Page 13

T his was my dream home. Daphne, a regular customer turned friend, greeted me at the door of her lavish townhouse.

"I always look forward to your weekly visits, Oakley." Daphne tossed her long black hair over her shoulder, her fair complexion nearly glowing in the afternoon light. As always, she was dressed in a sports bra and tight workout pants that showcased her tall, toned figure—the picture of effortless perfection.

"You just look forward to the treats I make you," I teased, handing her the parcel of cookies, reluctant to let go of the paper—the one thing I could still control.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced in golden rays. Mason jars filled with dried herbs lined the weathered windowsills, their earthy scents mingling with the fresh pink flowers sprouting from rustic pots. Every detail was the perfect farmhouse aesthetic–from the sage green counters to the rustic burgundy and white walls that somehow clashed in the most soothing way.

I followed Daphne to her kitchen, trying not to wince as I remembered the forgotten cupcakes for her boyfriend sitting on my counter at home. V had distracted me this morning, prowling my kitchen while making coffee, his presence suffocating–lingering long after he'd gone.

My pulse kicked at the thought of seeing him later, sending an unexpected flutter through my chest. His words from yesterday still echoed in my mind: "I felt my heart beat for the first time when I saw you." No one had ever said anything like that to me before—certainly not a man who dealt in death.

I still couldn't believe I'd offered to help him understand emotions. I needed a plan, and fast. Not just for him, but for myself. Each time I saw vulnerability beneath his dangerous exterior, it became harder to remember why I should keep my distance.

Maybe I could ask Daphne's advice. With her model-like grace, she always seemed to have everything figured out. She didn't know who V was, which made her the perfect sounding board. Our weekly chats had become something of a tradition. She spent her days alone until her boyfriend, Chet, came home.

We settled at her dining room table, steam rising from my teacup beside a perfectly placed butter cookie. Through the sliding glass doors, sunlight warmed the antique decorations that I'd been secretly coveting for my own future home. My gaze lingered on a framed photo of Daphne and Chet laughing, carefree. The pang in my chest intensified, a reminder of dreams that could never be mine. One day, I told myself. When I had my own bakery.

"Mmm." Daphne's delicate bite sent butter cookie crumbs dusting the corners of her perfectly glossed lips. "Delicious as always, babe."

Steam curled from my tea, giving my restless hands something to hold. The familiar knot in my stomach tightened at the thought of eating the cookie in front of her. Another reminder of how broken I truly was. "Thank you. I never heard of butter cookies until you requested them."

"Kourabiedes remind me of home." Her eyes softened with memories as she savored the last bite. The late afternoon sun caught the powdered sugar on her fingers as she brushed them off. Her gaze dropped to my untouched cookie—same as every week. "A cookie isn't going to kill you, honey."

"I know." Another lie on my soul. "I just ate so I'm not that hungry."

She mercifully let it drop. "Did your boyfriend take you out?"

V's image flashed through my mind, warmth flooding my face. "I-I don't have a boyfriend."

Daphne sank back into her cream plush dining chair, the fabric whispering against her designer outfit. "You're a cute girl," She shrugged, bangles clinking softly. "I guess I'm just surprised you're twenty years old and single."

"Single and not looking." And any man interested would end up dead. A chill ran down my spine at the truth of it. I'd seen the coldness in V's eyes when men looked my way. His claim on me wasn't just affection—it was something more complex, a protection that bordered on possession. The same hands that couldn't feel the burn of a hot pan somehow felt something when they touched me.

I'd be single until the day he died–or until he figured out I wasn't worth his protection anymore. My stomach dropped at the thought, a cold hollowness spreading through me.

"I wasn't looking when I met Chet." Love softened her features as she smiled. "Now five years later, we've built a fruitful life and are happier than ever." Her hand slid over mine across the polished table—warm, grounding. "Love will find you when you least expect it to."

