Page 49 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

M orning light filters through the penthouse windows, catching the steam rising from my coffee.

The news plays on the wall-mounted screen, sound low but clear.

I adjust the Windsor knot in my tie, watching the solemn-faced reporter standing on a coastal road, emergency vehicles flashing in the background.

“Tragic accident this morning as a local businesswoman’s vehicle went off East Coast Roads.”

The news anchor’s voice drifts from the television, far too polished for the story she’s telling. The camera pans to a mangled guardrail, twisted metal yawning toward a jagged drop. Whitecaps churn violently below.

“No witnesses to the crash, but police suspect brake failure may have been a factor.”

I take a slow sip of coffee, the bitterness coating my tongue perfectly. It pairs well with the satisfaction spreading through my chest. There is no guilt anywhere to be found.

But it’s not the fireball on the screen that I can’t stop seeing.

It’s her .

Caterina. My wife. Naked above me, eyes locked on mine like a dare. Rope in her hands. Her fingers on my throat. Her mouth around commands like prayers.

I came apart for her last night. Completely. Not just physically. Something broke open in me and it didn’t grow back the same.

She gagged me. Rode me like I was hers to ruin. Made me beg without saying a word.

And I fucking liked it.

I’m supposed to be the storm. The executioner. The one with blood on his hands and no soul left to save. Her protector. But last night, I learned what it means to surrender and still be all those things for her. I’d do it again, a thousand times for her.

My cock stirs at the memory, twitching against the press of tailored pants. Not just because of the intense orgasm I had. It was so much more than that. There was power, peace, what it means to trust her enough to give her all of me, and still feel stronger than I ever have.

I don’t know if I’m addicted to her, or if I finally found the version of myself that was always buried beneath ambition and restraint.

But this? This is freedom.

“Looks like everything went according to plan,” Caterina says from behind me. She steps into the room in nothing but a white robe, skin dewy from the shower, damp strands of hair clinging to her skin.

I watch as she pours herself a cup, her movements fluid and unbothered. It’s ridiculous how something so simple can make me pause.

She doesn’t look like a monster. She doesn’t look like the woman who tied me up and rewired my nervous system last night. She looks like sunrise and salvation and sex.

When did I start noticing her like this?

When did I stop seeing her as the problem and start craving her as the solution?

When did obsession crawl beneath my skin and make a home there?

And why the fuck does it feel so good?

“One less threat,” I murmur. “One less traitor.”

She leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of her cup. “Do you feel different?”

It’s not an idle question. She’s measuring me, watching for traces of guilt. Wondering if I’m still the man who needed a reason to kill. A conscience to sleep at night.

I hold her gaze. “I feel great.”

She looks proud, like she was waiting for this exact moment. Like she knew exactly who I’d become once I stopped fighting it. Once I let go of everything I thought I believed in.

She didn’t just fuck me. She branded me. She peeled back the layers of civilized, corporate, charming Aaron and showed me the monster underneath—and loved it. Welcomed it. Worshipped it.

I belong to her in a way I’ve never belonged to anyone.

Cat steps in close, the silence between us charged. Her fingers reach for my tie, adjusting it with precise care.

“Good. Because it’s all going to happen really fast after today.”

I catch her wrist before she can pull away, my thumb brushing over her pulse.

“I’m already there.”

And I am.

I should feel guilt. For the life I ended. For the way the car folded like paper. For imagining her charred body when the fire swallowed the car whole.

But I don’t.

Not even a stutter.

There’s no remorse. No second thoughts. Just that perfect, brutal quiet that follows a clean kill.

Caterina didn’t drag me under.

She didn’t corrupt me.

She freed me.

I wasn’t made for the light.

She gave me permission to become exactly what I’ve always been.

The man who’d kneel for her at night, and kill for her by morning.

The man who would end the world for the woman who owns his soul.