VIC
I’m beginning to worry with each passing day that I haven’t seen Sonya or Rose since that morning at the café, when I pulled them in from the cold and offered them food. I had promised I’d see them that weekend, but my call schedule betrayed me, turning me into a liar as it unraveled into a blur of emergencies. Night bled into the next day, and by the time I stumbled out of the hospital feeling hollowed and exhausted, the shift at the soup kitchen had already come and gone. Unfortunately, I never made it, and I regret breaking that promise. I should have known better than to make promises I can’t keep. After all, I’m not good at it.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have changed anything, but the unease gnaws at me all the same, much like it did all those years ago. And after that last conversation with Rose, that apprehension only intensifies, leaving a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. An emotion I can’t quite place burrows inside me. It wraps around memories I’ve tried hard to suppress, dragging them forward no matter how hard I try to forget them. That emotion is fear, but not for myself. It’s for the innocent, for those the world has once again failed to protect.
When I spoke with Arthur at the front desk, he informed me that he hadn’t seen them in over a week. Betsy, from food service, confirmed it, and she always works the food line. There had been no sighting of Sonya or Rose since the day that I first met them here. The unease coils tighter in my chest. Rose mentioned that her mom was considering going back to her husband. I close my eyes, and the unwelcome images rush back to the blooms of varying shades of purple on her arm, and I can’t unsee them.
I blink, looking back at the clock on the nightstand. How long have I been standing here like this? Shaking my head in disbelief when I see the time, I stand in front of the mirror, my thoughts continue to wrestle in my mind as I wrestle with this fuckin’ bow tie. How the hell did I let myself get roped into going to this event? I hate these things—the forced smiles, the small talk, and Bethany. But I know it’s for charity, and that’s the only reason why I endure it.
I smooth down the lapels of my Tom Ford tuxedo, the luxury twill sharply hugs my toned frame, and I give myself a once-over. I look stylish enough to pass with the crowd tonight, but I feel like an imposter. I lift the mask out of the box that arrived just yesterday. It’s ebony, molded into the face of a devil, ribbed horn curving upward with a wicked kind of elegance. I smile at the detail. The moment I slide it on, I can’t help but feel a firm satisfaction, no imposter here. It’s fitting, considering the season so close to Halloween, and well, there’s me. The reflection staring back at me is almost unrecognizable. I feel like I’m putting on armor as well as a suit.
My hair is slicked back, though one stubborn curl keeps falling across my forehead. At least the mask pins it into place. I adjust the pentagram cuff links on my French-tailored cuffs, silver against the black poplin shirt. Finally, I snatch the keys from the desk and step out into the night.
I decide on an Uber. The venue might be within walking distance, but it feels odd to stride through the streets of Boston in a tuxedo and a mask, being put on display before I even get to the event where I’ll be watched and silently judged. Driving also seemed pointless. With a sigh, I pull up the app, and my ride is set to arrive in three minutes. Right on time, a sleek, black car eases to the curb with a license plate match. Without hesitation, I open the door and slide into the cool leather interior, setting tonight's wheels in motion.
The event is held in the historic Grand Ballroom of my own Back Bay neighborhood. The architecture rises with old-world prestige, a blend of elegance and power, bustling with busy commercial business that offers a lively atmosphere. But tonight, the hotel hosts physicians, staff, and benefactors whose money and influence fund the hospital’s mission. The evening aims to raise support for equitable healthcare, extending that care to the city’s most vulnerable and underserved populations. A noble cause, one I am proud to support. And yet, beneath the polished veneer of charity, I can’t help but sneer at the obscene amount of money poured into an evening like this, all under the guise of generosity. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and elegant trays of canapés are luxurious overindulgence paraded as philanthropy. My lip curls. Sickening.
