I wake with a jolt, my hand flying to the empty space beside me where his warmth should be. The sheets are cold, unwrinkled, as if he was never there at all. But that can’t be. I feel him on my skin, in the ache between my legs. His scent still tickles my nose.
My fingers tremble as fragments of last night slice through my mind—the knives digging into my skin, the blood speckling my floor, and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow me whole. I sit up too quickly, and pain throbs at my temples like a second heartbeat.
“Hello?” I ask softly, wondering and partly praying he is around. No one answers.
I slide out of bed and notice the time. Chiara’s shift would begin soon enough, but she hasn’t texted me to cover. Perhaps Chiara will work her own shift for once. Speaking of which, I should call in sick at the bookstore. I’m too tired. I can’t go in today. I need to rest, to think, to plan. The thought feels distant, unimportant compared to the memories crowding my mind.
Last night. Men breaking in and thinking I was Chiara. They were threatening to kill me, but then he came.
The stranger who slipped through my door like a savior moved with the ease of someone intimately familiar with violence. He made them disappear like it was nothing—then fucked me like it was the perfect end to a perfect night.
I should be terrified, shouldn’t I? But why the hell did he feel so safe? And now that he’s gone, it’s like something’s been carved out of me—like I’m missing a piece I didn’t know I needed.
I grab my oversized sleep shirt, suddenly aware of my nakedness and the bruises forming on my hips—these ones from how he held me, from how I wanted him to hold me. I’ve never been with a man like that before, never allowed myself to say the filthy things I said, to let myself be fucked like a possession. A heat curls in my toes and my stomach clenches, but I cast all those thoughts aside. Those moments aren’t something I’m ready to think about and decipher just now.
Standing at my bedroom doorway, I freeze. My apartment—my usually cluttered, lived-in space—looks like a furniture showroom. The front door is fixed right up. The lamp that one of the men knocked over stands restored on the side table. The floor gleams under morning sunlight. There’s no blood. No evidence.
“What the hell?” I whisper, moving forward on unsteady legs.
It’s as if last night never happened. As if I dreamed the whole thing.
But my body remembers. The soreness between my legs. The shadow of a bruise on my wrist where rough hands gripped me before they were pried away by stronger ones. The ghost of his lips against my ear, telling me he’ll take care of it when I asked what’s next.
I slide down against the refrigerator door until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled tight against my chest. The kitchen tile is cold through my thin shirt, and I welcome the discomfort. It grounds me.
Should I call the police? And tell them what—that my night went from terror to ecstasy in minutes? That a ghost of a man saved me, took me like he owned me, and left nothing behind but silence?
They’d think I was crazy. Or worse, they’d believe me, and I’d lead the police straight to Chiara. Whatever trouble she’s in—and it’s clearly worse than I imagined—I can’t betray her like that. We made a pact when we were eight, huddled together in that closet while our foster father raged through the house. We protect each other. Always.
Even when she doesn’t deserve it.
I force myself to stand, moving to the bathroom. I have no choice but to carry on like last night didn’t happen. The shower is hot, almost scalding, but I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my thoughts slow down.
Who is he? Not just any random good Samaritan, that’s for sure. The way he looked at me—like I was already his, like he’d claimed me before he even touched me—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t safe. But it made something deep in my stomach twist with want, even now.
I’m dressed and attempting to smooth down my hair when I hear keys in the front door.
Chiara. My sister’s arrival sets my heart racing again, anger mixing with relief in equal measure.
“Hey sis!” Chiara’s voice calls out, casual as if this is just another Thursday. “You would not believe the night I had. This guy at Veil took me back to his place and—”
She stops when she sees me standing in the hallway, arms crossed over my chest. Her face—a mirror image of mine but somehow always more confident, more careless—falters for just a moment.
“What’s with the death glare?” she asks, dropping her purse on the counter. She’s wearing last night’s clothes, I can tell from all the wrinkles, and her makeup is slightly smudged. “And why does it smell like lemons in here? Did you actually clean for once?”
“Where were you last night? In fact, where have you been all these fucking days?” My voice is steadier than I expected it to be.
Chiara rolls her eyes, moving to the fridge and pulling out one of the new water bottles. “I just told you. I was with a guy. Why, did you miss me?” She winks, taking a long drink.
“No, Chiara. I was fucking exhausted. I was taking your shift while you were gallivanting around town?”
Chiara shrugs. “I needed a break.”
“You needed a break?” My voice rises. “Three men broke into our apartment looking for you.” I watch her face carefully. “They had knives. And guns. They thought I was you.”
Chiara’s smile freezes, but she recovers quickly. “What are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?”
