Page 28 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

He whispers again, a breath across my neck: “Next time, leave the door unlocked.”

That’s all he says.

He steps away. Gone like smoke.

When I turn around, the room is empty. The lingerie still clings to my skin, soaked with sweat and something else.

I collapse to my knees, sobbing.

But my sobs turn to gasps.

Then silence and longing.

I don’t know what is worse: that I let him or that I wanted him to come back.

The room falls silent. The breaths he pulled with him, emptying the air, leaving only the echo of his absence.

I take measured steps across the rug. Everything feels slow, thick, and dangerous.

Lights flicker back on, harsh and unwanted.

The apartment is bare again, as if nothing happened.

Just a few droplets of moisture at my skin. A lingering scent of something musky. The rippling curtain in the hallway makes a breath of movement under the doorway.

I sink into the mattress. My limbs tremble and the silk clings. I look at my reflection in the darkened glass of the mirror.

My eyes look wet and wild, as if something feral has surfaced. I touch the spot where he made me come. I remember his voice, his hands.

Something changes in me.

I allow myself to feel everything at once—fear, shame, rage, need.

And for the first time, I feel not like prey.

But like the hungry.

I don’t move at first.

The moment the door closes, if it even really closed, something inside me caves inward.

A silent implosion. I stare at the full-length mirror, at the ghost of myself barely upright, silk clinging to sweat-slicked skin, my thighs trembling with the aftermath of his touch.

The scent of him lingers.

Not a cologne. Not anything I could explain. It’s him, wrong and devastating.

I back into the wall, slowly lowering myself to the floor, my breath thin and useless. The shadows in the room are too thick now. They move like they know what I’ve done.

What I’ve allowed.

No.

What I wanted.

I press my forehead to my knees. The silk bra digs into my ribcage with every shaky breath. It shouldn’t still be on me. I should rip it off, throw it away, scream, run, something. But my hands are limp. Boneless. Stained.

My heart is thudding so loud it makes my skin hurt. The ache between my legs still pulses like a secret, raw and alive. Shame doesn’t come in full; it creeps. It slithers up the back of my neck and whispers words I don’t want to hear.

You wanted it.

You begged for it.

You came undone.

My fingers twitch.

No. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I was raised to be. I’ve never submitted to anyone. Not like that. Not without a name. Not in darkness. Not in silk.

But…it wasn’t fear that made me melt beneath him. It wasn’t shock.

It was recognition.

My body knew him.

And that, somehow, is worse.

The apartment is still. Outside, the hum of the city bleeds through the windowpanes. But inside, it’s a mausoleum. I finally stand, slow and unsteady, and cross to the window.

I draw the curtains. Turn off the hallway light. Then I lock every window.

It’s too late, and I know it.

In the bathroom, I scrub my skin raw.

I turn the water to scalding. Watch it redden my arms, my chest, my thighs. I don’t flinch. I don’t weep. Not yet.

Only when I catch my reflection in the foggy mirror with my mouth red and bruised, and my collarbone blooming with ghosted fingerprints, does the first sob break loose.

It’s not fear that fuels it.

It’s confusion.

I should feel destroyed and violated. But I don’t. What I feel is worse, longing.

That terrifies me more than anything.

***

Hours pass in fragmented pieces.

I dry myself mechanically. Wrap myself in a towel and move from room to room. Double-check locks. Check my phone—no calls, no messages. Not even from Beth.

But I see it. In my call history. A single call came in the moment it happened. A blocked number. I hadn’t heard it ring.

My stomach turns.

I check the message history. Nothing. No trace. Just that missed call.

A phantom hand around my throat.

***

By morning, I haven’t slept.

I stand at my kitchen counter, wrapped in a sweater, coffee untouched. The lingerie is gone. I don’t remember putting it away. Maybe I did. Maybe he did.

The silence around me is unbearable. The walls feel like they’re listening.

I open my laptop and stare at the screen. Then, almost without thought, I type:

“I don’t know who you are. But you know me. Too well.”

I hit delete.

I write again. A different line.

“What do you want from me?”

Delete.

Again, “Why didn’t I stop you?”

I don’t delete that one. I just close the laptop.

***

Later that day, Beth stops by.

She brings food, makes small talk. I pretend well like I always have, but Beth eyes me too closely.

“You look tired,” Beth murmurs.

“I am.”

“You…okay?”

I nod. “I’m fine.”

Beth doesn’t press.

But I see it. In my friend’s hesitation. The quiet pause before each sentence. The careful avoidance of any real question.

They’re all beginning to suspect.

But they can’t guess the truth.

***

Night falls again, and I don’t turn on the lights.

I lie in bed in the dark. My legs curled beneath me, my hands under my cheek, like the night before.

I try to stay still. To breathe evenly. As if I might trick myself into forgetting.

But my body remembers. My mouth does too.

The stranger’s breath. The weight of his hand. The silk clinging to my skin while his voice curled into my ear.

I hate him.

I need him.

I am unraveling by my own hand, and I know it.

Still, my final thought before sleep is not of escape.

It’s this:

Will he come back?