The weight of those thoughts pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. I needed perspective, someone to shine a light through the darkness that surrounded my relationship with V. Someone normal who didn't know the dangerous world he inhabited.

"C-Can I have some advice?"

Daphne perked up, setting down her teacup with a gentle clink. "Shoot."

"I have this... friend." The word felt inadequate for describing V. Friend implied equality, mutual respect—things that existed in a world far removed from ours. How could I explain a man who burned himself on baking pans without feeling it, who confessed his heart only beat for me? "I think he's been through a lot and doesn't know how to show emotion. I offered to help him sort his feelings but..."

"But you can't even grasp yours, right?"

Heat crept up my neck as I tucked my chin. My own emotions were a labyrinth I'd stopped trying to navigate long ago. "Y-Yeah."

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, her golden ring catching the light along with her perfectly manicured nails. "Want my honest opinion?" The directness in her tone made my stomach flutter. "I think it would be good for you." She wagged her finger at me. "You're a people pleaser to a fault. You don't want to let this… friend down." The way she emphasized friend made me wonder if she saw right through me.

Her hand found mine, warm and reassuring.

"We're all broken in our own ways," Daphne said, leaning forward. "Sometimes helping someone else through their shit helps you figure out your own. It's like getting outside your head for once, you know?" She stirred her tea slowly, eyes a little too focused on the swirl. "Sounds like your friend's got demons. You sure you're not one of them?"

The irony wasn't lost on me–planning to teach emotions to V when I could barely navigate my own. Her words settled deep in my chest, carrying a weight I hadn't expected. Here I was, sitting in this perfect farmhouse, about to guide a killer through feelings I still struggled to identify in myself.

I circled the rim of my teacup. "But how can I teach him when I don't understand my own?"

"Emotions are difficult to navigate." Daphne's gaze drifted to the wall, settling on a mosaic where blue and red glass merged into a heart. The afternoon light caught the edges, casting colored shadows across her face. Her hand squeezed mine, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Even the strongest of us don't realize how we feel until it's too late."

Her words hung in the air between us, leaving me to wonder if she was speaking from experience. I opened my mouth to ask her more when we were interrupted.

The sudden click of the front door made me jump, tea sloshing dangerously close to the cup's edge. Heavy footsteps approached – confident, unhurried – before Chet appeared in the doorway. His dirty blonde hair was perfectly styled, shaved at the sides in a way that screamed both professional and dangerous, with flecks of gray at his temples that hinted at his maturity. The well-trimmed beard that framed his strong jawline held similar silver streaks, giving him an air of authority that only came with experience. When he spotted me, his face split into a charming grin that made my throat tighten. "Got somethin' for me, sugar?"

My chest seized, tight and aching, breath caught under his gaze. Logically, I knew Chet was safe—he'd never been anything but kind—but my body refused to believe it. Tremors started in my arms, forcing me to set down my cup before disaster struck. "I-I did, well I don't. I just forgot them at my apartment."

His expression shifted to one of mock disappointment, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. "That's a shame. Been looking forward to those all week."

Guilt churned through my stomach, eroding my fragile calm. He probably thought I was terrible, unreliable, maybe even that I disliked him. My heart hammered against my ribs as scenarios of ruined friendships spiraled through my mind like vultures circling a fresh kill.

"I-I'm so s-sorry," I stammered, my voice betraying my anxiety. "I p-promise I'll bring extra next time to m-make up for it." My fingers twisted together in my lap, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm just teasing," Chet's voice softened as he noticed my distress. My nails bit into my palms, trying and failing to anchor myself as panic spiraled higher. He moved to Daphne, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Something passed between them – a look, an understanding, a language spoken without words. "Appreciate you makin' me somethin'. You can stop by any time, even without the treats." He winked, but there was kindness in it, not flirtation.

"Don't tease her, babe." Daphne's amused tone barely registered through the rushing in my ears. "You look like you're about to faint, Oakley."

