Page 15

T he mirror no longer reflected a whole person. Jagged glass teeth grinned from the frame, each shard revealing a different version of myself caught between the cracks, all wondering what kind of woman let a dangerous man crawl inside her head and make himself at home.

The yellow square waited between the broken pieces, somehow intact despite the destruction surrounding it. My hands hovered over the broken pieces, sensing the malevolent energy radiating from them, as if the glass might still slice me open even without contact.

Peirasmós.

The handwriting was unmistakable—those sharp, angular strokes that looked carved rather than written, the same script I'd seen on the notes he'd left before. It hadn't been there when I went to bed last night, which meant he must have come back after leaving me trembling and unsatisfied.

The thought of him in my apartment while I slept sent electricity prickling across my skin—his massive frame moving silently through darkness, eyes watching me at my most vulnerable. My heart stuttered, breath catching in my throat as I imagined him standing over my bed, watching me sleep.

The ghost of his fingers pulsed back to life between my legs—cruel, precise, and unforgettable. I clenched my thighs, ashamed of how fast my body remembered him.

What kind of girl wanted the monster to come back? Each boundary he trampled should have pushed me further away, but the lines between us kept blurring, and I couldn’t tell anymore if I was letting him in or if he was splitting me open just to crawl inside.

I typed the word into my phone, just staring when the result appeared.

Temptation.

V found me tempting?

A ridiculous question after what happened last night—the way he made me feel unraveled with just his hands, his pressure dragging across my most sensitive places, leaving invisible trails my nerves couldn't forget.

What did it say about me that I no longer jumped when he appeared uninvited? That I'd stopped flinching every time those scarred hands reached for me? I used to scream inside when he touched me. Now, my silence scared me more.

No one had ever looked at me like that before. I was never anyone's first choice—just the sidekick in everyone else's love story, the supporting character never meant to get her own happily ever after. And then he saw me, really saw me, and every wall I'd spent years building collapsed as if they'd never mattered at all.

The contradiction left me dizzy, my thoughts spinning like a broken compass. Those hands—calloused, scarred knuckles —had broken bones and drawn blood without remorse. I'd witnessed enough at the clubhouse to know exactly what he was capable of—the enforcer, the club's personal monster kept leashed in darkness until needed, eyes cold as winter when he carried out orders.

Yet those same hands that delivered punishment now traced my skin with unexpected tenderness, fingertips igniting nerves I never knew existed. The cognitive dissonance made my head swim. My treacherous body apparently had no use for ethics or morality. It remembered only the weight of his body, the heat of his skin against mine, the way he moved with chaotic control that left me gasping for air I couldn't seem to find.

His focus made me feel truly seen in ways I'd never experienced—even as every rational thought screamed that his attention was something to dread, not crave. I wasn't naive enough to believe I was anything but a temporary fascination, though. Once he got me out of his system, he'd move on to someone new, someone more exciting.

Men like him didn't stick around—especially not for women like me, with soft edges where he was all sharp angles and danger.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over V's contact. My screen lit up with a notification from the family group chat. Dad again, checking in for the third time today.

Dad: Just checking on you, sweetheart. How are you feeling this morning?

Mom: I made extra muffins if you want to come by for breakfast. The blueberry ones you like.

Warmth mixed with guilt flooded through me as I read their messages. Their pattern of increased check-ins whenever they sensed trouble was touching, even if overwhelming. After the confrontation a few days ago, their concern had intensified, their love manifesting as constant vigilance.

Me: I'm okay.

Three dots appeared and disappeared several times before Dad's response came through. I could picture him inhaling deeply, trying to choose his words carefully.

Dad: Remember what I said—one call, and he's gone. Be safe. I love you.

Me: Love you too.

Could I call him after last night? The abrasive drag of V’s touch on my thigh flashed through me—unyielding, unforgettable. The harsh sound of his breathing behind that mask as he watched me come undone, the wet heat of his mouth through fabric at my neck. His teeth grazing my flesh sent a current of awareness through me, my nipples tightening beneath my cotton shirt.

How was I supposed to act normal around him now?

Setting my phone down, I exhaled slowly. It didn't matter what I wanted—V would come whether I invited him or not.

Part of me still clung to the illusion I could teach him something human. But another part knew—there was no locking him out. He held restraint in one hand and ruin in the other—and I never knew which I'd get until it was too late. My mind scrambled for options, cycling through our usual activities. He was always reading my books, devouring them like a man starved for knowledge. Color bloomed across my cheeks as I realized the only thing he would learn from those romance novels was how to please a woman.

But real men never did it as well as fictional men did.

My gaze drifted to my bookshelf, settling on the dog-eared romance novels V had been reading. I'd often caught him with them, like he was memorizing instructions. The thought of which scenes he might have committed to memory made my breath falter.

