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Niamh’s pants grow louder, and I know she’s close to coming, so am I.
“Fuck!” Diarmuid’s word and his quick thrusts let me know he’s close to my excitement nearly bubbles over, but I want to see his face as he comes inside me.
Niamh cries out as she comes on her finger.
“Good girl,” Diarmuid says to Niamh.
He moves quicker inside me. The sound of our heavy breathing and flesh slapping against flesh has me digging my nails into my thighs that I hold up. He cries out as he fills me with his cream, but he doesn’t slow, allowing me to come with him. We ride high, and I close my eyes as a burst of light flashes behind my lids.
My body shudders with each explosion, and when Diarmuid slows down and pulls out of me, I’m still fighting to stabilize my breath.
I lower my legs down, and when I open my eyes, Diarmuid is looking at me, and I swear I see something loving in them.
My cheeks heat, and I glance away. Too many emotions are spinning.
“We better pack everything up.” Niamh declares as she slips off the bed, and I think I detect a note of disappointment.
As Niamh gets dressed, Diarmuid reaches out his hand to help me rise. When I’m standing beside him, I’m surprised with the light brush of his lips against mine. It’s words not spoken and words I’m not ready to hear.
We get tidied up and dressed, and then, without any words, we start packing up all the research.
After what feels like a few hours, I hand Diarmuid the last bit of research, and he reaches past me to flick off the light to the empty-looking apartment.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Amira
AS I SIT at my new desk, the stack of photographs before me feels heavier than mere paper should. Wolf's generosity—or perhaps strategy—has granted me an office space adjacent to his own. The quiet here is thick, a contrast to the chaos that has engulfed our lives since the Harvest Moon Ball. Since that night, Wolf has been different: incapacitated yet unpredictably violent and alarmingly insatiable. I wince, remembering how my hair became his favored leash as he took what he wanted from me in the bedroom. He was never gentle; I was starting to believe he was incapable of anything but volatile and violent movements. Most times, he took me from behind, never wanting to look at me. Or maybe he didn’t want me to see him. To see the monster that lurked under his flesh. But I saw it; I didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was rotten to the core. His darkness was so deep that I swear there wasn’t much human left in him anymore. In my times of need, I would try to reach out to that more humane side of him, but I’ve never found it, and I don’t think I ever will. It’s well and truly gone.
Rubbing my neck, I distract myself with the task at hand. Not the million images of him fucking me with a vengeance that hurt so much. I often went to other places in my mind, but his constant hammering into me would pull me back and keep me present.
The photographs spread across my desk show faces too young to be marred by our dark world. Boys and girls, aged ten to fifteen, stare back at me from both poised social media poses and secretive candid shots taken by a long lens. Each image is a stolen moment, a snapshot of a life that might soon be uprooted. Be destroyed by the darkness that has soaked this world, and I fear there is no escape for any of us.
I've never asked Wolf about his '’cargo’'—a term that chills me to my core. I've justified my ignorance by imagining these children as unfortunate souls swept away by the poor choices of their parents. But the truth is simpler and far more sinister. These photographs are not just images; they're selections. Choices I am complicit in, as I push some photos aside and draw others closer. Those I choose will soon transition from being vibrant kids to just names and faces on missing posters.
The silence is broken by the subtle click of my office door.
“Miss Amira,” the voice belongs to the maid from the hallway, the one who ignored my suffering the first time that Wolf raped me. She has become a target for me, one I enjoy torturing. One I can focus on to take my mind off my own suffering. My small way of gaining back some control.
I press my hand against my leg, feeling the cool metal of the pistol concealed beneath my dress. Wolf's rules are always strict and demeaning; one insists I be presentable and sexy at all times. It's degrading, a rule crafted solely to belittle me. Yet, ironically, it offers the unexpected benefit of making it easier to hide my gun. One I wish I could use on not just Wolf but this maid also. I will have my time.
The maid's gaze meets mine, sharp and judgmental even after the slap I delivered earlier. Clearly, she hasn't learned much, her eyes now scrutinizing me even more critically.
"What is it?" I snap, unable to keep the irritation from bleeding into my tone.
"It’s your mother, ma’am," she replies, her voice steady.
Despite my repeated requests to be addressed less formally, she insists on "ma'am" over "miss." It grates on me, adding to the tension already simmering.
"What about my mother?" I ask, my voice tight, bracing for what might come next. The simple mention of my mother always sets my nerves on edge, a cascade of old wounds threatening to reopen.
"She is disturbing the students," the maid explains, her voice low but distinct.
Wolf's downward spiral wasn't just his own demise; it dragged everyone connected to him into the abyss, including my mother and me. His latest experiments with hallucinogens had escalated, pushing my mother beyond her limits until I couldn't bear to watch any longer. Now, her disturbances were becoming a public spectacle. Her screams reaching from the belly of the basement all the way to the first floor where the students were being taught.
Her voice, growing louder even from a distance, pulls at my already strained patience. I narrow my eyes at the maid, my gaze sharp and searching, before setting down the photographs I had been pretending to sort through. They're just another facade in this house of secrets.
"Come with me. I may need your help," I command more than request, standing abruptly.
