Page 128 of Damsel in Disguise

I don’t entertain illusions I can’t control. And yet I’m waiting for her.

Waiting for her to watch me like this—naked, exposed beneath the spray. The thought alone coils low in my gut, heat cutting through the cold. I like how it ends.

Surprisingly, Ariella loves to watch me fuck that piece of Synthète. That’s what fascinates me the most.

The way she creeps in afterward, thinking I’m asleep, cleaning me off with that quiet reverence—it borders on something primal.

Ownership. A claim she hasn’t spoken aloud.

I’m no one’s to claim. No one’s to chain.

And yet the fact that my mind conjured her in a moment meant only for my mother and me unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.

Tonight I asked Delilah to wear a black leather bodysuit tonight. The cat ears too—just like hers for a controlled provocation.

Now that she knows I know it’s her, I want to see how far her curiosity would bend into something darker. How possessive my little kitty would become when she sees someone else dressed in her likeness.

A faint sound cuts through the steady rush of water.

My lips curve into a smirk. She’s here.

I angle my head slightly, listening more than looking, then flick my gaze toward the half-a-jar bathroom door.

Nothing.

No shadow slipping past. No movement reflected. Where the hell is she hiding tonight?

Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched scream echoes from downstairs. Delilah.

For a split second, irritation outweighs everything else.

Then a thought slides in, colder than the water running over my skin. What if it’s not her?

If it were Ariella, she’d be here—already inside my bedroom, pressed somewhere unseen, watching me with that obsessive focus of hers. She wouldn’t waste a damn on my synthetic wife.

Another scream tears through the house. What if it’s an actual breach tonight?

“Fucking Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s not concern that drives me. Delilah could die mid-fuck, and I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

What was I thinking, leaving the door open like that?

For her. Ariella.

A humorless exhale escapes me as I shut off the water and step out, dragging a towel roughly over my skin before pulling clothes on while I’m still damp. I hate the feeling—fabric sticking to wet skin, but I don’t waste time correcting it.

Another muffled cry downstairs.

Grabbing my glasses from the nightstand, I’m already moving in haste.

The stairs blur beneath my steps, controlled speed masking urgency as I head straight towards the source of the commotion.

“Alistair…” Delilah’s voice breaks when I near in. “Help”

I stop in the doorway. For just one moment, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Which is rare.

There are only a few things in this world capable of interrupting my comprehension. This is one of them.