Unfortunately, Bethany Sinclair’s father is on the hospital's board of trustees, and she has somehow attempted to insert herself into my life. She hinted countless times about tagging along, being my plus-one, but I made her buy her own ticket, claiming I wasn’t sure I’d attend. Truthfully, I knew I would all along. It’s none of her business, though. I suspect her father slipped her a ticket anyway, but with any luck, I’ll avoid her tonight entirely and make it home unscathed.
Donning my mask before stepping out of the car, I’m let out at the front and make my way up the steps, escortedto the ballroom. From here, I can hear the delicate strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” echoing throughout the vaulted ceilings. I step inside, and the sight stills my breath. The crowd is a sea of tuxedos and gowns, each face concealed by elaborate masks. Midnight blue lighting washes over the room, casting shadows that dance across silvery drapery suspended in peaks from the ceiling—specks embedded in the fabric glimmer like stars, mimicking a night sky. Ornate chandeliers hang in cascading layers, emitting soft, ethereal appearing light. Moons and stars are suspended between the panels of cloth, adding another layer of enchantment. The tables are adorned with glowing centerpieces resembling constellations, casting a warm, otherworldly glow across the tables of seated guests. Sateen tablecloths and velveteen chairs complete the effect, giving the entire space an almost celestial elegance.
I wander through the ballroom, admiring the artistic planning and flawless execution that have brought this event to life, stopping occasionally to discuss work or the strides we’ve made in the trauma program. I’m just about to speak on our significant improvement in preventable deaths this year when the words catch in my throat—a woman in a black strapless bustier gown strides into view. The fabric is flowing with a dramatic slit up the middle, adorned with ruffles and feathers. A black feather shawl drapes elegantly over her shoulders as she slides it off to the waiting attendant. Her face is hidden behind a simple black mask, tied with a silk ribbon, which catches the light just so that her brown eyes catch mine through the slits. Every movement, every shimmer, holds me captive. Her eyes twinkle in recognition, and her red lips curl into a mischievous smirk.
For a moment, I straighten instinctively because there's something about her. When her eyes find mine once more, in the sea of masked faces, I know that it's her. Time slows, and theadministrator tapping my shoulder fades away just as his words are lost beneath the rush of blood echoing the pounding swoosh of the beating organ growing louder in my chest. The crowd becomes a blur. All of it is background noise, behind the singular pull drawing me toward her.
I take a step forward, and she takes a step back. Faster now, I move, and she retreats again. Except this time, I won’t let her disappear—the haunting melody, building in a crescendo. I quicken my pace, weaving through the crowd, with each stride a silent vow to find her. To claim her once and for all.
I run toward the front entrance, the door slamming with a resoundingthunkas the music is but a soft hum. My eyes seek hers. But she’s gone. Until I see just a flash of black that darts down the hall before vanishing. I glance left and then right as I reach the end, but still I see nothing. Moving cautiously to the left, I notice a black feather lying on the floor. I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers.My little angel.
I take off down a corridor until a door, left partially open with a low light bleeding beneath, catches my eye. I push it open, expecting the room to be empty. Instead, she’s there, standing still with her back to me, and gazing beneath the balcony. Men are gathered outside, smoking cigars, and women hide in the shadows of the night, their actions concealed from prying eyes.
I walk toward her slowly with carefully measured strides. A predator sizing up its prey. I assess her, having once misjudged her, but this time my eyes are wide open, and I see her. All of her. I see her for everything she’s done, and for the crimes committed in the name of love and passionate desire. I’ve had years to imagine this moment, and now it’s here, and I can hardly believe it. I stop just behind her, and for the first time in my life, I’m hesitant when it comes to her. If only for this fragile and impossible thing between us. It’s been years, and the thought ofit slipping away again makes my hand shake with a vulnerability I vowed never to show to anyone again.
I whisper her name. “Dani?” and it falls from my lips like a prayer. My voice cracks with longing. “Angel?”
