.
I’m not actually sure what compels me to write this. You didn’t ask a question this time, and I don’t really have anything to add to what you said.
Except…I do. Obviously.
I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Probably longer than I want to admit. And maybe I should’ve fought it harder—kept it buried, ignored the way my brain keeps circling back to you, over and over again.
Like gravity I can’t escape.
But here it is:
I’ve fallen for you.
I love you.
Not the idea of you. Not the mystery of you. You. Your sarcasm, your passion, the way you care so fucking much about things even when you try to armor yourself in this charmingly romantic nihilism.
The sharp things inside you. And the soft things you keep buried under them. I’ve fallen for both.
But here’s the thing: you don’t have to worry about this making anything weird, because I’m never giving you this note.
Trust me, you don’t want me to love you, just like you don’t want to love someone like me.
But I’m going to keep this for myself, tucked in a back pocket, so to speak, to remind myself of the time I felt completely like myself, without any of the bullshit.
To remind myself what I’m capable of being.
I can’t wait to meet you in a few days.
Love,
-Nero
NERO
Three Months Later:
“Fight?” The Bull growls at Lorenzo Capulli, the Gaitano Mafia family capo that we’ve just found guilty of trying to murder his boss rather than uphold a blood marker he signed ten years ago. “Or flight?”
The four of us still up on the dais lean slightly forward. I glance over and see Carmine tapping his fingers on the table in front of us. Nico, beside me, rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles. I know that’s his “tell” that he’s dying for a cigarette.
Naomi’s busting his balls to quit, though, so I make a note to find his pack before he does and flush them when we end this thing.
Past The Bull’s empty seat next to me, The Stag watches in that utterly cool and—not gonna lie—kinda creepy way he has, just staring like a fucking psycho.
I twist my gaze back to watch as Lorenzo makes his choice.
He glances nervously to the mouth of the labyrinth, then swallows and looks back to the instruments of death laid out on the table.
“Fight,” he spits.
I grin. Good. I could use a little blood sport this evening.
The Bull nods, his shoulders bunching like he’s excited. I mean, to be fair, he is. I like blood and violence as much as the next guy, but The Bull fucking lives for that shit. I’m pretty sure his dick gets hard when he punches motherfuckers in the face and breaks bones.
“Choose your weapon,” The Bull says. He’s doing an admirable job of keeping the excitement out of his voice. But I still catch the glint of glee.
Lorenzo’s eyes sweep over the chains, knives, hammers, swords, even the maces, before they finally stop.
“Those,” he says confidently, pointing.
My heart sinks.
No.
Fucking no.
You prick, are you shitting me?
The fucking guy just picked dueling pistols.
Goddamned.
Motherfucking.
Cock-sucking.
Dueling pistols.
The Bull cocks his head to the side. “You’re sure?”
Lorenzo grins. “Top ranked all-state New York marksman in high school, full scholarship to Colorado State on it, and I was pre-Olympic for the US team.” He looks smug as fuck as he shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll stick with those, thanks.”
The Bull is still for a second. I can practically hear his jaw grinding. Finally, he exhales loudly and turns to glare up at the dais.
“Wolf,” he growls loudly.
My pulse jumps as he steps back up onto the dais.
“I’m not squaring off with that fucker,” he mutters. “You want it?“
“Fuck yeah,” I grin, jumping to my feet.
“Try not to let your boner show on the way down,” Nico mutters. I flip him off and jump off the dais. Then I pick up the pistols, checking them for a single shot each before I walk over to Lorenzo.
“You seem confident.”
He smirks. “Little bit.”
I smile coldly, even though he can’t see it through my mask.
We’ll see, fucker.
Two guards escort him over to the center of the stone circle. We stand back to back as The Stag stands and reminds us we’ll be taking ten paces each and then turning to shoot.
My blood pumps hot. My skin tingles with the thrill.
Motherfucking DUELING pistols, baby!
“One.”
We each take a step.
“Two.”
We keep going as The Stag counts—three, four, five, six, seven—my blood roaring in my ears as my finger wraps around the trigger.
“Eight.”
I grin wider.
“Nine.”
Hell to the fucking yes.
“Ten.”
I’ll give him this, Lorenzo is a quick draw. And I bet he’s a great shot, too.
Or would have been, if he’d had time to pull the trigger before my shot ripped through his forehead.
Am I a better shot than fucking pre-Olympic all New York, blah blah fucking guy?
Probably not.
But when you’re fueled by pure determination and the dick-hardening thrill of getting to use those fucking dueling pistols, finally?
The sky’s the limit.
There’s no post-trial meeting tonight. So when they drag Lorenzo’s corpse away, the onlookers begin to murmur and laugh, changing from spectators to partiers.
Stag lands a hand on my back. “Nice shot,” he growls. He nods at the crowd, mostly the women who are already in various states of undress. “Joining us?”
I give him a look. “What do you think?”
He chuckles. “I think I’ll be seeing you another time. Hi to Milena for me.”
“Indeed. I’ll be sure to tell her the anonymous psycho with the fucking antler mask says hello.”
I say a quick goodbye to the rest of them, then I’m out through one of the secret side doors, leaving the underground cathedral behind and heading home.
Well…sort of.
Technically, Greymoor isn’t home yet. But it will be eventually, maybe in year or so, when the extensive renovations are complete.
For now, we like to sleep here every so often, imagining what it’ll be like.
It’s late, and when I lock the front door behind me, the house is dark. I walk past the architectural drawings tacked to the walls and the surveying equipment the engineer left, then head all the way to the top, to Lady Greymoor’s boudoir.
I hope she doesn’t mind that we’ve commandeered it.
Milena’s dance bag is packed and sitting in the hallway just outside the bedroom. Right. She’s got a super early call time tomorrow.
I slip into the room quietly, peeling my clothes off as my eyes roam over her, asleep in bed—blonde hair loose around her shoulders, the faint light from outside painting across her face.
God, she’s beautiful.
Naked, I slip into bed behind her and wrap my arms around her body.
Good. She’s naked, too.
Instantly, because fucked if I can control myself around her, my cock swells and pushes, thickening against her ass.
I want to wake her. Or maybe play with her in her sleep.
Finger her pussy, run my dick over her lips, then push inside—just the head, for a little bit. Or maybe come on her tits.
You know, nothing crazy.
But just as I consider that she told me several times today about her early morning, her voice breaks the silence.
“You going to fuck me with that gorgeous cock, or just rub it against me?”
I grin.
“I was actually contemplating fucking your mouth while you sleep and painting your face with my cum. Possibly your pussy.” I shrug. “Maybe both.”
She giggles as she turns in my arms to face me. “Does it ruin it if I’m awake when you do it?” she teases.
God, I love this woman.
“I’d say that that makes it even better.”
“Well,” she purrs, reaching down between us and wrapping her small fingers around my rock-hard cock, “in that case—hnnng…”
She loses her words I sink two fingers into her. She moans when I kiss her, rolling her onto her back and settling between her legs.
Our eyes lock in the darkness, green against blue, and my mouth crushes to hers, stealing her breath.
Darkness meeting darkness.
The French have a saying: folie à deux. It means “shared psychosis’ or ‘shared delusional disorder’. Maybe that’s us.
Crazy meeting crazy.
Lunacy blending with lunacy.
A shared madness.
Or maybe it’s just called love.
