Time to go to London.
But first, I need to put my cash to proper use.
Barcelona, Spain
“Oh, fuck, yes, baby, that’s it,” he groans, the back of his head pressing against my couch. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”
My lips twitch, my jaw locks like a vise as searing anger coils hot and tight beneath my ribs. It’s been less than five minutes, and this idiot is already ready to cum in his pants from me just grinding against him while I pin him against the couch.
I’d come out today to dull the ache—to chase that fierce, impossible burn I felt with Dante—but whatever I tried only twisted into something ugly. My eyes snagged on the man acrossthe bar, a tourist, a garbage imitation of Dante: dark eyes, a similar jaw, a scruffy shadow where a beard should be.
I was hoping he’d help me relax, but now, as I tilt my head, I can’t stop picturing how I’ll end him if I decide to act on it. A blade to the throat crosses my mind, but even my fantasies have standards.
That would be messy. I don’t want to spend the rest of my day scrubbing his blood from my couch.
For the first time in my life, failure sits over me like a stone—and it’s not a small thing. It’s a hot, corrupting ache.
I pulled him out of the bar with barely a thought and dragged him back to my apartment. Then I climbed on top of him, trying to force the same delirium Dante wrung from me.
But it’s pathetic. A bad parody. Every move feels practiced, hollow, like watching someone lip-sync a scream.
He mumbles stupid things between clumsy groans, words that tear at something raw and private because they aren’t coming from Dante’s lips. Up close, he lacks everything Dante has—the weight in his gaze, the quiet violence in his hands, the cruelty that feels like a promise.
I am capable of questionable things sometimes. Today is one of those times—an ugly, small decision that leaves a bitter taste and the heavy certainty that some fires refuse to be rekindled by anything but the original flame.
He throws his head back farther, throat bared under the light like an offered target, and the world narrows to the brutal perfection of this single moment—the exact angle, the clean line where I could finally end him. A groan reverberates across the room as he cums in his pants, his body twitching, his grip on my hips tightening.
Disgust churns in my stomach, bitter and burning like cheap alcohol on an empty gut, twisting my insides as a grimacespreads across my face. I look down at him, and everything about him feels… wrong.
His eyes lift to mine, a lazy, infuriating grin on his lips. “Did you cum?”
My eyes widen, and I inhale sharply, repeating the mantra in my head.
Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.
“No,” I say flatly, and in that instant, a flicker of disappointment flashes across his face.
Seriously?
I huff, abruptly sliding off him, my hands smoothing over the wrinkles in my clothes as if the act itself could erase the feel of him entirely. I walk to the mirror, ignoring the tidal wave of his questions and stupid suggestions, taking a long, critical look at myself.
Today’s outfit is intentional. Fold-over jeans with leopard print hidden underneath, layered under a second pair of brownish denim, unzipped so that the wild pattern beneath catches the eye. My top matches in muted brown, slashed on both sides just below my breasts, hinting but not giving in. A single golden pendant rests at my throat, while matching rings catch the light, reflecting across my skin like tiny sparks.
I run a hand through my hair, and a ghost of memory flashes before me—Dante’s strong fingers buried in my scalp, kneading, tugging, guiding me with quiet command.
Nothing could ever replicate what he made me feel. There are men who resemble him, even faintly, just like this nameless man sprawled behind me, but I’d rather wear skinny jeans than let someone like that touch me.
“You don’t understand, Julian,” I say, a thread of frustration cutting through my voice. He looks like a Julian, so Julian he shall be.
“My name is?—”
“Exactly,” I cut in, turning around and pointing a lazy hand in his direction. “I don’t care. Not about your name, not about you.”
A sigh slips past my lips as I step closer to the wall, leaning my back against it. My gaze drifts across him from head to toe, pausing at the dark, unmistakable stain between his legs.
“How can’t you see it?” I murmur, tilting my head, disgust shimmering beneath the surface. “I’m a fucking shooting star in a sky full of dull, boring, and bland people like you.”
He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of frustration igniting in his eyes—the first real emotion he’s allowed himself to show all day.
