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I pick up my phone and call Nicolo. There’s work to do. Arrangements to make. A future to take.

5

ARIA

Iwake with a jolt, my hand flying to the empty space beside me where his warmth should be. The sheets are cold, unwrinkled, as if he was never there at all. But that can’t be. I feel him on my skin, in the ache between my legs. His scent still tickles my nose.

My fingers tremble as fragments of last night slice through my mind—the knives digging into my skin, the blood speckling my floor, and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow me whole. I sit up too quickly, and pain throbs at my temples like a second heartbeat.

“Hello?” I ask softly, wondering and partly praying he is around. No one answers.

I slide out of bed and notice the time. Chiara’s shift would begin soon enough, but she hasn’t texted me to cover. Perhaps Chiara will work her own shift for once. Speaking of which, I should call in sick at the bookstore. I’m too tired. I can’t go in today. I need to rest, to think, to plan. The thought feels distant, unimportant compared to the memories crowding my mind.

Last night. Men breaking in and thinking I was Chiara. They were threatening to kill me, but then he came.

The stranger who slipped through my door like a savior moved with the ease of someone intimately familiar with violence. He made them disappear like it was nothing—then fucked me like it was the perfect end to a perfect night.

I should be terrified, shouldn’t I? But why the hell did he feel so safe? And now that he’s gone, it’s like something’s been carved out of me—like I’m missing a piece I didn’t know I needed.

I grab my oversized sleep shirt, suddenly aware of my nakedness and the bruises forming on my hips—these ones from how he held me, from how I wanted him to hold me. I’ve never been with a man like that before, never allowed myself to say the filthy things I said, to let myself be fucked like a possession. A heat curls in my toes and my stomach clenches, but I cast all those thoughts aside. Those moments aren’t something I’m ready to think about and decipher just now.

Standing at my bedroom doorway, I freeze. My apartment—my usually cluttered, lived-in space—looks like a furniture showroom. The front door is fixed right up. The lamp that one of the men knocked over stands restored on the side table. The floor gleams under morning sunlight. There’s no blood. No evidence.

“What the hell?” I whisper, moving forward on unsteady legs.

It’s as if last night never happened. As if I dreamed the whole thing.

But my body remembers. The soreness between my legs. The shadow of a bruise on my wrist where rough hands gripped me before they were pried away by stronger ones. The ghost of his lips against my ear, telling me he’ll take care of it when I asked what’s next.

I slide down against the refrigerator door until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled tight against my chest. The kitchentile is cold through my thin shirt, and I welcome the discomfort. It grounds me.

Should I call the police? And tell them what—that my night went from terror to ecstasy in minutes? That a ghost of a man saved me,took me like he owned me, and left nothing behind but silence?

They’d think I was crazy. Or worse, they’d believe me, and I’d lead the police straight to Chiara. Whatever trouble she’s in—and it’s clearly worse than I imagined—I can’t betray her like that. We made a pact when we were eight, huddled together in that closet while our foster father raged through the house. We protect each other. Always.

Even when she doesn’t deserve it.

I force myself to stand, moving to the bathroom. I have no choice but to carry on like last night didn’t happen. The shower is hot, almost scalding, but I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my thoughts slow down.

Who is he? Not just any random good Samaritan, that’s for sure. The way he looked at me—like I was already his, like he’d claimed me before he even touched me—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t safe. But it made something deep in my stomach twist with want, even now.

I’m dressed and attempting to smooth down my hair when I hear keys in the front door.

Chiara. My sister’s arrival sets my heart racing again, anger mixing with relief in equal measure.

“Hey sis!” Chiara’s voice calls out, casual as if this is just another Thursday. “You would not believe the night I had. This guy at Veil took me back to his place and?—”

She stops when she sees me standing in the hallway, arms crossed over my chest. Her face—a mirror image of mine but somehow always more confident, more careless—falters for just a moment.

“What’s with the death glare?” she asks, dropping her purse on the counter. She’s wearing last night’s clothes, I can tell from all the wrinkles, and her makeup is slightly smudged. “And why does it smell like lemons in here? Did you actually clean for once?”

“Where were you last night? In fact, where have you been all these fucking days?” My voice is steadier than I expected it to be.

Chiara rolls her eyes, moving to the fridge and pulling out one of the new water bottles. “I just told you. I was with a guy. Why, did you miss me?” She winks, taking a long drink.

“No, Chiara. I was fucking exhausted. I was taking your shift while you were gallivanting around town?”

Chiara shrugs. “I needed a break.”