the window in thought.

The shock hasn’t and won’t wear off for a couple of hours.

I scan the parking lot and land on Davis’s vehicle. That reminds me, he needs to put a leash on one of his pesky past conquests.

I belong to Anya, and I won’t say it twice to anyone.

“Can we go home?” she mutters, eyes red-rimmed and nose tip slightly pink.

I reach over her and fasten the seatbelt, promising to fight the sleepless demons for her. After her breathing evens, I press a fervent kiss on the corner of her lips.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

Anya

 

 

Okay, I get it now.

Under the flowing blues of his eyes, exhilaration strives for air as he grins. They stare as if the sky breaks, and the world mutes to deathly gray—desperate and deprived. There’s a hint of peace in the curve of his smile, almost a reassurance when I peer over my shoulder from behind the thick curtains.

He’s relieved. Then he sighs and runs a hand with suppressed tremors into his messy hair. He ignores the short strands defying gravity in favor of softly chastising me for scaring him.

His words bounce off my head, and my ears are stuffed with cotton, so I just relish the hoarse timbre.

It’d be nice to have this every morning. Us, a quiet house, and the intimacy etched in the presence of the walls. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Days, months, and years. I want him forever, eternity, and reincarnations.

I think I like him too. A defiant twist in my heart demands more, but I’m not ready to give in to the bursting emotions. It’s a word, four simple letters among twenty-six, but the meaning is stained with the remnants of past relationships.

Not mine, but I had a front-row seat to dumpster fires that gave me misery for years.

I want something out of a fairy tale, a story with happy endings, because life is bitter and annoying sometimes. We might get a satisfying ending one day, then life plows through with a commitment test for us. Maybe we’ll separate for weeks or months, but we’ll be together eventually.

Another chapter, good or bad, will follow soon. It's only a matter of time until the other shoe falls.

I’d rather have infuriating endings than a forever goodbye. One could say we’re incompatible if many things are going against us. I’d tell them to look at me as an example; Levi, who was an utter stranger at the time, did more for me than my family.

What help could they’ve offered? Emotional support, protection, or blame me for being unreasonable?

Levi believed me when he should’ve doubted. I had no proof that I was the victim of a crime.

I’ll tell my family after it passes, and that could be months away. I thought it was my fault for catching that despicable attacker’s attention, which I refuse to believe was on purpose.

Escalations, Detective Davis had explained at the hospital. Criminals escalate their crimes for gratification and not to get caught.

My mind was splitting from reality, too frightened to understand I had almost died. When Levi came in the middle of the night, the relief was unbearable as the desire to touch him yanked every inch of my body.

He held me as if he knew what I wanted without asking.

Maybe, just maybe, the wisp of love playing on the planes of his doting smile was not a figment of my imagination.

And it’s not because vicious hope is growing hysterically in my chest as the same smile stifles the strangling thoughts.

“I’m coming in,” he says, his voice a stern baritone.

Deep, velvety, and domineering. It’s the opposite of the frosted window in front of me.

As he steps into the guest bedroom, the room shrinks from Levi’s towering height. Everything about him is intimidatingly big, especially from my seated view as I tilt my face up.

He’s not wearing long sleeves to cover the intricate ink on his skin. The pattern is sophisticated, and the design flatters his artistic style—dark, mysterious, and utterly terrifying. He has the face I’d take home to my parents, and they’d adopt him as their son on the spot.

He has strong features, a body brimming with muscles and power, while those gorgeous blue eyes twinkle like the vast sky on a five o’clock morning. But once he starts smiling, hearts jump out of chests to become one with him.

A weapon of destruction to the swooning storm of flowery pink in everyone’s mind.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, slowly getting on one knee to not startle me.

I nip my bottom lip nervously, and his eyes darken as they stalk the glossy sheen after my tongue. The tempo below my ears drags down to my quivering stomach, but the journey doesn’t end there. It skips merrily between my thighs.

A drop of stickiness stains the center of my panties as a twitch forces my clit to scrape the wet cotton. He bought them when it wasn’t safe for me to leave his house, so my pussy is sitting on something he’s touched.

My thoughts are embarrassing.

“Fine,” I mumble, ducking my head to avoid his intense stare.

He hums, a tone of contemplation in his voice as he pushes away the curtain from my back. I shiver from the cold and feel exposed to his wandering eyes. I curl my toes on the hardwood floor, taking a swift interest in the dark swirls.

The other rooms in his home don’t have the same flooring as this one; they are cool-toned, whereas this one is warm-toned. It sticks out like a sore thumb, like he redesigned this bedroom well in advance.

Whatever the reason may be, I like it. I’ve always leaned toward warmer tones because I grew up in Minnesota, and winter there has a grudge against residents.

“You can’t avoid it forever, pretty.”

It’s not fair for him to call me that and not send mushy shivers up my back. The endearment tap-dances, distracting the fog of hesitation enough for it to admit defeat and crawl back to the dark corner of my mind.

Watching the beautiful view out the window from the second-floor bedroom is better than facing the elephant in the room. It’s far more convincing than a destructive talk.

I like him… that I can admit with butterflies in my stomach. I don’t know if I like him enough to answer his sudden confession after my sister set her eyes on him. He never brought her up again, and she didn’t either during our phone calls. It’s odd.

This is another part I like about him. He’s polite and keeps women at arm’s length, never allowing a chance for misunderstandings to fester. Not a lot of people can do it these days, and boundaries are becoming a fad trend. It comes and goes with a time crunch.

That constraint had my thoughts by the reins. I knew something had to be done about the tension, the unanswered questions of our relationship, and the next steps for my future.

The attacker was caught, and Detective Davis gave me confirmation and gruff pity, but he added an unexpected query about my family.

There wasn’t a proper answer because I never told them. He asked how Levi was doing, which was confusing when I remembered the detective had Levi’s number. The question itself was common, but the tone was cryptic and almost mocking.

It didn’t occur to me until I was watching a mystery thriller, tucked tightly between fluffy pillows and thick comforters, that animosity was the driving force in the question. It mirrored the scene where the antagonist was worried about the protagonist.

They have a past that I’m not inclined to dig into. Davis gives my nerves a run for the hills. He makes me uncomfortable, like a creature wearing human skin and mimicking his victim’s behavior.

A series of incessant gestures of light fingers and wispy heartbeats trickle into my consciousness.

Levi’s hand splays on the back of my head, allowing my forehead to press above his heart as the petting sways my hair. I mewl quietly from the familiar touch, one that holds me tight when I’m in danger.

A wretched bubble of mixed agony twists in my stomach, and the smell of him doesn’t associate with comfort anymore. There’s paint, caffeine, glue, blood, and something wretched in his clothes.

It’s gone within a second.

And as quickly as the confusion comes, bravery builds in its wake. We have to talk, and both of us should be on the same page no matter how scared I am.

“I like you,” he says, a bullet right through the elephant. “It’s not going to change.”

My instinct is to dispute it with real instances, but my sister is a horrible example. Years later, he might feel things that he’s feeling now with another woman, and I’d rather not experience the heartbreak.

This isn't like my fifth-grade crush, who made me question the quality of city water because he had ten split ends on one strand of hair.

Levi is someone I’d avoid just from his physical appearance. He can fluctuate between approachable and distant, but it’s an appealing challenge. Women would flocked to him if his friendliness was more obvious.