This time, she turns. Mist gathers in her eyes, and I freeze, drinking her in. I stare into the brown eyes that hold me prisoner. In that instant, all the years of loss, of pain, and worst of all, the deadening silence, fall away. I’m finally home where I belong, and it’s with her. She’s my eternal resting place in this worldly prison.
TWENTY-NINE
DANI
He speaks my name, and I almost crumple to the floor. How many nights have I woken with it echoing in my mind—the sound I’ve imagined a thousand times, only to find my bed cold, and the silence that accompanied it deafening. To hear it now, alive and spoken from his lips just feet away, strips my defenses. Seeing him from a distance was agony, a sweet penance, an atonement for my sins committed in the name of love. One I accepted freely. But seeing him up close…it’s my undoing. He sees the tears threatening to fall, and his eyes soften for me. I know it’s only for me.
I lift my hand to him, desperate, and his fingers find mine. Then my body, pulling me into him. I sink into his arms, the comfort is a memory made flesh, and I have no intention of ever letting go.
“Vic,” I whisper, but my voice dissolves as sobs spill freely. I can’t stop them, nor would I want to. After all these years, this man who holds me now deserves every one of them.
“Shh, baby,” he coos, voice low and reverent, and I melt into him a little further. “You’ve been so brave, my little angel, and I know what you did for me.” His words fall like absolution, yet they burn through me like a confession with sobs that wrenchfrom me with desperate pleas. I cling to him, trying to get closer, clawing at him with a need to be inside him, not physically, though I expect that, too, but spiritually. To be stitched into his heart, fused where nothing could ever rip us apart again.
Somehow, I’m lifted, set upon the desk. His body stands between my parted legs, like my protection and tether all at once. The air is cool against my skin, ghosting up the slit of my gown, turning the ache in me to a molten desire.
Through the black slits of his horned mask, his eyes are black, hollowed pits devouring me with one look. His mouth curls, not quite a smile, but a premonition of what’s to come. I swear I can hear his unspoken vows, spilling from the darkest recesses of his mind.
His hand glides upward, deliberate, along the ruffled edge of my gown. A single, featherlight touch brushes my thigh, and a shiver overtakes me. He hums approvingly because he knows it not just from the contact. As I shift my legs slightly, hoping he will move them in the direction I want, a breeze travels up my thigh and hits my panties, starting to soak from just the closeness of Vic, causing me to rock when I feel his cock harden. And when I look up at his devil-horned mask, his hand gently drifts up the slit of my dress.
I inhale sharply, anticipating him to touch me where I need him to. Still, then he pulls back, his hand changing course and traveling up the side of my waist and up my ribs, barely touching the outside of my heaving breast that arcs involuntarily, presenting it to him in offering, as I fight the urge to lean further into his gentle touch. His fingers continue trailing to my neck, then cheek, and then he holds himself there. Touching the side of my mouth, he rubs at the red on my lips, but it doesn't smear. He stares at me for a moment before he wipes away some tears and then rubs my lips with the moisture, smearing it slightly at the corner. His cock twitches in his pants at the memory of whatI assume is me taking him in my mouth and the sight of the red around his base as I swallowed him down, his hot cum shooting down my throat as his head tilted back, roaring with his release. I’m reliving the same memory, and when he looks at me, it’s like he wants to devour me whole. And all I can think is,Damn, please do.
His fingers slide into my hair, searching until they find the silken ties of my mask. With a slow tug, the ribbons loosen, and the mask slips away. My face is bare to him now, revealing my mascara-streaked eyes that flow like dark rivers of secrets between us. Every fractured piece of me is laid bare under his scrutinizing gaze. I look up, caught in his gravitational pull, and I want to live in his orbit forever. He crushes a thumb underneath my lower lids, smearing the remnant of my tears. I don’t know if he’s trying to stitch me back together, much like he does with his practiced surgical precision, wipe away the evidence of how I unraveled in front of him mere moments ago, or maybe he just has the innate need to touch me. Just to remind himself that I’m here in the flesh, not another dream, or conjured up memory.
