“Is that what you make in your workshop other than perfumes?”
He smirks, lips stretching as if he’s a fox considering whether he wants to befriend me or lure me into a trap. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.”
“Your bedroom is behind one of the locked doors. Were you afraid I’d jump on your bed and leave my pheromones all over?” I light up when I notice a flush on his pristine skin. “Or do you have sex toys in there you didn’t want me to find?”
Corvus gets up, rolling his eyes. “Well, I guess we will find out tonight, won’t we?” He walks up to me and sniffs the back of my head. “You still stink of smoke. If you’re done eating, go and wash. I have new pajamas for you.”
It’s funny how he’s able to both insult me and make me feel wanted at the same time. As soon as I finish my sandwich, I’m off to shower, and in fact, I am more tired than I let on. It’s approaching midnight, and I’ve had a long day.
It’s cute to meet up with Corvus at the sink in the luxurious bathroom. We brush our teeth together in pajamas as if we’re already a married couple. His outfit is, of course, all black, but for me he’s chosen a dark blue T-shirt and chequered long pajama pants softer than anything I’ve ever worn. He even insists on checking my hand and applies fresh soothing balm.
I’m feeling a bit emotionally tender about it, but manage not to fall apart. Any time Dad had to patch me up, he’d do it with so muchannoyance, as if I was a burden, and faulty for getting hurt in the first place.
But Corvus is not impatient or hurtful with his words. Almost as if… he feels guilty for what’s happened instead of blaming me for it all. He stays behind in the bathroom for a while longer, so I go exploring on my own.
His bedroom is now unlocked, and when I step in, it’s like entering a chapel made to measure for Corvus. Everything’s black, with the exception of the dark brown floor, and a brass chandelier. It’s the kind of shade that eats light and leaves nothing behind. Velvet curtains are half-drawn, but since the windows have been bricked in, he’s replaced them with moody, fantastical landscapes where people are hunted down by hell beasts. Sheets are sleek like liquid ink. Even the furniture gleams with that faint oil-slick sheen that makes my fingers itch to touch, just to see if it’s sticky.
And it smells, of course, like him. Tobacco, cloves, and something darker underneath, something I can’t wait to fall asleep to.
The bed’s massive, with an intricate wooden headboard. Mine doesn’thavea headboard. The bedding says:I don’t share.There’s one pillow, centered. The whole room follows the same laws—ornamental, sharp, like one of his favorite blades.
No photos. No clutter. Just one indulgence: a decanter of amber liquid catches the light from the nearby lamp, and a painting above the bed depicts a hazy scenery with only one character standing in an empty field. It might be a demon. It might also be a person wearing a costume of dense furs. But there’s something unsettling about choosing an image of someone so lonely for one’s bedroom. Or he’s just intofucking monsters, which would say something about the way he sees me.
I stop at the edge of the bed before I realize I’ve moved. My hand skims over the silk comforter; the fabric hisses under my fingers. It feels too intimate to stand here alone and assess. Like reading someone’s diary while they’re away.
In the mirror, I catch my reflection—hospital wristband still on, wet hair, eyes too soft for a room this sharp—and I wonder what the hell he sees when he looks at me. A good fuck? Marriage material? It’s almost unbelievable that I’m here, in this deeply curated space.
Water runs in the bathroom. Corvus is probably busy wrestling his guilt about the fire incident.
I should step back and wait for him, but instead I sit down on his immaculate bed. There. I’m making a dent in the perfection. The question is: how soon will Corvus be tired of the alien presence in his space? Is he like memory foam and will eventually accept the change?
The water’s still running in the bathroom, steady and calm, unlike my legs, which start bouncing after less than thirty seconds of rest. I glance toward the door, half expecting him to appear and tell me I’mbreathingwrong in his bedroom. When he doesn’t, I stand up.
Curiosity killed the cat, they say. But I’m not a cat, so maybemycuriosity can be rewarded?
I drift toward the dresser, fingertips trailing over polished wood. Everything’s lined up with military precision. Cufflinks, a watch, a glass tray holding rings I half expect to contain microdoses of poison.
I open the next drawer with a growing sense of guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this, but the temptation is too much.
His underwear is pristine, as if he’s disposing of old pairs every single month. Thick black cotton. Perfectly folded. I bet one three-pack of them costs more than my favorite jacket. I snort under my breath, then close the drawer.
The one below contains socks. All black. Obviously.
By the time I reach the third, I know I shouldn’t be snooping, which is exactly why I do, because the itch to find out more about the handsome man who’s claimed me as his is too strong.
The bottom drawer opens, and I hold my breath.
Inside, arranged on a bed of black silk, are sex toys. I know how much he loves to bottom, so their presence shouldn't be all that surprising, but I didn’t imagine someone as buttoned-up as Corvus would have one dildo, let alone a collection of sleek silicone and glass. A couple of dildos—one very small, one definitelynot. A slender silver vibrator that looks more like a piece of tech than something you’d stick anywhere private. Three kinds of lube. Condoms arranged by the color of their packaging. Every piece has its place, like everything else in Corvus’s world.
But still—holy shit.
My brain is stuck on a glitch, because this man tortures people for a living, andthisis the secret he hides?
The air feels thicker. My pulse does this weird fluttery thing that has nothing to do with fear. I picture him, the stoic, controlling Corvus, writhing on the bed, using one of these, biting his lips, chasing what he can’t admit he wants.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my eyes wide with wonder.
I don’t mean to touch, but my hand moves anyway, fingertips brushing over cool silicone.