“They said you owed someone money. A lot of money. They called me ‘Chiara’ and said time was up.” My voice shakes now. “They were going to hurt me, Chiara. They were going to cut me.”
The water bottle crinkles in her grip. “Aria, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t!” I rarely raise my voice, and the sound makes both of us flinch. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this. Not when they were ready to kill me because of you.”
Something shifts in Chiara’s expression. A hardness I rarely see breaks through her carefree mask. For a moment, I see someone else in my sister’s face—someone calculating, someone who’s been keeping secrets.
“You’re okay, though,” she says finally, glancing around the spotless apartment. “Nothing happened, right? I mean, the place looks great. Better than ever.”
I laugh, the sound brittle. “Nothing happened? I thought I was going to die. I had a knife pressed against my throat.” I pull up my shirt slightly, showing her the bruise beginning to bloom there. “The only reason I’m alive is because—”
I stop, unsure how to describe him. My savior. The man who looked at me like I was already his.
“Because what?” Chiara takes a step closer, something like fear finally registering in her eyes. “Aria, what happened?”
“Someone came in. A man.” I swallow hard. He neutralized them. All three. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Chiara goes pale, her freckles standing out sharply. “Who was it?” she whispers.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me his name.” I wrap my arms around myself. “He just… appeared. Like he knew they’d be here. Like he was watching.”
“Did he hurt you?” Her eyes scan me for injuries.
“No.” My voice is too soft. “He saved me.”
“Your guardian angel.” Chiara smiles. She brushes past me to pour herself a shot of tequila.
“He wasn’t an angel.” I remember how calm he was, how efficient. “He was a killer. A professional.”
“But he saved you.”
“He didn’t save me for me,” I say, remembering the possessive way his eyes tracked my movements afterward. “He looked at me like… like I was a thing he’d purchased. A thing he owned.”
Chiara downs her shot, wincing. “I’m sorry you went through that, but I swear, I don’t know what they were talking about. I don’t owe anyone—”
“Stop it!” I snap. “Those men knew who you were. They knew where we lived. They knew what you looked like.” I stalk toward her. “What did you do? What kind of trouble are you in?”
Chiara’s shoulders slump. “It’s nothing serious—”
“Three men with knives and guns. In our apartment. That’s not serious to you?”
“I borrowed some money, okay? From this guy at the club. He seemed legit. Said I could pay it back whenever.”
“How much?”
Chiara looks away. “Ten.”
“Thousand?” My voice rises to a squeak. “Chiara, what the hell? What did you need ten thousand dollars for?”
She doesn’t answer, and I’m so, so tired at this point. I’m done searching for answers. I’m done fighting her battles. Not when it’s costing me my life and she’s treating it like some big joke.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, my voice hollow. “I can’t keep covering for you at work. I can’t keep paying your share of the rent when you blow your paychecks. And I sure as hell can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when men with guns are breaking into our home.”
Tears spring to Chiara’s eyes—real ones, not the fake ones she uses to manipulate managers and boyfriends. “Aria, please. You know I’d never purposely put you in danger. You’re all I have.”
The words cut through me like they always do. We’re twins, separated by minutes. We’ve only ever had each other. But this time, it isn’t enough.
“I almost died last night,” I say quietly. “While you were out sleeping with some random guy, I was here, terrified, certain I would die because of your mistakes.”
A tear slips down Chiara’s cheek. “I’ll fix this. I promise. I’ll get another job. I’ll pay back whatever needs to be paid.”
“It’s too late.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “This isn’t some small-time loan shark, Chiara. This is serious.”
“But the guy who saved you—maybe he took care of it? Maybe it’s over?”
I think of the intensity in his eyes as he’d hovered over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. The way he’d whispered “mine” against my skin like a promise.
“It’s not over,” I say, certain down to my bones. “It’s just beginning.”
Chiara steps toward me, arms outstretched for a hug I’m not ready to give. I step back, and the hurt on her face mirrors the ache in my chest. We’ve fought before, but never like this. Never with this chasm of secrets between us.
“I need to be alone,” I say, turning away. “You should go—they’re expecting you at the café to show up.”
“Aria—”
“Please, Chiara.” I’m too tired to fight anymore. Too scared. “Just go.”
After a moment of heavy silence, I hear her gather her things. The door closes with a soft click.
I sink onto the couch—my battered secondhand couch—and stare at nothing. The apartment is immaculate, but I can still see it if I close my eyes. I can still feel him if I let myself remember.
Somewhere out there, a dangerous man knows where I live. A man who can kill without hesitation. A man who looked at me like I was already his to keep.
And deep down, beneath the fear and confusion, a tiny, traitorous part of me wishes he’ll find me again and make my troubles go away.