She wasn't wrong. The room felt too warm, too small, my vision narrowing at the edges like I was peering through a closing camera lens. Porcelain rattled against porcelain as I abandoned my tea. Every heartbeat echoed in my ears, drowning out whatever Daphne was saying.

"I-I, uh—" Words failed me completely, my tongue feeling thick and useless. The familiar tightness closed around my throat, each inhale felt stolen.

"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Sympathy crossed Chet's features, his eyes softening as he read my distress. That gentle understanding made everything infinitely worse. I didn't deserve their concern. Kindness was wasted on broken things.

"Y-You didn't." The lie tasted bitter as I fumbled for my purse, nearly dropping it in my haste. My fingers refused to cooperate, clumsy and trembling. "I-I'll see you next week. With those c-cherry cupcakes." The words tumbled out in a rush, sentences bleeding together as I rose from the chair too quickly, making the room tilt.

Daphne reached toward me. "Oakley, you don't have to?—"

"I really should go. Th-thank you for the tea and the advice." I managed to force out, mustering what little composure I had left. My voice sounded strained even to my own ears. I avoided Daphne's concerned eyes, unable to bear another second of what felt like pity. With a polite nod to both of them, I clutched my purse to my chest like armor.

The plush carpet muffled my hurried steps as I moved toward the door, having to pass by Chet's tall frame. I kept my head down, murmuring a soft "excuse me" as I squeezed past him. Though I didn't look up, I could feel him watching me, heavy with questions I couldn't answer. I struggled with the handle as I fumbled my way to freedom.

The sunlight outside was too bright, too harsh against my skin. The short walk to my car felt endless. My chest locked, air snagged in my throat. The world around me blurred at the edges, sounds muffled as if I were underwater.

Finally inside my car, I slumped against the steering wheel, lungs aching. My blown pupils stared back from the rearview. Through my windshield, I could see their perfect house with its perfect occupants. Chet had moved to the window, his arm around Daphne's waist as they talked, their silhouettes framed by warm light. Probably discussing the awkward mess that just fled their home, the girl who couldn't handle a simple social interaction without turning into the kind of disaster people pity.

They looked like something out of a magazine – beautiful, put-together, normal. Everything I wasn't.

As I approached the end of their street, a motorcycle idled on the corner. I paused, pulse kicking, before it sped away. Coincidence, or V's watching me again? I shook the thought away and kept driving.

Maybe Daphne was right about broken people helping each other heal, but what she didn't understand was that some breaks couldn't be mended with gentle words and good intentions.

What if there wasn't enough of me left to help him? What if helping him meant losing the fragile calm I'd clawed together? What if I unraveled just trying to hold him together? The thought terrified me more than his violence ever had. Some people weren't meant to be fixed—and I wasn't sure either of us could be.

T en o'clock.

My bedroom felt wrong without him. My nightly ritual abandoned—chamomile tea cooling untouched, anxiety medication still in its bottle. All because he wasn't here.

Our unspoken routine had become my new normal—sometimes joining me for dinner, other nights silently reading while I cleaned. But he was always here by now. I'd only recently discovered his nightly returns after I'd said goodnight, slipping in while I slept. Did he even sleep? Or did he just watch me all night?

The click of my front door lock sent a shiver down my spine—fear and anticipation twisted together in my gut. Boots echoed through the apartment, each step slow, deliberate. The scrape of something dragging across my carpeted floors made my breath catch.

Then silence.

I waited, counting my heartbeats until V's massive frame filled my doorway, wooden bat dragging behind him. He didn't move, didn't speak—just stood there watching me. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. His unwavering stare stripped me bare, assessing me. When he finally leaned against the frame, arms crossing over his broad chest, I realized I'd been holding my breath.

"You're awake." His voice was rough, deep.

"Y-Yeah." The blanket bunched in my grip as I shifted. "I was waiting for you." Heat rushed to my face at my admission, the vulnerability of it making me want to hide.

