Page 40

Veronica

V eronica sits across from Ian in Fitz’s Lit and Brew on a Friday evening, the scent of roasted coffee beans curling into the air between them. The atmosphere is far from romantic—muted chatter, the occasional clang of mugs, the low hum of the espresso machine. And yet, it feels like she’s cheating.

On who? Kael, maybe. Raidon, if he were here. But he isn’t.

“You look…great,” Ian says, his voice still as warm as she remembers it.

His gaze holds hers, familiar, steady, untainted by the weight of the past.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” She tries to keep it light, and he laughs softly, that same low, warm, disarming laugh that she was crazy for once, upon a time.

Leaning over the table, Ian grabs the white mug that has his coffee, sipping gently, his eyes pinned on her.

“So…” he exhales, setting the mug down. “How has life been treating you?”

“Good.” The lie tastes bitter. School is a nightmare. Family is a concept she has never known. Friends? Just Shiro. Love? It’s complicated. But she won’t be boring him with this. The less he knows, the better.

“School?” he presses. “How’s that been?”

“It’s only been a few days since the break was over.” She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Nothing much has happened.”

She finally lifts the cup, takes a sip, and lets the heat burn her tongue. Another lie swallowed down.

“Cool.” Ian nods, his gaze flickering away, scanning the room absently.

“And you?” she asks, eager to shift the focus. “How about work? Found anything yet? And did you look into Quantum Pixels’ offer?”

His jaw tightens, barely perceptible. “Oh, that.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t get to the email on time. My sister forgot to mention it to me, so it kinda ended up as a missed opportunity.” His eyes flicker to her. “It was given to someone else.”

Shit.

Guilt grips her like a vice. This is on her—no matter how much she tries to shove it away. If she hadn’t kissed him that day. If they hadn’t been caught, he would still have a job. Maybe they would have still been together, and who knows, maybe she would have fallen for him and this confusion she is currently facing, stuck with one man with two personalities wouldn’t be there.

In the end, she is the architect of her misfortune, isn’t it?

“I missed you, Veronica.”

The quiet confession steals the air from her lungs.

“I missed you a lot.”

Her breath stumbles, fingers tightening around the handle of the mug. “Yeah.” A pause. A hesitation. “I missed you too.”

His chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it closer to the table. Veronica’s lips part in a tiny gasp when he suddenly grabs her hand in his, warmth seeping into her skin.

“Can we work it out?” he asks, the pad of his thumb running soothing circles on the back of her palm. “Us? Can we make us work again? This time, for real?”

It’s just a simple question. And it’s just a simple yes or no. But something begins to lurk in the darkest pit of her mind. Fear. As if something is about to go wrong.

Her heart trips, its rhythm faltering, her nerves on edge.

Then, the glass door swings open, the bell chiming.

The chill in the air is instant, cutting through the warmth like a blade.

A shift. A disturbance.

The kind of presence that makes the hair on the back of her neck rise before she even looks.

And then she does. She looks.

Kael.

He steps inside like a shadow bleeding into the light. The weight of his presence presses into the space, into her chest. He doesn’t enter, he consumes, his presence a quiet violence that settles into the bones of the room.

The easy noise of the café dulls, swallowed by something unseen yet palpable.

Then his gaze finds her. And just like that, breathing becomes an impossible task.

“It’s okay if you need time to think about it.” Oblivious to the danger approaching, Ian still latches onto her hand like it’s his lifeline. “I know it’s been difficult for both of us.” He pauses skeptically.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, finally reading the room, his gaze following her line of vision. But before he can crane his neck to see the bad omen seeping into the room, Kael is by the table.

“Uh, hi?” So unassuming and innocent, Ian gives him a welcoming though slightly skeptical smile, questioning eyes bouncing between Veronica and the man hovering over them.

“What are you doing here?” Veronica asks barely above a whisper, but then she realizes he isn’t even looking at her, but at the middle of the table where Ian’s hand and hers are joined together.

Kael’s jaw tightens, eyes the hardest and darkest Veronica has ever seen them. Quickly, she pulls her hand from Ian’s, her action plunging the poor man into a huge state of confusion.

“Sorry, what’s going on here?” Ian’s eyes shift from Kael to Veronica, then to Kael again. “Is there a problem?” He looks back at Veronica. “Do you know him?”

