I pull back, heart hammering with excitement, and dash toward the counter. My fingers deftly work through the shelves, lifting the small carton boxes and arranging the cake pieces inside, each one snug and perfect. I tuck the cartons into a paper bag and cradle it as I rush back toward him.
Cane leans casually against the doorframe, the morning light catching the lines of his face. As I approach, he straightens, extending his hands toward me with that warm, effortless smile. “Thank you,” he says, reaching for the bag.
I don’t let go, holding the bag firmly even as he tugs at it. “Share it with your daughter,” I murmur after a beat, my voice as soft and smooth as the silk of my robe.
The moment I mention her, his smile falters, eyes dropping. A spark of worry flashes there, quickly masked by a nervous blink. I ease my grip just enough to push the bag toward him, my lips twitching in quiet amusement.
The way he cares about her… sometimes it feels like he treats herbetterthan me.
Cane’s lips press into a thin line, and for this fleeting instant, I relish the way color drains from his face. I lift my hand, brushing his cheek, tugging it ever so slightly. “Have a nice meeting,” I whisper, a smile playing at my lips. He stares back at me, silently, while worry deepens in his eyes.
He always forgets that I know everything about him—and that I could take all of it away if I ever chose to.
He clears his throat, turns, and pulls the door open. A second later, it slams shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment. My smile slips. I stare at the closed door as a slow, creeping dissociation washes over me.
Sometimes I just… drift away. My body goes numb, my mind lifts out of it, and fatigue settles so heavily in my bones that I want nothing more than to collapse into bed.
It always means the same things.
I’m bored, and I’m tired. Even the things meant to thrill me burn bright for a heartbeat before extinguishing just as fast.
And if nothing in this world can hold my excitement for long, then what’s the point of any of it?
A memory flickers through my mind—Dante’s voice, low and honest, describing the emptiness after his first kills. Something in those words struck a chord inside me, bringing a sharp recognition.
That same hollow sensation drifts through me now.
“How about a movie?”
I flinch, spinning instinctively to face him. He leans against the wall, a towering silhouette that seems almost too large for the cozy confines of my apartment. I swipe a bead of sweat from my forehead.
“What?” I ask, my voice tight, caught between confusion and surprise, unable to grasp the simplicity of his question.
He shrugs, muscles rippling under his shirt with ease. “We could watch something. What genre do you like?”
I pause, letting my mind drift back to the day I had planned before two men stormed in and ruined everything. “Not sure about the genre,” I admit slowly, “and not sure we’re even going to watch it together. Either way, I need to hit a flea market first to buy it.”
“Interesting. Old school much?” he probes curiously.
I stride toward the other room, brushing past him, and catch a trace of his scent—dark, magnetic, fucking impossible to ignore. My teeth find my lower lip, a reflex to distract myself from the pull it has over me. Familiarity and temptation curl together in my chest, and for a moment, I don’t want to resist either.
“Just find it more interesting,” I murmur lazily, drawing closer to my favorite corner of the apartment—my closet.
It’s a quiet jewel hidden behind a frosted glass door, like a secret chamber carved out for me alone. I grasp the handle and pull the doors open, inhaling sharply as clouds of my carefully curated perfumes roll out to greet me.
The walls are lined in soft cream velvet, polished brass rods glinting under the gentle glow of recessed lighting. Each hanger, crafted from natural wood with gold hooks, is perfectly spaced, catching the light just enough to make every garment feel like treasure.
“That’s a lot of clothes,” Dante says from behind me, his voice laced with surprise.
I click my tongue, shooting him a sharp look over my shoulder. “Listen, you can either help me or get the fuck out and wait outside. I need to think.”
He takes a step closer, and I feel it—the slight invasion of space that sets my teeth on edge. If he sneezes on my clothes, well,thatwould give me a perfectly valid excuse to kill him.
I inhale, forcing myself to focus on what’s in front of me. Polka-dot blouses in airy silk, their playful patterns softened by muted pastels and delicate black-and-white contrasts. Flowery dresses—lavender, rose, deep emerald—hang beside them, their fabrics whispering luxury with every subtle sway. Chiffon, silk, satin, each piece draping as if sculpted by an invisible hand.
Below, shelves display stacks of folded cashmere sweaters, meticulously aligned next to leather handbags. Strappy stilettos, sleek loafers, pointed pumps—every pair imported from Parisian and Milanese ateliers.
“Can I have a say?” Dante asks, uncertainty lacing his tone.