V remained still, only his chest moving in a steady rhythm. He studied me from the doorway, unblinking, tracking every nervous movement. The silence stretched between us until it felt heavy. Even in the dim light, I could feel the gravity of him—a predator deciding whether to pounce or retreat. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I twisted the blanket in my grip, needing something to hold onto.

"Would you, um—" The fabric strained in my grip. Under his scrutiny, the words felt foolish, dangerous even. But I couldn't stop them. "W-Would you like to lay beside me?" The words rushed out. Good plan, Oakley. My bed suddenly seemed impossibly small compared to how he towered in my doorway. Would he even fit?

The floor groaned beneath his deliberate steps, shadows rising like a tide to swallow me whole. Before I could brace myself, V's massive frame crashed onto the bed beside me, the mattress jolting violently, sending me tumbling onto his chest with a startled gasp. My palms splayed across the rigid muscles beneath his shirt, our gazes colliding as his pulse thundered beneath my fingertips—wild, frantic, matching my own beat-for-beat. The impossible rhythm stunned me; I never imagined anything could set his heart racing like this.

"S-sorry," I stammered, my hands trembling against the firmness of his chest as I tried to push away. Before I could escape, his arms encircled me, one large hand splayed across my lower back, drawing me closer until I felt the thunder of his heartbeat against mine.

"Stay." The word brushed against my scalp, his voice a graveled whisper that sent shivers cascading down my spine, his breath warm against my hair.

My chest thudded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Tingles shot through my body, that feeling like missing a step on the stairs. This was new territory—I'd seen this in movies, couples curled together, making it look so natural. But my muscles refused to relax, unsure where to settle against his frame. His closeness did things to me lately that I couldn't explain. Things that made me wonder if I was broken, or just broken in a way I hadn't recognized before.

He reached for his discarded cut, draping it over me like a shield. His scent surrounded me—smoke and something darker, like ash and gasoline and danger. It should have frightened me, but instead, it felt like protection. Like safety.

I shivered, no matter how hard I tried not to. His exhales stirred my hair, sending currents down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. His arm tightened around me as if trying to still my body's betrayal.

"Are you hurt?" His smoky voice cut through the dark, concern roughening the edges.

"No," I whispered, trying to still my trembling body. His heartbeat pounded against my palms, strong and surprisingly fast.

The silence stretched between us, his attention locked on mine. I worked moisture into my throat, gathering courage I didn't know I had.

"What do you feel right now?" I finally asked, my voice barely audible. The question surprised even me—I'd never dared ask him something so personal before. But with his heart racing beneath my hands, I needed to know if he was experiencing the same storm of emotions crashing through me.

"You, shaking." His grip tightened, possessively spanning across my ribs. "Are you afraid?"

How could I explain that fear wasn't what I felt? This was confusion, nervousness, the overwhelming awareness of how inexperienced I was at twenty. This was standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall could destroy me, but feeling the urge to jump anyway. But afraid? No. Not of him.

Not anymore.

"No," My voice wavered. "I-I've just never done this before."

It was silent until, "What part of a man have you touched?"

The question froze me, bringing the tremors back. His tone was deceptively calm, but I could feel the tension building in his body. "Why?"

His grip became vice-like. "So I know which part to cut off."

He said it casually, eyes on the ceiling like he was discussing breakfast—not mutilation. But the edge in his voice was unmistakable—deadly serious.

"I haven't touched anyone," I said, fear momentarily gripping my throat as unwanted memories threatened to surface. Panic squeezed my chest. In through my nose, out through my mouth—just like my therapist taught me after that night in the woods. "I don't want you to hurt anyone."

"Hurting people is all I know." The confession carried no pride, just acceptance of what he'd become.

"What made you like killing so much?" The words felt strange, discussing death with someone who once embodied my deepest fears. But that fear had changed into something else. These quiet moments had shown glimpses of the man beneath.