“I have a history here, so I don’t want to make a scene.” His tone is layered with something lethal, seeping into their skin. “And I’d hate to be forced to.” His eyes fall on Veronica, and the storm roaring in the depths of his gaze makes her want to shrink and disappear. “Get up.”

“But—”

“Trust me, you don’t want me to repeat myself.”

Veronica has never seen the worst of Kael or imagined the extremely wicked things he could be capable of. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she knows his threats can’t be so empty. It isn’t just a means to scare her into obeying his command. She feels like those are just things he can do without remorse. So, when she pulls her chair back and stands, she knows this is the best decision for not just her but for Ian, too.

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?” Ian proceeds to his feet, ready to defend. “Who is this man, Veronica?”

Slamming his hands on the table, Kael narrows his eyes at Ian. “Take a step from where you are currently standing and you’ll not be walking ever again.”

His words are cold, laced with vice and a promise. Veronica knows it, and she guesses Ian knows it too as, indeed, he doesn’t even take another step or dare to blink.

“Move,” Kael orders, his eyes fixing on Veronica.

Veronica can barely make any other bodily movement other than forcing her legs to move. She doesn’t even dare to glance back at Ian. Her eyes remain pinned on the exit door just a couple of steps ahead.

And the closer she gets to the door, the louder the voice at the back of her head echoes. How did he find her?

How the hell did he find her?

“Did you put a tracker on me?” Veronica’s question shatters the heavy silence of the long-hour drive from the coffee shop to the apartment.

She has spent every second of this ride trying to dissect how he found her. And the only answer that makes sense is the fact that somehow, there might be a tracker placed on her. The possibility alone coils tight in her chest like a warning.

“I’m asking a question,” she presses when he doesn’t answer. “You’ve been tracking me. I just want to know why you feel the need to do so and since when has this been happening.”

Still, no answer.

She is glaring at him, but that’s hardly anything effective as his eyes are closed—has been closed the entire ride back to the apartment. His jaw keeps flexing, a vein pulsing at his temple.

He is fuming. But she doesn’t give a damn.

“Kael—”

“Get out.” His eyes are still shut, but his voice is razor-sharp, laced with barely restrained fury.

“Did you put a—”

She doesn’t get to finish the question. In the next breath, his presence engulfs her, his massive frame eclipsing the space between them. His fingers clamp around her throat, shoving her back against the door with a force that sends a shockwave through her spine. Pain cackles through her, sharp and electric.

“Now, listen to me and listen good. ” His words are a blade slicing through her resolve, gruff and layered with something wicked. His voice is hot, laced with the scent of dominance as it ghosts over her skin.

“You are going to get out of this car, go to the room, strip, and wait for me.” His fingers flex around her neck, a reminder that her life is just a fragile pulse beneath the weight of his fingers.

“Nod if you understand.”

Her heart hammers against her ribs, the pounding loud in the car’s suffocating silence. Fear curls in her stomach like smoke.

Finally, she nods, but his fingers linger around her throat before he finally lets go.

She scrambles for the door handle, her fingers shaking as she pulls at the silver lever and stumbles out. Her legs feel weak and wobbly as if she has taken too many shots of something potent. And the whisper of wind against her skin is a cruel reminder of how unsteady she is.

She glances ahead, and her eyes land on the soldier who always stands a couple of feet away from the entrance. Her cheeks tint in embarrassment, knowing even though he always seems unblinking, like a statue, he is watching her through his coal-black eyes; he is always watching.

She wonders what he thinks of her. The house might be sound proof but he must have heard something he didn’t wish to hear. She wonders if he sees more than a stupid high-school girl who gets railed against every surface in the house. Does he also think she is a dumb girl who foolishly got herself tangled up in a web of power and obsession? So, so naive she mistook darkness for love?

The thought makes her stomach twist as she pushes through the door.

The living room is too quiet, too familiar, suffocating her in memories. She shrugs off her jacket, tossing it onto the couch, then kicks off her silver flats before heading into the room.

She sits at the edge of the bed, hands clenched on her lap as her thoughts spiral. When exactly did she take the wrong turn to end up here?