He’s intelligent, handsome, and a perfect gentleman. I don’t know what he sees in me: no job, no home, and no one to turn to.

“This is a first for me,” he mutters, his lips moving on my hair as he wraps his burly arms around me. “I can’t convince you otherwise if you believe so, but don’t doubt my feelings. Nobody knows them better than me.”

And it’s moments like this that awaken the taste of doubt. Potent signs, hunger and predatory, idle in his eyes like Gemini holding hands in the starry sky. It’s eerier than a siren’s harmonious vocals.

He smiles in a way that has me believing he can read my thoughts. If so, then he’d know the biggest obstacle is me.

Accepting him and his devouring feelings means there won’t be an escape. His arms will snake around my waist after I run three steps, and he’ll chase me with bustling affection and drag me into the abyss.

It wouldn’t be my fault, but he can make it mine.

“I’m not good with words.” He hauls me between his bent legs, my face nuzzling hotly against the rippling chest muscles as he squeezes the nape of my neck.

I freeze in his arms, cold sweat covering my hairline as my heartbeats docilely match his.

“There are many things I want to tell you, but I can’t find the proper words. I’m afraid I’ll say them wrong, and you’ll…”

I’m not a cruel, heartless beast; there’s a twinge in my bones, a burden that extends to my fingers as they pull at his shirt. He’s a rigid mountain, but he leans in from my weak tug and nuzzles into my hair.

“Think about it, pretty,” he says, “I can wait a bit more.”

That’s not fair to him because I’m unsure of anything myself.

Shakily inhaling a deep breath, I nudge his chest. He yields to the push, the tight shirt expanding against the defined lines across his entire body as he sighs. My fingers miss the grooves on his abs, and I silently curse at the lost chance to touch them.

Words circle on my tongue, yet their hooks are stuck in cotton and rifts of dryness. I scrape my tongue on the rows of teeth, the pain making my mouth and eyes water.

“When you ran,” he utters, a raw crack in his voice stings my heart. “It hurt.”

I jolt at the bitterness in his tone, my eyes reaching his with shock as the muscles near them tighten.

It stays and plagues me, rewinding repeatedly, and scratches the surface of my guilt. I never want to see that expression again. The third time’s the charm, the saying goes, but the time I denied our friendship and this instance become feed for nightmares.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry,” he avows sincerely, the pain singes in his husky tone. “I won’t bring it up again.”

His emotions lay bare, shredded by my hands, and bleeding on the floor because I couldn’t make up my mind. It should be easy, but every time I stand firm on my decision to not accept him, the words kill themselves in my throat.

“It’s not your fault!” I protest carefully when a glimpse of hope flickers in his saddened gaze. “I was surprised and didn’t know how to answer. I just needed space.”

Yes, space… that’s vital. Surviving two attacks by an insane individual is bound to leave trauma, and the best thing for me is to see a therapist to not let the attacks build resentment and anxiety.

“A lot of things happened so quickly, and I’m running on fumes.”

I thought about my life in general, what I’d do, and where I’d be in the next ten years. I was going with the motions, the flow of a routine, when I was forced out of my comfort zone and into the arms of a man I hardly knew.

Maybe this is the extreme version of taking someone on a Halloween date; fear ignites arousal, mixing in prior attraction, so it boils down to adrenaline-induced deception.

“I don’t know what to think,” I admit as I trace the column of his throat to the striking angle of his jawline.

It ticks and tightens in a split second, and I’d overlook it if the vein on the side of his throat wasn’t bulging.

“About you,” I add, undoubtedly as a survival instinct.

He shifts, the sun flaunting halo waves on his body. I notice the sun really likes him. It always casts heavenly light no matter where he is. The beloved sun-child is an ageless tale that ends with calamity because the moon can’t see them. The stars can; they’re trapped behind the sapphire windows where it meets the aquatic souls.

His eyes are terrifying, the most beautiful weapon I’d willingly succumb to.

He’ll watch me die, bleed on the canvas, and stain the new brushes, creating a meaningless piece of art where only he can appreciate and understand the meaning of the strokes. Abandoning all the emotions I’m not ready to face, I want to be his muse.

The roaring pulses savagely claw at my ribs, shaking them like a prison cage, and hiss promises to be a good girl if he’ll take me—spread me out on silk sheets, explore the soft skin with precision, and bring the cowardly part of me to life on his canvas.

His pretty muse, he’d say, and I’d preen with pride.

There’s a difference between a muse and a lover. He can discard a muse once he squeezes every drop of inspiration. I’ll be hurt for a couple of weeks and lick my wounds in the corner. But a lover has feelings drifting through kisses and an unbroken union, so it’ll be a lonely fight against the menacing monster my wretched feelings breathed life to.

“I will be myself,” he murmurs distractedly, “if you still don’t want me, then I’ll leave.”

What does he mean by being himself?

A fierce glare accompanied by terse silence stews and stirs the air with desperation—and in an effort to pull back the hostility edging over his lashes, his face claims a resemblance of a vigilant snake.

Then he smiles and becomes the charmer as daylight shrinks his dark pupils nearly to a sliver.

“It’d be cruel to stay friends, don’t you think?” he asks, and he pleads for mercy through a pinched smile.

What was that? It’s as if a different person was there, gripping my arms with bruising power to prove he and Levi share a face.

I don’t want this, him, and whatever he’s doing. I want the one who talks in soft tones and smiles like it can dissipate spring’s rainstorm.

“I don’t—”

He presses a finger to my lips and rubs the bottom flesh with an inkling of leaked cruelty. Echoes of a voice telling me to run seems to vanish as he gathers my stiff body closer to his shaking body, his breath puffing over my temple while his chest jolts another tremor.

He’s laughing. He’s crying. Or he’s overwhelmed and desperate. A part of me wants to care, but my sixth sense grunts in aversion. Could it be that he’s playing a character? A role that fits a scheme, a protective figure to guide me to the light, or a predator luring prey to his territory under pretenses.

But my heart thumps staunchly, crying for his arms to hold me, and I yearn for the kindness in the special smile he gives.

“You have no one to rely on, pretty.” His lips caress my temple, and a kiss strays to my cheek as he frowns.

“I’m being very patient with you, and you don’t want to know what happens when it’s gone.”

Heat escapes my fingers, pulling back the blood to my heart as he cups my cheeks with stark brutality raging in the twisted smile.

“I’ll come to get you when lunch is ready,” he quips without a hint of exuding terror. “You’re the star today. So, any suggestions?”

“Good girls get rewarded,” he hums and pinches my cheek lightly. “You’re taking this much better than I anticipated.”

The name of the food splinters in my throat, spewing sharded syllables as it scores bloody lines on my tongue.

“There’s a fresh glass of water on the nightstand,” he mentions, still indifferent to the changed demeanor. “And I made a dinner reservation for later. The festivity can cheer you up.”

I jerk my face to the window, unable to stomach his anticipating smile.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

Levi

 

 

She’s stunning.

Silk embraces her delicate form and accentuates the soft curves, the pitiful strings on the sultry slope of her back tie in a bow, and the hem dances over her supple thighs. The dress alone steals my breath away. Anya ducks her head shyly and tucks a curl behind her ear as she squirms from my unnerving gaze.

