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The garage door groans as Felix heaves it open, the sound echoing through the stillness inside the house. I stand in the kitchen’s doorway, arms folded over my chest, a knot of anticipation coiling in my gut.

“Got ‘em,” he calls out, a note of triumph in his voice.

He swaggers back into view, a cardboard box cradled in his inked arms. The muscles of his biceps flex beneath the dark artwork etched into his skin. He sets the box on the kitchen bench with a thud that seems to echo my racing heart.

“Eight of them,” he says, flipping through the books like he’s shuffling a deck of cards. “Which one’s first?”

“Start withAll Lies,” I mumble, feeling heat swarm my cheeks. It’s an involuntary reaction, and I hate it.

He plucks the book from the stack and looks at me, his gaze sharp enough to cut. With a gentle touch that belies his savage nature, he kisses my forehead—a brief, soft press of lips that feels like a brand.

“Let’s see what we have,” he murmurs.

With a fresh coffee in hand, he strides to the living room and collapses on the couch, the old leather creaking under his weight. He opens the book, and I can’t help but watch him from across the room—this man, this enigma who kills without flinching, now thumbing through my soul laid bare on paper.

I lean against the kitchen bench, trying to appear nonchalant, but I’m hyperaware of every shift and adjustment he makes. He squirms, rearranges himself, and a low grunt escapes his lips. I swallow hard, knowing exactly which scenes are making him uncomfortable—or maybe it’s not discomfort at all.

“Damn, Aurora.” He breaks the silence, his eyes never leaving the page. “You wrote all these beautiful filthy words?”

“Guilty,” I say, trying to sound indifferent, but there’s a tremor in my voice.

“Is any of this… drawn from your own life?” His dark eyes flick up to meet mine, probing, seeking truths I’ve buried deep.

“Horror parts, yeah. Real as they come.” I force the words out. “Steamy bits? Pure fantasy.”

“Fantasy, huh?” A wicked grin spreads across his face. He stands abruptly, the book forgotten as he stalks towards me.

“Everyone I read…” He’s close now, too close, the heat from his body mingling with mine, “… I’ll bring to life for you.”

I want to scoff, to shove him away, but instead, I’m frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze. His laughter is adark melody that fills the space between us, promising pleasure laced with pain.

“Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me then,” he purrs out before pouncing, pinning me beneath the weight of his desire.

The book lies discarded on the couch, a silent witness to the twisted game we’re about to play.

Chapter Twenty-One

Felix Greyson

As I slide behind the steering wheel of my car, the engine’s growl is a low promise of the violence that’s simmering just beneath my skin. It’s six thirty in the evening, prime time for shadows and scum to crawl out in this city. I’m one of them tonight—a predator on a very specific hunt.

The car lurches forward, tyres gripping the asphalt as I weave through the traffic. My grip on the steering wheel is tight, knuckles white, pulling over a block away from the Korean gang’s hangout. I kill the lights and sit back. The neon sign buzzes and flickers, a beacon for every lowlife with business darker than the night itself. They pass through the doors like sheep to a slaughter. But there’s one wolf among them I’ve come to claim.

“Come on out, you son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath, eyeing every figure that emerges.

Through the windscreen, the world is a stage, and I’m the unseen audience until it’s time for my cue. There he is—the mark. He’s laughing, unaware that death’s shadow is cast long and close.

“Gotcha.”

I slip out of the car, all coiled energy and silent steps. My hand clutches the rag, soaked with chloroform, hidden and ready. Boots on gravel, I edge closer, waiting for him to be alone. I have to time it perfectly. I can’t risk any of his gang spotting this.

“Hey!” I bark, springing from behind the parked car. The guy turns, startled, confusion stamped on his face for a half-second before I clamp the rag over his mouth and nose. His eyes go wide, hands clawing at my forearm—the desperate dance of prey caught in the jaws of the inevitable.

“Shh, it’s naptime, bastard.” My voice is a whisper, a lover’s caress twisted into something dark.

He bucks and writhes, but I’m a goddamn mountain, unmoving, relentless. His muffled screams are music, the rag of a conductor’s baton silencing the orchestra of his panic. The struggle fades, and his body goes limp in my arms.

“Nighty-night,” I say, dragging him back to the boot I left open and waiting like a gaping maw.