Page 18 of Safe Word

‘As I was saying,’ she said in a calm, resolute tone, ‘I’ve been writing for a long time now. I’m a published author, mostly in horror romance. Standalone books.’

That got my attention. My brows shot up in surprise, my mind finally kicking into gear. Finally, someone who might actually know what the hell they were doing.

I picked up the papers and skimmed through them quickly.

A CV. Paula DeLuca. Thirty-three. The name alone carried a weight of familiarity I couldn’t quite place. But the real shock came as I scanned the list of her publications – ten books, three of which were listed as bestsellers. My gaze darted back up to her, this time with genuine interest.

‘Are you familiar with my work?’ I asked, leaning forward slightly.

‘Of course,’ she replied, meeting my gaze. ‘I’ve read Sinful Ritual and Dark Manifest.’

I scowled at the mention of those titles, my fingers twitching slightly against the edge of her CV. Both books were relics of my early career, titles I hardly considered representative of what I had become as an author.

‘Those are my earlier works,’ I echoed my thoughts, trying to gauge her reaction. ‘I’ve deviated quite a bit since then. My newer books lean more into explicit themes, heavy psychological tension, and a long list of trigger warnings.’

Her gaze didn’t falter as I slid a copy of my latest book across the desk to her. She reached out a manicured hand and flipped the book open, her fingers deftly finding the two-page section of the trigger warnings. I watched her closely as her eyes moved steadily down the list, her lashes casting soft shadows against her cheekbones.

She read with the sort of composure that intrigued me – no visible reaction, no hesitation. It was almost as if she were mentally cataloguing the horrors.

Most people flinched, some feigned interest to seem edgy. But she took it in like a surgeon reviewing an autopsy report – clinical, efficient. Something else lurked in those eyes. Something I hadn’t seen in the others.

Or women in general.

And just like that, my frustration started to dissolve. Maybe she wasn’t just a name in a pile of useless CVs. Maybe she actually understood the things I wrote – what they cost. What they unlocked.

I wondered, then… what else could she stomach?

I allowed my gaze to wander for a moment, taking in the delicate curve of her pointy jaw and the few loose strands of platinum hair that had slipped free from her neat twist.

My focus shifted briefly to Vinnie, who was propped against the doorframe, wearing a smug grin. But his eyes weren’t on her face. They were firmly locked on her arse.

I focused back on her. It was the details that caught me – those that only I could possibly see. The glint of chain-link earrings dangled from her ears, then the rest of the studs littering the lobe – a wolf, a dragon, a shell, and other tiny symbols that hinted at something darker. She liked pain. She had too many piercings for someone who didn’t know how to enjoy it.

Something about her presence stirred a memory – an echo of Scarlett’s intensity, the same controlled strength that made surrender feel inevitable. It wasn’t just the comparison that unsettled me. It was how much I wanted to unravel her carefully placed armour, to see what lay beneath.

I dragged my gaze back to her face, trying to focus on the cool, stoic expression she wore. But it didn’t matter how controlled she seemed – her presence filled the room, demanding attention without effort.

DeLuca snapped the book shut and pulled me out of my decadent musings.

‘I’m not bothered by the triggers,’ she said.

My gaze met hers.

And then I noticed them: veins of blue threading through the green – eyes like seawater bruised by a coming storm. I hadn’t realised that a moment ago; too caught up in myself. And now I couldn’t look away.

Her face held no nervous flutters, no forced pleasantries, just that stillness, the kind you find in people who have already lived through something that left a mark.

My eyes descended to her mouth – full, curved, with a flush of peach so soft it didn’t belong in a room this sharp. She wasn’t flirting. But fuck, those lips were made to beg – pretty and bruisable whether whispering or screaming safe words. And I wasn’t sure which I would rather hear.

‘Really?’ I asked – rougher than I’d meant.

Because yeah – something about this woman was getting under my skin. And now I couldn’t tell if I wanted her to stay.

Or chase her.

She reached into the gift bag and pulled out a book. The second it slid across the desk, something in me jolted. Recognition, unease. Like déjà vu laced with a dare.

And my pulse stuttered.