The light shines through the small crystals of her earrings, rocking to the motion as she stammers a squeaked mumble. What she said doesn’t matter; her rosy lips are the thief that stole my attention.

I take her hand and kiss the back of it, murmuring heartfelt compliments to the silence. She returns a compliment, her words hobbling along the way, but my heart croons at the imperfection.

And it’s her imperfections that stopped her from bolting out the door the other day. The way I exposed myself to her came out stronger than necessary, but I suppose it worked in my favor. She saw a shift of attitude, something that triggered her instincts, and either ignored or welcomed the crackling façade.

Strange girl.

From the recounts of her sister’s relationships, I’d say she’s used to a vulgar demeanor and foolishly filters them into the realm of normalcy.

Credit goes to where it's due, and her sister earned half a seat at our wedding.

“It’s time for our reservation,” I say, steering her to the door where a pair of elegant heels are.

Shoes, other than indoor slippers, do not leave the designated area by the door. And barn animals need to learn it. Countless times, I've been invited to a function by business connections, and they wear shoes at their own or the host's home. Every time, a small amount of respect is lost.

The elites have their standards, but I’d rather follow what is comfortable. I can be rich and not host parties, just Anya and me in our home, laughing at trivial things and smearing paint on clean skin.

Staying home for Valentine’s Day is ideal, but she could use some fresh air after being cooped in the house for days. I get to see her dolled up, inviting the devious beast to devour her while she blinks innocently up at me.

My throat bobs, swallowing heavily as I palm the bottom of her feet to slide the heels on. The dainty strap around her ankle emphasizes the vulnerability of her bones. My hand can wrap around her ankle and snap it with a little force, not too much to have broken bone tear her skin, but to render her unable to escape.

Once the seed is planted, it’ll grow on days that nobody expects. Plucking the irritating roots and pouring a slab of concrete on it would surely kill her desire to run.

Where we stand is a complex matter. After our last conversation, an intervention on my part, we start cohabitation again. I deleted her resignation email when she browsed for job listings, and she resumed as my assistant.

She mentioned rent and showed excessive pride in being independent, so I let her pay.

Neither of us talk about the rings on our fingers. It’s a symbol of who I belong to, and I care dearly for the band.

I’ll keep the old ones in a safe place when we exchange rings as legal husband and wife. We were hasty in choosing, and there are more fitting ones than what she has now. It won’t be difficult to find someone to customize the rings, one unique as our love story.

“Ready?” I ask, flattening my suit as she nods.

The restaurant is a ten-minute drive with traffic. Anya doesn’t mind the slowness, opting to stare in awe at the jolly decorations on the streets and couples giggling in each other’s ears.

While approaching the valet parking, a familiar car drives toward me. It’s a middle-aged woman and her two sons in the back, not someone I know. I pass the car to the valet and carefully watch the employee who is helping her out.

I smile and offer my hand to her. Her small fingers slip between mine, curling them upward as her nails scratch my knuckles, and the perfect union of our hands forms a quiet chuckle.

The host takes us to the VIP area on the second floor; three couples turn to face us before continuing their hushed conversation, a waitstaff popping the wine cork and another delivering two plates of steaming food.

A staff member cradling a bouquet of roses arrives two minutes after we get seated, and the amaranth red dims at the brilliant glow of her joyful smile.

“A gift from your husband,” the staff says while handing the flowers to her.

She blinks, baffled. Quickly, her face tints with shyness. Anya mumbles her gratitude, smiling endearingly at the bouquet, then she shares the smile with me, a little too pure.

I twirl the ring mindlessly as I indulge in her sweet smile and pretty eyes.

Every artist has a form of muse; a discontinued rare toy, a run-down home in the countryside, or a child-eating lamia.

She’s mine, a muse I gifted to myself on that fateful night.

It was a regret of mine to not look presentable for our initial encounter, but I couldn’t have predicted it. The felon I subdued was spared a harsher punishment because my mind was busily ingraining her face into my soul.

Anya appeared to be just another face in a sea of one million people. In all honesty, I could’ve walked by and not noticed her.

However, at the aligning time and place, my breath hitched in my throat—so painfully breathless that my mind spun like a lonely planet, orbiting solely around her.

The speed at which it moves seemingly wants to try and catch up on the wasted time without her. A purpose and a reason to anticipate tomorrow’s dawn, Anya unknowingly became the force for me to improve as a better person, so I tore through the years of disguises to cradle the real me.

But I can’t show myself to her yet. She’s as stubborn as she’s cowardly. So I build an alabaster mask, untainted and unrefined, to present myself as a harmless man with flaws. Flaws show I’m human and someone she can open up to, knowing I’ll listen even if her words are trivial.

I have too many faults, a born sinner. Sinners are damned to hell, and they are fractured creatures in penance.

“Are you okay?” Anya whispers, dim lights kissing her supple skin.

The waitstaff removes the finished plates swiftly as one couple’s laughter shatters the warm ambiance. No one cares as drinks are topped and cutlery scrapes on plates.

I’ve mastered talking to her while occasionally slipping into my thoughts. Dinner is pleasant; she’s satisfied with a full stomach, and I’m happy to spend a peaceful date night with her.

Only one problem, though. There was an eyesore peeking from the men’s bathroom when we went to the first floor.

“I have to touch up,” Anya says and hands me the bouquet.

I wait till she's in the restroom before approaching the man beside the men's bathroom. His transformation is that of a chameleon, and he could be missed without a second glance.

“Are those for me?” Davis giggles like the ratchet rat that he is. “You shouldn’t have, darling.”

His slicked-back hair and ironed suit are a bold comparison to the usual ragged attire. Women have to be blind or missing screws to find him attractive. He has his looks going for him, but words rot in his mouth.

If he doesn’t offend women in three sentences, he’s jumping in bed with them. Physical attraction… that I get, but those who keep coming back to him are incredibly stupid.

“I know what you want to say,” he scoffs and taps his leather shoe. “I’m on a date.”

And the woman isn’t his wife. I recognize her profile, and Davis grins cockily as he props his back against the wall.

“Hey, free game,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Am I supposed to say no?”

If Anya sees her sister here, her mood is going down the drain. They can’t be kicked out of the restaurant as paying customers, and they’ve only eaten the appetizers.

Anya and I will leave, ditch the plan to walk the riverbank, and go home for a movie.

“Not my business.”

He cocks a smug grin and snickers. “She’s the sister of your… what is she to you, that Anya girl?”

“Someone I will kill you for touching.” Clipped and flawless, the warning strikes with a scorpion’s tail. My tongue has been sitting on the threat since Davis and Anya met, mostly out of possessiveness.

“Not my type.” He waves a dismissive hand while lolling his head. “I like fireballs; the angrier, the better. You think my wife is okay with her?”

He winces while cursing, a passing waitstaff shooting him an obscured judgmental look. He and high-end restaurants are worlds apart, so Davis being here is unexpected.

“Oh, I forgot you and my wife haven’t met yet,” he sulks, thumping his head on the wall. “Want to?”

“No.”

The women’s restroom opens, but it’s not Anya. Davis winks at her, and she responds with a tamed giggle.

“She’ll be sad,” Davis adds.

“She doesn’t know I exist.”