"It's what kept me safe." His voice dropped lower, revealing a vulnerability I'd never heard before. "Monsters aren't born, Oakley." His arm tightened around me, protective rather than threatening. Against his taut chest, I felt his heartbeat quicken. "They're created."

I moved without thinking, drawing slow circles over his chest. The hard muscle beneath the soft cotton sent butterflies through my stomach. "You're not a monster." The silence that followed felt different. He allowed my touch, which said more than words could. Each circle against him built a dangerous hope in my chest.

Hope was something I couldn't afford, yet here I was, collecting it anyway.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" The question came out soft, uncertain. It was the most vulnerable I'd ever heard him, this man who wore death like armor.

I lifted my head, meeting his intense gaze. "You're going to sleep?" His fingers briefly tightened around my waist, silently promising what he couldn't say aloud. That he would make himself vulnerable—even for a moment—was nothing short of miraculous.

"I feel lighter when I'm with you." His confession came with a slow blink, those thick black lashes brushing his cheeks. "I don't understand what it means." There was genuine confusion in his voice as if these feelings were foreign to him. As if he'd spent so long in darkness that light hurt.

A small smile tugged at my lips as understanding dawned. "Safe," I whispered, laying my head back on his chest. The flutter against my cheek steadied me. "You're safe with me, V."

He blinked once as if trying to process a word he'd never been given before. The irony wasn't lost on me—the most dangerous man I'd ever known, seeking safety in my arms.

"Safe." The word rolled off his tongue like he was testing it. His confusion was heartbreaking. His arm lifted, and for a moment, I felt a pang of loss. But then he reached for my hair, threading through the loose strands with unexpected gentleness. The sensation below my ear made the butterflies in my stomach intensify. "I like how it feels. With you."

Me too.

The words caught in my throat, too raw to say out loud. His steady caress through my hair continued, embedding itself deeper until I feared addiction to this feeling—to him. Everything was changing between us. The dread that once lived in my marrow was fading, replaced by something far more dangerous: desire. A completely foreign sensation that both thrilled and terrified me.

It was frightening. But wasn't everything worth having scary at first? These feelings swallowed me whole—new, wild, unfamiliar. Not fear of harm—fear of the unknown. I'd never imagined myself here, being held. Touched with care. To experience it with V seemed impossible. He was darkness personified, commanding attention wherever he went, striking terror with merely a glance. He looked forged, not born—like violence took on skin.

And me? That question felt too complicated to answer now. What was I but a broken girl playing at normalcy? A collection of anxieties and hormonal issues wrapped in skin too pale and a body too big.

I sank into this moment, this impossible peace we'd found together. My eyes drifted closed, head against his chest where his pulse played a lullaby. As sleep claimed me, I wondered if this was how it felt to fall–not in fear, but in trust. Not off a cliff, but into arms strong enough to catch me.

If this was what safety felt like, I didn't know what I'd do when it disappeared.

S unlight filtered through my curtains, painting warm stripes across my bed. I blinked awake slowly, immediately aware of two things: V's absence and the lingering weight of his cut still draped over me. His scent clung to the leather, smoke and danger wrapped in something distinctly him. I caressed the worn edges as I searched the empty room, knowing he wouldn't be there but looking anyway—a ritual, like checking for ghosts. A habit that felt dangerously like longing.

A flash of yellow caught my attention, drawing my gaze to the mirror across the room—the same mirror V had shattered with his fist weeks ago, cracks spiraling outward like a spiderweb of rage. My heart jumped as I threw off his cut and scrambled from the bed. A Post-it clung to one of the last unbroken shards—bright against the wreckage of me. I shivered as I peeled it off, this tangible proof that last night wasn't just another dream.

Asfalís.

One word in jagged script—harsh slashes and uneven letters that betrayed how little he'd been taught. My phone felt heavy in my hand as I opened the translation app, pulse quickening with anticipation.

The gasp that escaped me echoed in the quiet room.

Safe.

It meant safe.