Page 4 of Safe Word

I could still turn back.

Blame the weather, the time, the heat clinging to my skin like guilt. I could call a cab and return to the world without ever knowing what was behind that door.

But I had seen what happened in that world, too. The men who smiled openly still lied. Still took. And I was still unravelling.

I cast a sidelong glance at the mirror. The woman staring back looked like she had stepped out of a magazine: crimson lips, lined eyes, brown contacts. And a Venetian mask.

A stranger in drag, almost.

I exhaled, long and low.

The mask…

That was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just the itch of curiosity that dragged me here like a loose thread I couldn’t stop pulling.

It was the mask. The illusion. The armour that hid what trembled underneath: anxiety, shame, the stitched-up remnants left behind by the man who was meant to protect me.

But that was ancient history. One I’d left behind in the States.

The keycard had stolen the warmth of my palm. It was beginning to feel weightless. Damning.

I didn’t know if I’d come here to take control or to hand it away.

I only knew that the door hadn’t opened yet, and I hadn’t told my feet to leave.

But I needed to break the cycle of nightmares and nights spent checking the locks; the routine that chipped away at what remained of me.

Despite myself, I moved before the decision fully formed. The card slid in with a finality my heart hadn’t agreed to yet.

The light smiled green at me.

My heart thundered as I made that first, condemning step over the threshold. The low thrum of ambient music blended with the sound of my quickened breath. The space was dark, decadent, a velvet-clad secret that seemed to welcome and judge me all at once. The red carpet stretched like blood beneath my feet, its richness muted by the shadowy, purple walls. There were no paintings, no ornaments save for the mirrors.

Here, identity didn’t matter, judgment didn’t exist despite my imagination. Only desire. Only fantasy.

For a moment, I wondered how my cousin had known about this place. It didn’t exist on maps, there were no websites, save for the secure connection portal you couldn’t even reach unless they allowed you to.

My gaze flicked to the chair first – a wicked tangle of cold metal and supple leather straps, promising restraint and surrender. A prickle danced along my spine, my body betraying a thrill I wasn’t ready to admit.

And then I saw him.

He sat on the bed, his broad shoulders spanning the dark headboard as if the shadows had carved out a place just for him. His legs sprawled with careless confidence in an unspoken claim of the space.

The ghostly mask covering his face should have terrified me, should have sent me running. Instead, what it sent was a jolt of heat through me.

He was massive, a symphony of sinew and muscle adorned with scars and tattoos that testified to his darkness. The black contacts beneath the mask glinted faintly in the low light, hiding his gaze. It raked over my short dress, but I felt it on the skin beneath it as it peeled back every layer of pretence until all that remained was something raw and aching.

I wasn’t Paula now – I reminded myself. I was Scarlett – a woman carved from fire and hunger, chasing the one thing that might burn down her demons before they devoured her whole.

The weak flash of sweat on his skin caught the light, accentuating the defined planes of his muscles. My eyes followed the trail of dark hair that led from his chest down to the low-slung waistband of his black jeans.

Heat crept further up my neck. And though women today were conditioned to look away – to guard their virtue, however performative – I let Scarlett look. I let her drink him in, lips parting, tongue slipping ravenously through the seam.

I let her hunger for the devil stretched out on that mattress.

My focus skimmed the tattoos on his forearms; a language of symbols and words I didn’t understand but desperately wanted to read. There was something visceral about him, something untamed that both excited and terrified me – as if he could crush me and nurture me with the same touch.

My legs carried me forward until I stood just shy of the chair – too close to pretend indifference, too far to touch.