“Eh,” he drawls with a left shoulder shrug. “She thought I was cheating on her with you.”

If I had a habit of rolling my eyes, they’d get stuck in the back and stay there for vacation. It warrants a break from this man’s existence.

“Is he on bail?” I inquire, leaving the name in a mutual understanding.

“He will be tomorrow.”

That’s all I need. Anya returns at the same time, hesitant fingers gripping my elbow and rapt eyes scrutinizing Davis. Anya quirks a strained smile at him, which he ticks an amused brow at.

“He was asking for directions,” I explain away her confusion.

Her lips are agape with understanding while I shut down Davis’s urge to correct her with a cold stare.

“Come, Anya.” My hand hovers on the small of her back, deft fingers accidentally slipping under some crisscrossed patterns, and guide her away from the man.

“He looked familiar,” she surmises and gasps with revelation as the valet exits my car. “The cartoon on the milk carton.”

I softly pinch the tip of her ear after she sits in the passenger seat and remind her to fasten her seatbelt. She hugs the bouquet with one arm and aims for the seatbelt while I get to the other side.

On the way back home, the road is less jammed as everyone is gathering at the riverbank to kiss under lampposts. Peculiar tradition, but some people started a petition to allow written wishes to be tied on trees like the famous tradition in Japan. The tenants nearby were not happy.

“Hey, pretty baby,” I croon, hushed, as I shake her awake inside the garage.

She yawns blearily, dozing off while I unbuckle the seatbelt and huddle her into my arms. Anya whines, sluggishly fighting me from taking her flowers after I set her down on the couch.

“I’m putting them in water,” I explain and stifle a laugh. “They’ll wilt if I don’t.”

She promptly lets go and rubs her red-rimmed eyes to relieve the sleep. I drop the stems into an unfinished glass of water.

A thump and a whimpering cry echo from the couch. I toss my suit jacket onto the chair and walk around the cushioned arm. She lies on the fuzzy rug, eyes barely open before they give up, and sleeps.

Was dinner that tiring?

The hem of her dress rides up further on her thighs, and the white lace of her panties parades teasingly. A fire burns in my blood, stirring tightness in my slacks as I untangle my invasive eyes from her defenseless body.

I fish a wet towel from the bathroom and clean the light layer of makeup off her face. The distraction works for a bit, but the panties stand out too much. I swallow a menacing growl and yank the heavy blanket from the couch, draping it over her bare legs and waist.

Oh, her perky tits.

They’re right there, and they’ll be as soft as I imagine them overflowing between my fingers. I’ve done many bad things but taking advantage of a sleeping woman is a line I won’t cross.

Removing the earrings and ruffling the soft curls, my eyes roam down her body to see if there’s something else I missed. I toss the dirty towel into the basket along with others from yesterday’s painting.

The night is still early, and I’m not tired, nor do I want to paint.

I change into cozy clothing and dim the lighting in the living room. Anya shifts, her lips pouting as the TV screen flashes on her face. Sitting next to her, I fold my palm over her eyes and select a recently released movie with high ratings.

I stopped paying attention fifteen minutes in. The movie premise is great, the cast is killing their roles, and the flow builds suspense.

I’m delving through memories of books, movies, real people, and anything I can think of because Anya moved up and is using my thigh as a pillow.

I clench the other one to test the cushion, and it’s too stiff. She yawns, two small canines twinkling from the TV as she wrinkles her nose. My hand hovers, debating, then I weave the strands of hair around my fingers.

She nuzzles my palm as it rests on her neck, counting the heavy pulses, and her lips press innocently on the fingertips.

We stay like this until the credits roll, and she wakes up during the post-credit scene. Coldness bites the spot her head was on as she sits up, disoriented and somewhat confused about where she is.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks, frantically wiping the corners of her mouth while searching for drool stains on my pants.

She snatches the box of homemade chocolate from the coffee table and shoves it onto my chest. The power in that shove yanks a dull grunt as she rambles about making it from scratch and hopes I don’t mind the ugly shapes that are supposed to be Valentine themed.

“Thank you, pretty baby,”

Her right cheek quivers as she nibbles the inside. She'll combust if she gets any redder.

I pop a piece in my mouth, the dark chocolate melting bitterly on my tongue as it runs down my throat languidly. I hardly discern the sugar, which is my preferred choice, and particles of cocoa powder.

It tastes awful, but I love it.

“I have something to say!” she bellows as if it’s the last of her courage. “Don’t be mad, please.”

Closing the lid on the chocolate, I place them on the table and lean an elbow on the couch while giving her my undivided attention.

“I’m going to live with my sister.”

I can’t say it’s not predicted. I’ve envisioned her renting a new apartment or asking a family member. Likely not her parents, as they live too far, so her sister is the only viable option.

It’s foreseeable, but fury still obliterates my lucidity.

The room spins, her rambling is background noise, and the smidgen of compassion I discovered from the deepest ocean trench is depleted.

“I see,” I manage to say through a clenched jaw.

She beams brightly. I would’ve enjoyed it, but that was minutes ago, and I want to crush the light in her eyes. Her happiness, at the cost of sacrificing us, is a taunting itch. She thinks I won’t stop her from leaving; how fucking wrong she is, because it’s not my first rodeo with manipulation.

It’s a snake’s forte. Second nature.

I will break this little brat, fast and mean.

No excuse from her can extinguish the furious flow of my blood, nor can anything stop the brawling violence between my bones to punish her disobedience.

“Thank you for…” Anya purses her lips with hesitation. “I don’t want to date right now. I just want to get back on my feet, and I’ll pay everything back.”

I give her the sweetest smile I can muster as she looks from under her lashes. With one wrong muscle, my lips will twist into an abomination.

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in when I had no one else.”

Oh, good, she knows she’s on her own. She can still redeem herself if she apologizes, promises to never talk about it again, and be my pretty baby. I forgave her once, and she’s taking it for granted.

My smile has cracks in it as I pat the top of her head and ruffle her hair. Who knows when this act of kindness will return—if it will or wants to.

“It’s late,” I say, a gravelly purr recoiling to the back of my throat. “Goodnight.”

I leave her bewildered on the rug and retreat to my bedroom. Each light footstep stomps on the broken façade. It’s time for it to retire.

Immediately closing the door, I click my tongue loudly and scrub the lingering smile off my face.

I tried; I really did do my best to be who she could trust. Well, no worries, persuasion has always been a contender choice.

Hurting her means hurting me, and my bleeding heart treats her very preciously. I’ll bend her will with the proper force, but I’ll stop at the perfect spot to avoid irreversible damage.

Hopefully, everything works as planned. Hopefully.

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

Anya

 

 

A moth’s wings with beaded eyes stare attentively. The tarantula scuttles up the wall and turns to gawk at me with eight eyes. A yowl from a stray cat bombards the eerie night while the wind whistles hauntingly against the trees.

Levi’s house was never this scary. I have been here many times, the guards are friendly, and the front door is welcoming when he opens it. I was too busy staring at the taut muscles on his back to notice my surroundings.

Who can blame me for drooling?

The model industry is missing out on a money tree.

My fingers hover above the doorbell, eyeing the hideous spider as it crawls closer to the meandering moth by the light. I’m not risking that hairy-legged critter jumping on my hand, but it’s inappropriate to type in the passcode to my temporary home.