Then the door suddenly swings open and she startles to her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Kael stands there, silent and unreadable. The dim lighting casts a shadow over his face, deepening the darkness in his eyes. And there’s a way he looks at her—jaw clenched, gaze sharp, letting her know he doesn’t like what he is seeing.

“Funny.” His tone is a low, deliberate threat, a crackling whip in the air. “I could swear I told you what to do when you get here. And I remember you nodding in understanding.”

He shuts the door slowly behind him, his back resting on it, hands tucked inside his pockets.

“Kael—” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know you are angry. But I wasn’t going to do anything with him. It was just a harmless—”

“Five seconds.”

Her stomach drops.

“Get rid of those clothes,” he orders, moving toward the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Five seconds or the punishment doubles.”

Punishment?

Her pulse stutters.

Nevertheless, she doesn’t wait to find out what the punishment would entail, or what it would look like when doubled. She quickly yanks the tank top over her head, her fingers trembling as she pushes down her cargo pants, then her panties.

His eyes run over her body, heat licking every part they touch. Then his gaze stops on her arm, lingering, jaw feathering, and she fears this is the day he will finally tell her to take them off—her arm warmers.

A breath of relief leaves her when his gaze finally shifts.

Veronica has no idea what Kael thinks of the scars on her back. He has never mentioned it. His fingers alway trail them, meticulously, as if connecting the jagged lines, trying to create a masterpiece from chaos. But never for once has he uttered a word. Never asked how she got it, or who put them there.

She also doesn’t know if he’s aware why he wears the arm warmers. She never told Raidon either and he didn’t pressure her to. Every time Kael asks her to strip, his gaze always lingers, darkness flashing across his golden eyes, muscle flexing in his jaw. But he never says a word.

And she appreciates it. Because he may have understood that the scars aren’t a discussion she wishes to have.

“Move to the desk.”

A shiver runs down her spine at the brutality of the command, heat pooling low in her stomach. She crosses the room to the desk, all too aware of the dampness growing between her thighs.

She leans against the desk, her lips parting as she watches his slender fingers work at his belt, the slow, precise movement setting her nerves on fire.

“Turn around and bend over.”

Her heart pounds. But she obeys.

With both hands braced on the edge of the desk, she listens for the pad of his footsteps approaching, the quiet sound of leather slipping free from its loops.

Then there is silence as the heat of his presence looms behind her, a dark force pressing against her senses.

She gasps softly, a shiver traveling up her spine when his cold finger brushes against her waist, lifting her hip until she’s on her tippy toes.

And there it is, the sharp crack of leather tearing the skin on her ass. A loud cry tears from her throat, pain and pleasure tangling in the mix. The sting blooms across her flesh, burning, electrifying, awakening something deep and twisted inside her.

“How many minutes did he hold your hands for?” he asks, and she shivers when his cold hand gently touches the welt forming on her ass.

“I d-don’t know.”

Another strike.

Her head snaps backward as another cry breaks past her lips. But the fire between her thighs intensifies.

“Think hard,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark as his finger traces the fresh marks forming on her skin. “Or I will keep going until your ass is all red and you can’t sit for hours.”

Tears burn in her eyes, her breath ragged. She squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to remember.

“Four minutes,” she whimpers, definitely not accurate.

“My bad,” he says, his tone cynical and filled with mischief. “I should have probably warned you that you get extra whips if you lie to me.”

Her heart pounds in her chest at the revelation. Yes, she is currently aroused by being whipped like some stubborn cattle. But that doesn’t mean her body can take that much either. And she definitely doesn’t want to not be able to sit in class tomorrow.

“He held your hands for two minutes while I stood there.” He sounds irritated and agitated. “So, how about you stop dreaming about my cock and give the damn numbers.”

Tears roll down her cheeks.

“It wasn’t for long.” She tightens her hold on the edge of the desk. “Like four to five minutes?”

“Four or five minutes?” His authoritative voice commands her surrender, the huskiness in it lighting her on fire from the inside, painting fantasies in her head. Like how to get dominated and fucked with that voice whispering things to her.

“Four.”

“Start counting.”

The next slash steals her breath. And as each strike lands, sending her into a haze of pain and unbreakable pleasure, only one question consumes her.

What is this darkness inside her?