Page 100 of Two Sides of Sin

I stood perfectly still, watching the confusion and the deep flush of embarrassment wash over her face as she frantically scanned the empty kitchen. I listened with dark amusement as she lied to my brother, dismissing her own survival instincts just to prove she wasn’t crazy.

So fragile, I thought, watching her finally hang up the phone exhausted.

She dragged herself into the bathroom, the sound of the shower turning on a few moments later, echoing through the apartment.

I stepped out of the shadows, walking silently into her bedroom. She had laid out a fresh set of clothes on the edge of the mattress—an oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties.

My eyes locked onto the lace. I reached out, my fingers brushing the soft fabric before I picked them up. I brought them up to my face, inhaling deeply. She smelled like ruin and something intoxicatingly her own. I folded the fabric meticulously and slipped it into the inside pocket of my dark coat. A souvenir for the night.

I moved silently to the bathroom door. It was left open just enough to let the steam escape.

The room was heavy with hot mist. Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I had a perfect, unobstructed view of the large vanity mirror. The glass was clouded with condensation, but the reflection of the glass shower stall behind it was unmistakable.

I stood in the concealed hallway, my hands shoved into my pockets, perfectly still as I watched her silhouette move under the water. The blurred curve of her ass, the heavy, wet weight of her dark hair plastered to her back. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. She was a masterpiece. A perfect, identical replica of the girl who had mentally ruined us both.

I finally pulled myself away from the door, my control hanging by a razor-thin thread. I walked over to her nightstand, where a tall, reusable water bottle sat waiting for her.

I pulled a small, glass vial from my pocket. It was a heavy, tasteless sedative. Just enough to ensure she wouldn’t wake up until I wanted her to.

I unscrewed the cap of the water bottle, letting three clear drops fall perfectly into the water. They diluted instantly. I screwed the cap back on, perfectly placing it back how she left it.

I backed into the darkest corner of her bedroom, blending seamlessly into the shadows and mess, waiting for her to step out of the shower.

The sound of the water abruptly shutting off echoed through the quiet apartment.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaked open, releasing a thick cloud of a sweet scented steam into the cooler air of the hallway. Sage stepped out, wrapped tightly in a white towel, her dark hair plastered wetly to her collarbones. She looked tired and ready for bed. The paranoid, frantic energy from the kitchen had drained out of her, replaced by a deep, bone-weary fatigue that made her sway slightly on her feet.

She walked over to the edge of the mattress, dropping her towel and reaching blindly for the clothes she had laid out.

She pulled the oversized t-shirt over her head, the hem falling to her mid-thigh. Then, her hand patted the duvet. She frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion as she swept her hand over the blankets again, searching for the black lace panties currently sitting hostage inside my coat pocket.

I watched her through the dark, the primal, predatory thrill of the psychological warfare burning cold and bright in my chest.

“I swear I grabbed them,” she mumbled to herself, her voice thick and gravelly with sleep. She rubbed her eyes aggressively, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Whatever. I’m losing my mind.”

It was a beautiful thing to witness. She was so desperate for reality to make sense that she was actively gas-lighting herself into ignoring the blatant evidence of my presence.

She abandoned the search and crawled under the thick duvet. She reached out, her small fingers wrapping around the reusable water bottle on her nightstand.

My jaw clenched in quiet, dark anticipation.

She unscrewed the cap and took three long swallows, oblivious to the fast acting sedative slipping past her lips. She set the bottle back down, turning off the small bedside lamp and plunging the room into the dim, ambient light that was filtering through the window blinds from the street.

It took less than ten minutes.

I watched her chest rise and fall as the drug hit her bloodstream with devastating efficiency. The restless tossing and turning stopped. Her muscles went slack and her breathing slowed to a deep, perfectly timed cadence.

She wasn’t just asleep. She was helplessly paralysed in a chemically induced void.

I stepped out of the shadows.

My footsteps made no sound against the hardwood floor. I crossed the room with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator that had already caught its prey, stopping right at the edge of her bed.

The chaos of her messy apartment, the erratic human emotions—all of it faded away when she was perfectly still. I sat on the very edge of her mattress, the springs groaning softly under my unnatural weight, but she didn’t flinch.

I reached out, my large, cold hand hovering over her face. My fingers trembled slightly—a sickening, intoxicating reaction to decades of repressed obsession.

I gently caressed her face. Her skin was incredibly soft, radiating a mortal heat that I had been starved of since the Manor. I trailed the back of my knuckles slowly down the delicate curve of her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, memorising the perfect symmetry of her face.