The uncomfortable talk from yesterday reels in my mind, slowing down the productivity of the plans I had to research apartments near my sister’s new job. I don’t want to intrude on her rekindling her love with an ex-boyfriend who she met here during a business meeting.

She won’t change, so I’ll stick to the sideline and watch her relationship eventually deteriorate from their own doings.

My jaw tightens as I ring the doorbell, praying Levi will hurry because the tarantula is tiptoeing toward me. The lock unhinges, and streams of light pierce through the ajar door.

He stands quietly, almost as if he’s wondering why I’m here when he’s the one who texted me about a parting gift. The part where he thanked me for our friendship broke my heart, and I accepted his offer to retrieve it.

His only free time is when he’s off work, so here I am in the dead of night. A lightning strike smashing the sidewalk wouldn’t get the neighbors to turn on their lights; they’re too far to even hear it, and most of them keep to themselves.

I only met one neighbor during the time I lived with Levi, and they completely ignored me. Rude, but they did have good taste in house decor. His house is expensive, and all decorations pale to its beautiful foundation.

I’m jealous of the residents and their fat bank accounts. There was a time I thought I’d take art classes and become an artist because Levi is a prime example of success.

Speaking of which, that man stresses me out. I’m confused, flustered, excited, and happy about his feelings. I just had to open my big mouth and trample on what could’ve been a great relationship.

My first one, but I have a good feeling.

“Come in,” he offers, stepping to the side.

I squeeze through as he holds the door open, intuitively putting on the pair of cream indoor slippers and hanging the light jacket on the rack. I’m going to miss the smell of paint, soft brushes, and smooth canvases.

Sucking in my bottom lip, my teeth chew on it with regret lingering in my throat.

I’m not sure why I’m this averse to being in a relationship with him. The time we spent together, memories created, and feelings nourished has my body fighting the heart throbbing in cold blood.

It’s a primal instinct. The abnormality totters in his presence, something he blurs with a beguiling smile, evolving into a twisted image of veiled evil. New sensations take me by the throat, and adrenaline folds a sash over my eyes, forcing my senses to adapt to the wild thoughts my mind conjured up to understand why a man of his caliber picked me out of a million better choices.

A game or a bet was the guess. A mean gag between hooting friends and slaps on the back.

I doubt it; the friend, or as close as he can be, was Davis, and he was not fond of Levi. He may try to act like it, but when a person is angry, they can’t hide the animosity in their aura.

I shake my head, scrapping the budding hope, and shuffle awkwardly on my feet while Levi’s scrutiny brands the nape of my neck. I rub it tensely, signaling him to stop staring, but he doesn’t and intensifies the heat boring onto the skin.

Shouting encouragement in my head, I spin around and smile politely. This is good practice to start reverting to our previous distance. Strangers and neighbors. If he’s generous, he might hire me for work later. Better yet, I hope he doesn’t sue me for rent money and emotional distress.

“You came early,” he mutters and hums under his breath. “I’m not finished with the piece yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to show you.”

He rubs his shoulder and tilts his head to crack it. The tight muscles flash under the lifted beige shirt while he ruffles his hair, a hint of annoyance curling at his lips as he stares off into the distance.

“The room is messy,” he warns as he puts his back toward me. “Lots of paint and props, so watch your step.”

Regardless of the invisible hands holding me back or the goosebumps following the path of blood rushing to my heart, I take the first step after him. His back stays turned, but he knows I’m following him to his art room, the place he brings forth vivid pieces.

The bells ring hysterically in my head as the hallway closes in, smothering me with claustrophobia.

After an excruciatingly long turn on the knob, he finally opens the tightly shut door. His broad shoulders and wide chest block the blackened room, so the smell of paint is more prominent.

He walks in with no intention of turning on the lights, and I cross my arms over my chest to curb the urge to flip the switch on.

I sniff quietly, trying to put a name to the strange smell. It’s not obvious since the wet paint permeates from the walls, but the kerosene stench toggles onto the tail of the white spirit. He uses a less pungent paint thinner, so this parting gift must be special for him to swap it.

The rumble of thunder screeches as I pinch my eyes shut, massaging my temples to ease the dizzy headache. He works with these smells, so they don’t bother him as much.

The fluorescent light from the corner lamp flickers, illuminating the huge room with two flashes and chasing out the slithering shadows. There's a wooden table against the wall with a clean canvas propped up on the stand and a row of clean brushes nicely arranged.

Then, I look down.

A crescendo rallies behind the barricaded terror as ungodly roots collide with bones and erupt into thirsty thorns. I bite the inside of my cheek, but the surging tension leaks from a hiccup. Panic thrives in my spine, fear intoxicates my numb brain, and carefree laughter calms my heart.

There is a dismembered human in the corner, limbs separated at the joints and piled on the torso of a woman.

No head, there’s no face to the woman….

It’s fake. They’re silicone props, like the ones he had at his studio. He just brought them back to his house to be used for practice and to understand human anatomy better.

I take a longer look, ready to laugh at myself for being melodramatic, but my throat seals. Shivers quicken my breath, shoving them out in short and frantic gasps as the need to scream into the void reaches a peak, but a pitiful whimper scatters brokenly across my tongue.

The birthmark on the sole of a foot.

A notification ding, and I tear my eyes from it. It’s a much-needed distraction as I fumble with reading the text message from my sister.

She eloped with her ex-boyfriend.

What?

I reread the message, dissecting the words and contemplating the linguistic point of her usual tone. From the sentence structure explaining why she’s leaving and didn’t tell anyone earlier and the alternating British and American spelling to the random periods between letters.

A selfie of her kissing the man’s hand adorned with a black ring proves it’s her, and the large banner of a store’s tenth anniversary conveniently plasters on the screen.

It has to be a professional photoshop, so I zoom in on the pixels. There aren’t any flaws. I text her, demanding that she explain whatever this is. Her response hurries back, like it was typed in advance, and tells me to not worry while mentioning her new job had decided to not hire her after the last interview. She wants a new start and hopes I can be happy for her like our parents are.

“My sister,” I stutter, my fingers shaking so much the phone drops. “She’s at home sleeping. Yeah, she told me she was coming home late and—”

“She didn’t send this,” I choke, a dry heave fumbling in my throat. “It’s a joke.”

A warm finger traces the left side of my jaw, leisurely caressing the plump cheek as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. So gentle, so violent, and so disgustingly confusing. He cradles my face and pierces his smothering gaze into mine, stroking the clump of jumpy nerves under his thumb, and kisses the spot briefly.

“Of course,” he says, and my mind doesn’t register it further than the bare minimum meaning.

Levi smiles against my lips and sighs softly, the bizarre blue haze darkening in his eyes as the shadows raid through his shrinking pupils.

My heart melts into his kiss.

My lips chase after his, earning a raspy chuckle from him as he turns to face the lump on the ground. I didn’t notice before, which is hard when it’s a whole body with the head attached, and Levi stands over him.

The man’s face is turned to the wall as Levi nudges him on his back with his foot. A scoffed voice in my head belittles me for standing there like an idiot; I should be out the door, phoning the cops because Levi has an unconscious man in his house and is unscrewing the wrist—

Huh? Is it another prop?

