Page 47

The packing tape makes a sharp ripping sound as I seal the last box, the noise unnaturally loud in the hollow space that used to be my bedroom.

Everything that defined me for two years fits into six cardboard containers—clothes, books, the ceramic mug my mom sent for my birthday, the succulent that somehow survived my complete inability to keep anything green alive.

It’s strange how little space a life actually takes up when you strip it down to its essentials.

Cassidy hovers in the doorway like a ghost of our friendship, arms crossed over her chest, watching me with barely concealed resentment.

She’s been like this for days—following me around the apartment with those wounded blue eyes, making pointed comments about how quickly I’m moving on, how convenient everything has become.

“So that’s it?” Her voice cuts through the silence, sharp with hurt and accusation. “You’re just leaving?”

I don’t look up from labeling the box in my neat, careful handwriting. Books - Bedroom. The black Sharpie bleeds slightly into the cardboard, creating fuzzy edges around the letters that remind me of blood seeping into fabric.

“We both know this hasn’t been working,” I say, capping the marker with a decisive click.

“Because you’ve changed.” The words come out like an accusation, like I’ve committed some unforgivable crime by evolving beyond her expectations. “Ever since that night, you’ve been different.”

Finally, I lift my head to meet her gaze. She flinches slightly at whatever she sees in my eyes—something harder than she remembers, something that no longer apologizes for taking up space in the world.

“Maybe I just stopped pretending to be someone I’m not.”

The silence that follows is thick with the weight of everything we’re not saying.

Cassidy takes a step into the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. “The FBI closed the case this morning,” she says, her voice carrying an undercurrent of accusation that makes my spine straighten. “Jack’s death was ruled accidental. No foul play.”

I keep my expression neutral, unimpressed. “Good. That means I can stop looking over my shoulder.”

“Funny how things work out,” she continues, and now the accusation is explicit, hanging between us like a blade. “Convenient timing with your new boyfriend.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. I stand slowly, deliberately, letting my full height remind her exactly who she’s dealing with. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Cassidy has always been braver than smart. “Nothing. Just... convenient timing, that’s all.”

I take a step toward her, and she actually backs away. The movement is instinctive, involuntary—prey recognizing a predator. Good. She should be afraid.

“Be very careful what you’re implying, Cass.” My voice is soft, conversational, which somehow makes it more threatening than if I’d shouted. “Because once you say certain things, they can’t be unsaid.”

The color drains from her face as she finally understands what I’ve become. This isn’t the anxious psych major who used to ask permission to turn up the thermostat. This is someone who drinks blood from silver chalices and belongs to organizations that make people disappear.

She takes another step back, stumbling slightly over the doorframe. “I... I didn’t mean...”

“Yes, you did.” I cross to the dresser, collecting my purse and slinging it over my shoulder with casual grace. “But you’re smart enough not to repeat it.”

“I’ll send someone for the boxes,” I add, moving past her toward the door.

“Rhea, wait.” Her voice cracks like breaking glass, and for a moment she sounds like the girl who held my hair while I threw up tequila freshman year. “I’m scared for you. This isn’t you.”

I pause in the doorway, looking back at her one last time. For just a second, something soft flickers in my chest—a ghost of who I used to be, who she remembers me being.

“This is me, Cass,” I say quietly. “This has always been me.”

I walk away without looking back, my heels clicking against the hardwood in a rhythm that sounds like a countdown to something irreversible.

Thatcher’s penthouse feels like stepping into another world—a realm of floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive art, where everything is pristine and controlled and exactly where it belongs.

Like him. The afternoon light streams through the glass walls, casting geometric patterns across marble floors that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

He’s waiting by the windows when I arrive, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys his kingdom spread out below. The city looks different from this height—smaller, more manageable, like a chess board where every piece has its designated place.

When he hears my heels on the marble, he turns, and the sight of him still makes my breath catch. Even now, even after everything, even knowing exactly what he’s capable of—or maybe because of it.

“How did it go?” He asks the question like he genuinely cares.

“She mentioned the case being closed.” I set my purse down on the pristine glass coffee table, my reflection multiplying in its surface like fractured versions of myself.

Thatcher crosses to me in three quick strides, his hands coming up to frame my face with surprising gentleness. His palms are warm against my cheeks, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones like I’m something precious.

“Are you okay?”

The question surprises me. Not whether I handled Cassidy well, not whether there are loose ends to tie up. Just whether I’m okay.

“I am now,” I breathe, and mean it completely.

His kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, like he’s checking for cracks in my armor. But when I melt against him, when my arms wind around his neck and I press closer, something shifts. The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more demanding.

Without breaking contact, he lifts me easily, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. Our bedroom now. The thought sends heat spiraling through my veins.

He sets me down beside the massive bed, hands already working at the buttons of my silk blouse. But his movements are different this time—deliberate and worshipful rather than desperate and claiming. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

“I’ve wanted you here,” he murmurs against my throat, his breath hot against my pulse point. “In my bed, in my space. Mine completely.”

“I’ve been yours,” I whisper back, my fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him close.

“Not like this.” He pulls back to look at me, eyes intense in the golden afternoon light. “Not chosen. Not free.”

My blouse falls away, followed by my pants, until I’m standing before him in nothing but black lace that was chosen specifically with this moment in mind. He takes his time looking at me, drinking in every curve and hollow like he’s memorizing me.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Dove.”

I reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion, my palms immediately going to map the familiar territory of his chest. The muscles flex under my touch, and I can feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Show me,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “Show me what it means to be yours when I choose it.”

He lifts me onto the bed with reverent hands, following me down until his body covers mine. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I arch beneath him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything.

“Always so ready for me,” he growls against my skin. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready for him.

“Only for you,” I breathe, the words catching in my throat as his fingers slide deeper, finding that perfect spot that makes my back arch involuntarily.

His thumb finds my clit, and the first touch sends electricity shooting through my nerve endings.

He moves in slow, deliberate circles, each pass building the tension coiling tight in my belly.

My thighs start to tremble against his hand, and I can feel myself getting wetter with each stroke, my body opening for him like it was designed for his touch alone.

When he positions his dick at my entrance, I can feel the heat of him, thick and hard and perfect.

He pushes in slowly—so slowly I can feel every ridge, every vein as he stretches me open.

My breath hitches as he fills me inch by devastating inch, my body accommodating his size with a sweet burn that borders on too much.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sinks deeper. The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, like he’s reshaping me from the inside out to fit him perfectly.

“I love you,” he says when he’s buried completely inside me, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between our lips. His voice is rough, almost broken with emotion. “I love you.”

The words send warmth flooding through my chest to mix with the heat building between my thighs. “I love you too,” I breathe, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper. “I’m all yours.”

He starts to move then, withdrawing almost completely before pushing back in with agonizing slowness. Each thrust is deliberate, measured, like he’s savoring every second of being inside me. My inner walls clench around him, trying to hold him, keep him, never let him go.

“So tight,” he groans against my mouth, his rhythm gradually building. “So perfect. Made for me.”

The friction is incredible, each drag of his length against my sensitive walls sending sparks of pleasure racing through my nervous system. I can feel myself getting wetter with each stroke, making it easier for him to slide deeper, hit that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

“Thatcher,” I gasp, my back arching as he hits that perfect angle. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me as pleasure builds like a storm in my belly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”