Adrian’s quiet laugh comes through the line. “You know I have. Our little critic has become my obsession.”
“I’ve never felt it this... consuming before. With the others, it was about the hunt. With Amelia, I want to keep her alive. I want her to see me. The real me.”
“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Adrian says, his voice hardening slightly. “We exist in shadow for a reason, Gabe.”
“Says the man who’s playing house with a food critic who can taste emotion in chocolate.”
“Touché.” Adrian’s tone softens with amusement. “Perhaps we’re both losing our edge.”
I stand before my office window, staring down at the street below, where normal people live normal lives. “I want to show her my collection. I want her to understand my work.”
“And if she doesn’t? If those eyes see only horror instead of beauty?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.
“The question is,” Adrian continues after my extended silence, “will you show her what you really are? Or keep her in the light?”
I drain my glass, considering. The truth is, I don’t know. For the first time in decades, I’m uncertain about my next move.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I finally admit.
“I need to go,” I tell Adrian. “Plans to make.”
“Just be careful,” Adrian warns. “We can’t afford mistakes.”
“You’re one to talk,” I counter with a laugh before hanging up.
I drum my fingers against my desk, thinking of Amelia’s hands on my skin. My phone sits heavy in my palm as I craft the perfect message to her.
I can’t stop thinking about our conversation last night. The Blue Room’s piano has missed my touch. Would you like to hear what it sounds like with just the two of us in the room? Tonight, perhaps?
I send it before I can overthink the words. My heart races like I’m sixteen again, not a man who’s harvested lives. I try to focus on paperwork while waiting, but my attention keeps drifting to my silent phone.
When it finally buzzes, my stomach tightens.
Yes! I’d love that. What time?
Simple. Direct. Enthusiastic. I can’t help the smile spreading across my face as I shift in my chair and decide I’ll close the club tonight.
8 pm. I’ll have a bottle of that Bordeaux waiting.
Her response comes immediately.
Can’t wait to see what else those hands can do besides play beautiful music.
My blood rushes south as I read her words again. She has no idea what these hands have done—what they want to do to her.
I spend the afternoon selecting music—pieces that will showcase my technical skill while revealing something deeper. Debussy’sClair de Lunefor vulnerability.Rachmaninoff’s Preludein C Sharp Minor hints at the darkness. A jazz arrangement ofPure Imagination—because that’s what I want to capture in her eyes when I finally show her who I really am.
I mentally choreograph every moment. Where she’ll sit, how I’ll guide her to taste the wine, when our fingers will first touch. How I’ll slowly build the tension between us until she’s leaning toward me, pupils dilated, lips parted, silently begging for what only I can give her.
11
AMELIA
My brushes mock me from their jar. I’ve been standing in front of this blank canvas for twenty minutes, unable to make the first stroke. My body feels like a live wire, electricity running beneath my skin, pooling in my fingertips, my lips, the hollow between my thighs.
I close my eyes and see his hands. Those elegant fingers curved around a wine glass. The way his calluses caught slightly against my wrist when we touched. Piano player’s hands. Killer hands.