More are detaching from the body; even the realistic arm has a screw nestled in the joints. Gelatinous fluid pools to the ground from the crevices, and I recognize the consistency of red paint.

“You have to loosen the joints, or else they won’t detach,” he answers the floating question and drops the foot on the moss-green tarp.

My pulse beats with the minutes as I watch in horror when his thumb traces the throat of the marionette. He’s probably looking for the seam that the silicone hid. During the search, the prop’s head moves ever so slightly, and distress gnaws at the ribs to eat my heart.

The prop reminds me of the attacker, who was supposed to be in jail waiting for trial but made bail. Detective Davis gave me the bad news by voicemail at four in the morning.

I don’t want this gift or anything in the room.

A dribble of red trickles from the prop’s neck as an almost unnoticeable shudder pulses on the chest. Gasping hotly, I stagger back toward the door and clench my shirt above my pained heartbeats.

Levi turns and smiles beautifully. “I won’t be done for a while. I brought you here to see the process and how you like it, so I can make changes.”

Compared to blood red, I’m more scared of deep-sea blue. Dormant mysteries, he watches like I’m about to be one of them.

“You’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you?”

A siren’s call between dark waves. A snake’s hiss between fine-tuned hypnotism.

There isn’t an inch of imperfection in his smile, only widening at my prompt rejection. If I was a little more naïve and trusting, I wouldn’t hesitate to take up his offer.

He’s very handsome, with a type of allure that unintentionally dulls all six senses. But mine are on a burning stake, screaming through every cell to run away.

I see a refined, polite, likable man. I feel he’s something gift-wrapped with flawless skin and regrettable temptation.

“You are my muse, always will be.”

There is no room for refusal and no strength to fight the radiant benevolence in his eyes. Levi doesn’t give a moment of consideration when his fingers curl over the man’s throat, and droplets of blood leap from his parted lips.

He’s going to hurt me; that’s what is running through my mind. It takes a lot to not react when a brutal shiver skitters down my back.

“Okay,” I croak spinelessly.

I won’t have a spine anyway if I reject him.

“Be safe on your way home,” he says and stops abruptly.

He wants to say something else by the guttural drawl, but he only hums lowly in his throat.

The world weighs on my hand as it grips the doorknob. A snap of the metal handle shines light into the dim room, masking the quiet crack of bone that I’m too scared to prove.

I’m a captured Polaroid film, and he’s keeping me forever.

*

Hours later, I’m on the couch staring into space.

Whether it was fear or the belief he’d hunt me down, my legs trembled harder as I got closer to the door. I chewed through the skin on my bottom lip, picked my fingers until they were sore, and cried as the sun rose on the horizon.

I’m scared, so utterly terrified of being next. There’s a cinematic film of my future, a delusion of normalcy assembling a haven in my mind. It taps my courage, disintegrating it while it pulls back because one touch of evil is enough to spread like wildfire.

Amid the traveling clouds, the moon witnessed the calls I made to my sister through the frosted windows. One automatic voicemail after another, the line disconnected on the tenth unanswered call.

It’s okay, I had said to myself when the clock struck away another hour. She’s at home, or she truly uprooted her life and eloped with the mysterious man.

She’s not here, in the windowless room and on the tarp floor covering.

“You didn’t leave,” Levi quips from behind the couch.

I jump in shock and let out a hushed scream as he offers to make a cup of coffee for me. He treks to the cream-colored counter and starts his morning coffee, one cup with ice and no sugar or cream. He says it defeats the point of using acidity to fight drowsiness.

Crimson dirties his beige shirt with streaks, dots, and smears. The smell of dusty wood mingles with a sharp pinch of iron, rustic even, and lingers by the couch.

He drinks and leans on the counter like the monotonous days interlacing in my memories. Next, he’ll bring me a cup of sweetened coffee and work until an inch of liquid is left at the bottom. The open windows will air out the pungent paint thinners and stuffiness from the night, then we’ll fall into a comfortable silence while we do our own thing.

“It’s hot,” he says as he hands me a steaming cup.

I take it out of habit, fingers brushing his cold ones as he smiles at the rigid gratitude. He doesn’t pat my head, and a raw whimper scratches my neck as he rummages in a drawer by the coffee machine.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks, lighting the end with a flick of his thumb. “I don’t normally do it, but he was uncooperative.”

Fear tackles me, throwing itself onto my trembling knees and knocking the air from my lungs. My nails pinch my palms, hoping the pain will wake up my legs to escape the monstrosity mere feet away.

“Wait there,” he says and waves away the smoke.

He holds his hand up as the cigarette hangs between deft fingers, dried blood cracks on his knuckles, and a faint slash stands out on his wrist. The end of the wound ruins his skin’s pristine ink, and the injustice of a damaged masterpiece viciously crushes feeble sympathy.

That man, the atrocious animal tormenting me, deserves the spilled blood and a quick end to his fate. It’s a crime to destroy a beautiful piece of artwork, a priceless creation Levi is so proud of. One that he willingly showed me as a private side of him.

Black and red hues flock from the corners of my eyes, pricking needles on the surface as they blur with frustrated tears.

How dare he? A voice slices through the air like a knife.

“You didn’t like me yesterday.”

His voice is even, deeper, and with such composure that the gruesome hole in my heart stitches itself. He’s offering a chance, albeit slim by the crystallized blue in his disinterested gaze, but his rising anticipation warms my petrified resolve.

I want him and the secrets in that room.

Perhaps my sister was right about genetics, and I’ve inherited a recessive trait of attracting toxicity.

“Trial and error,” he states and crushes the burning tip in the sink. “I thought about it, becoming someone else, someone you would come to like. But a relationship built on lies is bound to sink.”

The faintest sneer appears, but it’s smoothed over in an instant as he strolls up to the couch with the steps of an agile jaguar.

“You’re special,” he purrs as he plucks me off the couch and onto his lap. “But don’t think you’re important enough for me to not hurt you.”

What used to bring comfort and warmth are now skeletal-armored snakes weaving into my hair and ominously cupping the back of my head.

“I know you don’t want to wake up with him under your bed. Do you?”

I shake my head while ignoring the painful tugs. He asks in the gentlest whisper to look at him because he misses seeing my face, so against my better judgment, I do it with regret defiling my soul.

“Sometimes…” he mutters, words hissing through sharp canines and a serpent’s smile, “I still want to kill you.”

There is nothing within arm’s reach to defend myself when his morbidly blue eyes demolish my world and faith. His kiss is the lifeline as I drown with everything he gives.

“Dead people can’t run.”

 

 

 

Epilogue

Anya

Everlasting Happiness

 

 

Our wedding was a dream many brides wished for. A neutral-themed fairy tale, majestic chandeliers illuminating the venue, and fresh flowers lining the walkway with a fragrant breeze. My wedding dress was white lace with accents of crimson, giving the expensive dress heightened exquisiteness.

It was an intimate event, but his family wasn’t there to witness one of the happiest days in their son’s life. But I believe they’re watching from heaven.

My sister came to the wedding and received a scolding in private from my parents for her selfish decision to run off with some man. She was my sister, but she wasn’t either. She had a new hairstyle, developed a taste for red wine, and couldn’t keep up with the reminiscing of old times at the table. Those were the obvious changes, but I knew in that instance that my gut was right.

