I open my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them, and I drown in the darkness of his gaze. As the climax crashes through me in wave after wave of pure, blinding ecstasy, it is his face I see. It is his name I cry out not as a submission, but as a benediction.
He follows me over, his own release wracking his powerful frame as a low, guttural groan is torn from his throat. He collapses upon me, his head buried in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. His full weight is on me, and I welcome it. I hold him as his tremors subside, my hands stroking his back, tracing the map of his past.
We lie like that for a long time, tangled together. This ember of hope in my chest has burst into a steady, warm flame.
He loves me. He must.No one could fake this. No one could manufacture this kind of soul-deep intimacy.
He shifts eventually, rolling to his side and taking me with him, tucking me against his body with my back to his front. His arm is a heavy, possessive band around my waist, his lips pressed against my shoulder. The scars on his chest are pressed against my back, a permanent reminder of the man he is.
As I drift towards sleep, wrapped in the safety of his embrace, surrounded by the scent of us, I finally give in, I finally let go of my guilt, and my shame, and all of it.
I am loved. Antonio Macrae loves me, and I love him back. The darkness is behind me. The future is a golden, promised thing.
I am so beautifully, perfectly tricked.
We fly back the next day. Mateus of course comes with us, and while he spends the majority of the flight tapping away on his laptop, I spend my time buried inside her like I can’t get enough. Something has changed, something tangible has shifted.
Mateus called it an obsession. Perhaps it is, but I dare any man to deny himself when he has such a creature as I have in my possession.
We settle back into our routine, and for a few days we can all of us pretend that this is our life.
But reality has a way of waking you up, of making you realise that dreams are just that, dreams. The real world goes on. The real world continues. And if you fail to keep up then it will happily gut you, and soon enough no one will even remember you existed in the first place.
Nowhere does it feel more evident than this place tonight. Perhaps it is my imagination, but it feels like every ghoul, every piece of shit person is here, sharpening their knives. Do they sense weakness? Do they smell blood? Or am I just imagining that?
I feel the fine tremor running through Grace as we walk back in through those solid doors, back into the Black Orchid.
“Just breathe,” I murmur, my voice low, meant only for her. My gaze sweeps the room, a predator scanning his territory, but my attention is laser-focused on the woman beside me. “Remember what I said. I am here for a meeting, that is all. Nothing will happen to you tonight.”
She nods, a quick, jerky motion. Her eyes are wide and fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at the stage where a woman is contorted in a slow, sensual dance, wrapped in chains that hang from the ceiling.
I know what she’s seeing. Not the performance but the ghost of herself, months ago, bound in silk on that very stage. The memory of her cries, the leering faces, the feeling of my own cold, detached observation.
I feel a surge of something hot and acidic in my throat. Regret? No. Not regret. It was necessary, but the aftertaste is more bitter than I anticipated.
Grace’s hand is a small, gloved fist in the crook of my arm. The deep purple silk of her dress shimmers under the low, crimson lights, a jewel I am presenting once more to a den of vipers.
I guide her to a sunken booth in the darkest corner of the club, a place of relative privacy. The leather is plush and deep, swallowing us whole. I sit first, pulling her down beside me, my arm draping possessively along the back of the seat behind her shoulders.
It’s a clear signal to anyone watching.She is mine. Look, but do not touch.
She folds her hands in her lap, the picture of composed elegance, but I see the tension all the same.
“He will be here soon,” I say, my eyes on the entrance. “A man named Vihaan. He’s a weasel, an information broker who sells to the highest bidder. He claims to have something I need.”
“And you trust him?” Her voice is a whisper, barely audible over the thrumming, primal music.
I let out a short, quiet laugh. “I don’t trust anyone. But I trust his greed, and his fear of me.”
A man approaches. Not Vihaan. One of the many vultures who circle, drawn to power, drawn to the novelty of seeing me with a woman more than once. He makes polite, sycophantic conversation. I answer in monosyllables, my disinterest a palpable force that eventually drives him away. Grace remains perfectly still, a beautiful statue.
The moment the fool leaves, another shape detaches from the shadows and slips into the chair opposite us. He’s all sharp angles and nervous energy, his eyes darting between Grace and me like a rodent assessing a trap.
“Antonio,” Vihaan says, his voice a reedy whisper. “And the lovely Grace I’ve heard so much about. A pleasure.”
I don’t offer pleasantries. “You said you had something.”
“I do.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and the dim light catches the sweat on his upper lip. “But there is a price.”
