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It’s large and luxurious, all dark wood and expensive fabrics. But right now its elegance feels suffocating. The weight of the evening’s events presses down on me, a leaden feeling in my chest that refuses to ease.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water play over my skin. I glance down as I soap myself, smirking wryly at the lettering tattoo across my ribs, right under my left breast.
Memento Mori.
Annika’s already heard my dark jokes involving her future husband’s last name being tattooed on my skin, and that maybe the wrong female ward of Kir’s is being forced into this marriage.
But the truth is, obviously, the tattoo has nothing to do with the Mori family.Memento moriis actually Latin for “remember you must die”.
Death is inevitable.
For me, that inevitability is just a little bit more real. A little bitsoonerthan most people, too.
I finish rinsing off, but I stay under the water. The tension in my body starts to melt away, the heat soothing my sore muscles, but my mind is still spinning.
Because there’s something that’s clawed its way into my head, and now it won’t let go.
And by something, I mean someone.
Mal knows. He knows that I lied. He knows what I saw.
I don’t understand. He could have exposed me at any moment tonight. But he didn’t. Instead, he just...walked away. Like he’s playing some game I don’t understand.
What does he want?
The thought gnaws at me, twisting in my gut as I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I sit down in the armchair by the window, staring outside. But I barely register the view. My mind is too preoccupied with Mal and the danger he represents.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me, and I reach for it, scrolling through my notifications absently. Nothing important. Just the usual noise. But my hand hesitates, and then I swipe over to the private browser.
Heat floods my face.
Speaking of dirty secrets…
I shiver as I open the bookmarks tab.
This is a part of menobodyknows about. I suppose Annika might have her suspicions, since we’ve known each other for so long. She certainly knows other odd quirks about me, like the fact that I’m almost always wearing pure, sensual elegance underneath my gothy, dark punk attire.
Lingerie—especially the extra fancy, luxurious Dita Von Teese type—is sort of my weakness. My one “girly” indulgence. Annika obviously knows about that. But she also knows I don’t date, and I’msureshe’s picked up on the fact that in the eleven years we’ve known each other I’ve never once mentioned or even hinted at sleeping with anyone.
That’s because I haven’t.
I think that makes it a bit of a stretch to think Annika knows how deep my darker side goes.
And it goesdeep.
My core tightens as I scroll down to one particular video I’ve saved.
I make sure the volume is very low as I open the link and hit play, watching the familiar scene play out.
The girl on the screen gasps as a man grabs her from behind, his hand twisting a fistful of her hair. He shoves her to the floor, pinning her down as she writhes and moans and whimpers underneath his weight. He frees his fat, swollen cock, the massive, throbbing shaft bobbing in the air right in front of her before he yanks her close by the hair. He slaps his heavy dickagainst her face, and I can feel wet, needy heat pool between my thighs as she obediently and submissively opens her mouth.
It’s a fantasy—one ofseveralthat I’d never in a million years admit to anyone—that I’ve played over and over in my head.
The needy craving for submission that I barely understand but can’t seem to shake. It’s something dark, something primal, and IknowI should be ashamed of it.
I’ve neveronceplayed any of this out in real life. I mean, Annika knows, or at least has a pretty good idea, that I haven’t slept with anyone since she and I have known each other.
She doesn’t know that that streak extends tobeforewe met, too.