Her presence, in all her replicated glory, was wrong. She left immediately after the wedding but said she would occasionally keep in contact directly or on social media.

She’s instantly forgotten once my husband, ringed and vowed, whisks me away to a gorgeous snowy honeymoon.

“What am I using, pretty baby?”

A feathery tip teases the sensitive bundle of nerves as he circles the calligraphy brush in shapeless patterns. I pout behind the black blindfold and mumble the answer. He rewards me with another wet stroke, pressing my clit with enough power to bend the soft bristles.

I gasp, hips raising off the mattress as they grind on the soaked brush. Tears prickle my eyes, dampening the fabric as my delicate senses pick up on everything he does to me. The way his breath caresses my swollen folds, the cool air biting my perky nipples, and the filthy praises he gives my pussy as if that’s his pretty baby.

I am, I huff grumpily.

His callused thumb spreads my folds and inhales loudly, a groan trickling in his throat as he presses a firm kiss on my twitching clit. Sticky juices drool on the silken sheet, wetting the tiny hole for the brush to draw circles on before pushing it inside.

It scrapes the rippling walls, sending tingling sparks to my quivering stomach as he swirls the brush to write his name with the sloshing juices.

Throwing my head back on the fluffed pillow, my toes dig into the sheet as he flattens his tongue on the puffy bud. He sucks, nibbling teasingly on it, and moans deeply as he angles the brush up to my spongy spot.

As pleasure surges over me and stars twinkle behind my eyes, my body writhes when the pressure in my stomach snaps. He yanks the brush out and curls two thick fingers into my drooling hole, gummy walls squelching so messily that my ears burn with embarrassment.

My pussy throbs, swallowing his fingers greedily as they fuck me with vigor and a promise to bully the spongy spot. With a harsh, timed press and a tight suck on my clit, my leaking hole squeezes his fingers as the sweet tension in my stomach shatters.

Soreness flares on my raised arms as I yank at the silk knot around my wrists, a devious play on his part when he gets to bend my body to his desire.

He ropes his arms around my thighs and buries his head deeper between them as he laps up the stringy slick. It’s hard to come down from the orgasm when he cleans my sodden folds with eagerness and hunger on his tongue.

I beg for mercy, twisting my hips away from him, but he nips at my clit as punishment. My thighs twitch with a new burn in my pussy, spreading the aftershock just under my skin that can’t be itched.

He laughs, jovially and mockingly, and parts his fingers inside my quivering walls before they leave. My pussy aches as the tight slit begs for something bigger and thicker to suck on.

His praise is a dulcet tune, truly one of the most beautiful sounds as he purrs his love into my ears. The silk unbinds my hands, and they fly around his neck while he carefully removes the blindfold.

He’s the frenzied devil fueling sinful impatience on my flushed face, but his hands are blessed with angelic caresses and passionate strength.

The heavy push of his cock swipes on my pussy, grinding maddeningly against the puffy folds and sending shivers up my shuddering thighs.

His baritone laughter weaves between my incoherent babbling and choked pleas. He tuts with disappointment sailing through hazy blue eyes, but my hips can’t stop rolling as my clit squishes on the pulsing vein of his fat cock.

It’s so big, reaching farther than my pussy can take as he stills my hips with a rigid hand to visually measure the size difference between us. A deliriously elated grin spreads on his handsome face as he snatches my wrist to wrap my fingers around his intimidating girth.

It’s hot, throbbing, and too thick. My fingers don’t meet, so I settle with rubbing the pulsing vein while waiting for his next command.

“Put it in, pretty,” he encourages as he gropes my ass and lifts for a better angle to slide in smoothly.

It doesn’t because the tip snags on the opening, and the stinging wrecks me. He looks at me with those reassuring eyes, filled with pride and lots of appreciation, and thunderous courage hushes the doubt in my heart.

Breathing in shakily, I brace the pinch of pain as the drooling tip spreads on my unused hole. My hips drop as a strain crumbles their leverage, sheathing in more than the tip. I thrash and pitifully whine for him to do something.

My eyes blur with ecstasy as I bury my face into the crook of his neck. He coos praise and swiftly snaps his hips, forcing my velvety walls to suck on the thick shaft. Strands of cum sully his cock as he pulls out to the tip and slams back inside without giving my pussy a moment to adjust from being fucked open so ruthlessly.

But it feels so good, the electrifying chills grazing on my skin.

Then he pauses deep inside and tilts his head. He disregards my miffed complaint as he stares at my spasming cunt, relishing the rhythmic heat trying to milk his virile cum.

A degrading whisper of how desperate I am rumbles out of his guttural throat. I sniffle and glare through wet lashes, crying about his cruelty as he admits that he’s not nice when his patience is gone.

And that’s okay, he mouths with his hands crushing the underside of my thighs because I’m a good girl who’ll listen to him. He’ll be gentle, but I have to try harder.

My heart sways at his incessant need to know how I’m feeling right now. I’m not okay; his cock is too thick, his body is burning, and he’s staring down the horde of self-consciousness in my squirming body.

“What’s wrong?” He shifts on his knees, bullying his cock against the deepest part, and wipes the hot tears rolling down my blotchy cheeks.

“It hurts,” I grumble, lips jutting out a wet pout.

“We can’t have that, can we?” he tuts and grates his hips to trap my neglected clit.

He yanks my thighs farther apart, adding bold strain on my soiled little hole, and pins my knees to the bed. Levi fucks hard, slamming his hips to mine with glistening juices smearing on our skin.

I kiss the slant of his clenched jaw, panting and fighting the carnal urge to bite him. His cock pummels at an angle, and the smallest change has my poor pussy gushing and locking him at the base. But he’s determined, so needy when he lays open-mouthed kisses on my neck and plunges strong yet languid thrusts.

Overstimulation tumbles in my veins as another mean strike sharply nudges an untouched spot. Stars cross my eyes, and I never thought I could fit more of him when there is no more room in my pussy. He doesn’t give up and slips his cock out, webs of shiny cum dripping from the shaft as the stringy juices attach to my gaping hole, and the swollen tip stays strong.

I lick my lips, wanting a taste of him and the feel of his hot cum spurting down my throat. He flips me to my knees as my drunken gaze teeters up at his heaving chest and intricate tattoos. I don’t meet his eyes, too afraid of his sanity hinging on mere frayed threads.

He’s a work of heavenly art, and he bares his true self to me in the most primal way.

And when he slams his fat cock inside, strong hips slapping my ass, I embrace his silent urge to control me. My brain stutters for a second, reeling at the burning stretch as I come unexpectedly.

I slump on the bed and twist my fingers into the silk, muffling broken sobs as drool soaks the black sheet. The hammering thrusts buck my tense body forward, and a tormented wave of pleasure digs through the dense fog as my eyes gloss over.

Levi shakes his head and sends a swat to my bouncing ass, but the smack does nothing but gush more cum on his cock. I can feel the dollops of cum frothing at the base of his cock, and it’s a humiliating feeling as some slides over my sore clit from gravity.

I cry softly and reach down to rub inexperienced circles, but I’m met with a prominent bulge in my stomach. He’s there, pounding insistently at an abused spot, seemingly wanting to break my limit.

“It’s okay, I want to see,” he growls in mid-thrust to put me on my back again. “Touch yourself, pretty baby.”