My face burned remembering how he'd caught me with my vibrator, how he'd known exactly where to touch me, pressing against places that made coherent thought impossible. I crossed my legs, useless against the ache that answered his absence like a traitor—the echo of his gruff command not to touch myself still ringing in my ears. I pulsed where he'd touched me, the echo of his command thrumming between my legs, merciless and exacting, while he watched with unblinking focus as I'd writhed beneath him.

A movie seemed like the safest choice. I'd wrap myself in the thickest blanket I owned and build a fortress of pillows between us on the couch. I told myself I wouldn't let him touch me again. The problem wasn't my body betraying me—it was my mind choosing danger with eyes wide open. I wondered what films he enjoyed, if any. I had no idea how he'd react to movies—if he'd analyze them like he did with books or dismiss them entirely.

"Don't be a coward," I whispered to myself, even as my stomach twisted into knots at the thought of facing him. If I didn't call him, he'd show up anyway. At least this way I maintained some illusion of control. The fiction that this was still my choice, my apartment, my rules. Even as the logical part of my brain knew those boundaries had crumbled the moment V decided I was his.

The sticky note still clinging to my shattered mirror gave me the courage I needed—that single word acknowledging the dangerous pull between us. With unsteady fingers and lungs that couldn't seem to hold enough air, I pulled up his contact. I nearly backed out three times, setting the phone down only to pick it up again with renewed determination. Finally, I hit call before I could change my mind.

The phone rang once. "Oakley."

The way he said my name—I remembered that sound against my ear last night. The way it pinned me in place when I'd pressed against his chest during my panic attack.

"H-hey." He didn't respond, so I pushed forward. "Are you busy?"

I heard him set something down, metal scraping against a hard surface. "Not for you."

The stark honesty in those three words pierced me harder than any flowery declaration could have. "W-Would you like to come over tonight?" The words caught in my throat, my fingers gripping the phone too tightly.

"I was anyways."

Of course he was.

Movement crackled through the speaker—something heavy hitting a surface followed by the sharp sound of something snapping. A guttural wail pierced my eardrum, the kind that could only be torn from someone in unimaginable pain.

My throat constricted as I tried not to picture what was happening on V's end. More tortured howls echoed through the phone, a gurgling quality to them now, like the person was choking on their own blood. My stomach clenched when I heard another sickening crack, the unmistakable sound of bone breaking through skin, then dead silence punctuated only by ragged, wet breathing until V spoke again.

"Shut up. I'm talking to Oakley." His voice remained flat despite the screams in the background.

I swallowed hard, clutching the phone tighter as those horrible sounds continued. The morbid curiosity escaped before I could stop it. "I-is e-everything okay over there?"

"Work." He sounded unbothered by the agony I could clearly hear, as if torture was just another day at the office.

Another crack. Another scream, higher-pitched this time, desperate. The wet, slapping sound of something—or someone—being hit repeatedly. My stomach lurched, acid burning the back of my throat.

"Do you...do you need to call me back later?" I managed, trying to keep my voice steady, trying not to imagine whose bones were breaking.

"No." The normalcy in his tone unnerved me more than the screams. The same fingers that had memorized me were likely coated in someone else's blood right now.

The phone nearly slipped from my trembling fingers as another scream tore through the speaker. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, my body's familiar response to violence threatening to pull me under. I didn't need to see what was happening to know—my imagination filled in the horrific details, sending a wave of nausea through me. My lungs seized. I couldn't listen to another second.

"I-I'll let you finish your...work," I stammered, bile rising in my throat. "S-See you tonight!"

I ended the call before he could respond and flung my phone across the bed like it was contaminated. Cold sweat slicked my body, dampening my hairline and the hollow between my breasts. My limbs went numb, fingers trembling as dizziness crashed through me. The world tilted sideways, my vision tunneling as I fought to stay conscious. The sounds of torturing somebody as they pleaded desperately stuck with me. This wasn't just some job. V hurt people… and I knew he enjoyed it.

I sat motionless for several minutes, trying to steady my breathing as the scent of dread filled the room. My gaze met my reflection from the remaining slivers of the mirror—fragmented, incomplete, each one showing a different version of myself. The woman who was afraid. The woman who was curious. The woman who, despite everything, was looking forward to seeing him again tonight.

After last night, the invisible barrier between us had been breached, a divide that could never be repaired. I inhaled deeply, the stale air of my bedroom carrying the ghost of his presence—leather, metal, and something darker I couldn't name. I dragged myself off the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me.

Despite everything I'd just heard, despite knowing exactly what he was capable of, I craved the thrill more than safety. There was something diseased in that craving, something I didn't want to name. It had claws. It had a voice.

And it sounded like mine.

I straightened my spine, steadying my resolve. I would not let fear win this time.

It was time to teach the Devil how to feel—and I was willing to be the cost.