“Oh god,” she whispers, pushing back against my thumb.
I work my thumb inside her as she continues riding me, her movements growing more frantic as I stroke her from both angles. The tightness around my thumb makes my cock pulse inside her.
“Come for me,” I command, increasing the pressure on her clit. “Come all over my cock while I finger your ass.”
She throws her head back, obeying spectacularly as her entire body shakes. I feel her squeezing me from inside as she screams my name, her orgasm pulling my second climax from me. I thrust upward, emptying myself deep inside her with a primal groan.
Afterward, we lie entangled on the kitchen floor. My fingers trace the outline of my initials on her shoulder—still raw, still healing. Mine. The possessiveness I feel should unnerve me, but instead, it grounds me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her voice lazy with satisfaction.
I consider lying, but we’re beyond that now. “How you’ve become everything.”
The truth of it hits me as the words leave my mouth. Before Amelia, my life had clear compartments: the club,the hunt, the preservation of my victims. Adrian was my only real connection. But now—Christ, now my entire universe has reconfigured itself around her.
“I’ve had lovers,” I tell her, rolling onto my side to better see her face. “Submissives. Arrangements. But never this.”
Her eyes meet mine, questioning.
“You weren’t part of any plan.” My hand cups her cheek. “You were supposed to be a distraction. A cover. Nothing more.”
I think about how easily she saw the patterns in my work, recognized the predator behind my careful facade. How, instead of running, she stepped closer.
“And now?” she asks.
“Now you’re the only thing that matters.” The admission scrapes my throat raw—vulnerability was never my strong suit. “You’re in my blood, Amelia. Under my skin.”
She shifts, pressing her body against mine, and I realize I’ve never let anyone this close—not physically, not mentally. She knows what I am, has seen my gallery, understands the darkest parts of me, and still chooses to remain.
“I’ve never shown anyone everything before,” I whisper against her hair. “Never wanted to. But with you—fuck, with you I want to tear myself open so you can see all of it.”
I’ve built my life around the careful execution of plans. Amelia shattered that in a matter of weeks, and instead of rebuilding my walls, I’ve invited her inside the ruins.
“You’re my fucking world now,” I tell her, the words sounding like both surrender and triumph. "You're my muse, baby, but don't forget—beauty can hide the darkness."
29
AMELIA
Iwatch Gregory Walsh read my invitation for the third time, his eyes narrowing at the screen. His response arrives moments later:
Amelia, what an unexpected pleasure. An exclusive showing at The Blue Room? Of course I’ll attend. Perhaps we can discuss your... prospects.
I smile at his thinly veiled proposition. The bastard thinks I’m desperate enough to get on my knees for his professional validation—willing to offer whatever he wants in return.
“He took the bait,” I tell Gabe, showing him my phone.
Gabe’s eyes darken with anticipation. “Of course he did. Men like Walsh can’t resist the opportunity to exert power.”
We descend the stairs to the basement beneath The Blue Room, where Gabe has been preparing our special exhibition space. The room looks nothing like it did when I first glimpsed his preserved victims. Now it’s transformed into a meticulous torture chamber.
“What do you think?” Gabe asks, pride evident in his voice.
I take inventory of what he’s assembled: surgical tools arranged on a steel tray, various knives organized by size, coils of rope, and a sturdy chair bolted to the floor in the center of a plastic-lined area. Drainage grates have been installed beneath. Nothing will be wasted.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, running my fingers over the leather restraints. “He’ll know exactly why he’s here before we’re finished.”
Gabe steps behind me, his hands sliding around my waist. “I’ve added something special.” He guides me to a small table where a box of pristine chocolates sits. “Adrian made these. They’ll be the last thing Walsh tastes.”