With his permission, the touch feels better. I’m hesitant as I clumsily roll the bud, but I quickly find the pace and pressure that explores the chance of a meteor shower behind my closed eyes.

Crying out his name, I claw his back and leave fiery marks on his rippling muscles. He fucks with less precision and more mercy to my weeping pussy, but he hammers in so deep that my eyes cross and twitch through an avalanche of lust.

His cock thickens, stretching the opening of my stuffed hole with vigor, spilling ribbons of viscous cum. My trembling walls spread and massage the messy splashes along the powerful pulses.

His load is so warm, so thick, filling me to the brim with each pump.

*

“Tired already?”

My wet lashes flutter with indignation as I mumble incoherently. He lifts my chin and raises a brow expectantly, hating how unaffected he is after making a milky mess in my pussy with three fat loads of cum.

“I’m sore.” I drag my tongue over the prominent vein on the side of his shaft.

My jaw hurts as I suck on the leaking tip, tongue swiping to collect the bead of cum while tasting myself on him. One hand isn’t enough to hold him, so the other one comes up to play with the slippery cum that refuses to leave his cock.

He hasn’t gone soft, not even immediately after orgasm, only growing harder when I beg him for a break. He’s so mean, laughing while an aftershock jolts my hypersensitive body and lets creamy cum dribble out my stretched hole.

He demanded I keep his cum inside, but there was just too much as some plopped on my slick thighs.

I squeeze my thighs and lay between his legs, taking him into my mouth to distract him, so he doesn’t see the trail of wasted cum.

He’ll be disappointed, and he’ll force more in. Is it possible for someone to come this many times and still be hard?

His cock throbs on my tongue in response. I rub the rest that I can’t take in my throat, sneakily slurping at the same time as a strong suck. A throaty hiss emits from his swelling chest as he places a hand on the top of my head, a familiar gesture that has me humming happily.

Drool sloppily pools down his cock, my eyes watering when the strain aches too much, but I still swallow his cock with bursting pride.

With the perfect balance between bobbing my head, opening up my tight throat, and swirling my tongue, Levi curses with a tense flinch. Husky moans threaten the deafening silence in the room, and neither of us cares that we’ve indulged ourselves for hours under the blurry light.

His powerful hips, stiffened with defined muscles, buck harshly, and shove the whole length down my hot throat. Somewhere in the sloppy thrusts and loud squelches, he wonders out loud if he can test the limit of my gag reflex.

No matter how many laps of my tongue, the milky strings and pale, frothy ring of cum won’t go away.

His thick cock stifles my shocked cry as he pushes my head down, holding a firm hand in my hair, and hisses out a snarling curse. He tosses his head back, thighs flexing as his cum shoots in my mouth and slides down like melted whipped cream.

I wince and pop his cock out, saliva thinning as it swings onto my chin. He’s a blurred shadow above me, broad shoulders hunched over to catch his breath as he remembers to run a hand down the nape of my neck.

A purr bubbles behind my contented smile, and I nuzzle the hand when it comes to cradle my cheek.

“Good girl,” he says, nodding proudly. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

Before I can roll onto my knees, he carries me with no tremors in his arms. I can’t even feel my legs, and he’s the one who did most of the work. My pussy pulsates in agreement and spits out globs of cum as revenge.

He sets me inside the large bathtub and gets in behind me after turning on the faucet. The warm water tickles my toes as it quickly rises to my ankles.

I sag against his chest, absentmindedly noting his tatted arm supporting my boneless form. There isn't a need for aftercare talk; just the silence is enough to relax my mind from the intense hours of sex.

I thought my first time would be thirty minutes, give or take other sexual acts. I feel sorry for my body once the exhaustion and soreness come, but for now, I’ll enjoy the steamy water lapping at my raw skin.

If the hot cock poking my back can soften, it’ll be better. Who knows, maybe he’ll fuck me against the windows or the floor after our bath.

Is it too late to pretend to sleep? Not when I’m already half asleep.

Levi soaps up the loofah and drags the sponge over my shoulders. His movements are steady and gentle, with controlled power to scrub the sweat and cum off. I drift in and out of sleep during the process, not knowing when he is done with himself and me.

When I open my eyes again, I’m on a gray silk bedsheet that he changed out. Now he’s worrying me. Where is his strength coming from?

I can’t go more rounds. Levi chides me and says he isn’t heartless. He knows when to stop, and I do look like I’m about to faint from thirst. Gulping down the glass of water he hands me, I ignore my stomach’s protest and sigh in satisfaction.

My stomach sloshes as I lay on my side, and the strap of my satin nightgown unravels. Levi ruffles his wet hair with a white towel and then tosses it to the side. His weight sinks the mattress as he gets under the duvet beside me.

His hands have a disturbingly high temperature when they snake around my limp body. One hand splays on my back while the other perches over my waist.

He places a lingering kiss on my forehead and mutters something I can’t understand because shivers give finishing touches to my body and a black hole in my mind. I hear the last bits; the words are understood, and I know what they mean, but I can’t grasp them fully.

“I gave you a chance to leave, but you didn’t,” he rasps, the restrained twitch of his lips tugging into a lopsided smirk. “I knew you loved me; of course, you did. It’s all you know.”

He lifts my weak fingers and kisses the lovely ring, repeating the sweetest vow of eternity and endless love. Instead of a bedtime story, he recounts plenty of memories of me.

His retelling of our first meeting was akin to love at first sight, then he believed fate wanted our paths to cross after two years. I scoff placidly because he doesn’t seem like someone who believes these things. But he shushes me and says the next encounter was moving into the apartment unit beside mine.

He admits he had ulterior motives when he offered the assistant position to me. He wanted to create happenstances and play them as fate’s will. I snicker at that and receive a rap on the head from his knuckle.

His biggest regret was being a minute late to my attack on the street. If he hadn’t checked emails on his phone, he would’ve been at the fateful spot before I got hurt.

This time, I don’t have a reply and just rest my forehead on his heart. It’s magnetic, the luring pace drawing in dreams.

Tucking my legs between his and hugging me tighter, he laughs lightheartedly and says the first time he said “I love you” was in our wedding vows. He’s never loved anyone and plans to love me with everything he has to offer. There will never be a third person in our marriage because he only loves me, and he hopes I can love him just as much.

I call him an idiot with tears and a quiver in my voice. He laughs again, kissing the crinkle on my forehead.

Something is deeply, genuinely wrong with me when I whisper the miracle of my last vow to see us through to the end.

To think he was my worst nightmare, but he chose to be my protector. Marrying someone I used to be wary and scared of, it’s a strange notion that still brings pensive moments to dwell on.

Levi doesn’t mind it, as he understands why I have those somber doubts. He will be there to banish them a thousand times over. Again and again. Not because my love for him will disappear, but because of his volition to protect his wife.

 

 

 

⸢END⸥

 

 

 

 

 

—

 

SIGN UP: MAILING LIST

STAY CONNECTED: FACEBOOK

 

—

 

 

Author’s Other Works!

 

 

VILLAIN DADDIES SERIES (14 BOOKS)

 

 

STANDALONE (50 BOOKS)

 

 

CYPHER SECURITY SERIES (2 BOOKS)

 

 

NOIR MC SERIES (3 BOOKS)

 

 

 

 

Follow the Author