Chapter 6: "Fuck me hard before you go"
The van felt like a relic from another life as they pulled up to the curb under the Ritz-Carlton’s brilliantly lit awning. The shift was so violent it was almost silent. One moment, they were surrounded by the gritty echo of the abandoned church and the dawn’s grey light; the next, a uniformed valet was opening Kate’s door, his face a perfectly neutral mask despite the stark contrast they presented against the gleaming porcelain and gold of the lobby.
Chandler handed the keys over without a word, his arm slipping around Kate’s waist, guiding her forward. He moved like he owned the air itself. Kate’s boots, still dusty from the church floor, sank into a carpet so thick it swallowed sound. Her eyes, accustomed to motel fluorescents and moonlight through broken stained glass, adjusted to the blaze of crystal chandeliers. The air smelled cold and perfumed, like expensive lilies and money.
“What is this?” she murmured, her voice small in the vast, quiet space.
“A night off,” he said, his fingers pressing firmly into her hip. He led her to the elevator, its doors sliding open with a hushed sigh. Inside, he pressed the button for the penthouse, and as they ascended, the cityscape dropped away below them through the glass wall, a sprawling map of tiny lights.
The penthouse doors opened directly into the living area. It was bigger than the last three motel rooms combined. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented a panoramic, dizzying view of the city waking up. The floors were polished marble, reflecting the soft glow from recessed lighting. A grand piano sat in one corner, looking like a black, sleeping animal.
And there were rose petals. A trail of them, deep blood-red, scattered from the doorway across the marble floor, leading toward a hallway that presumably went to the bedroom.
Kate stopped just inside the door, a slow smile spreading across her face. It wasn’t a smile of happiness, but of recognition. This was a different kind of hunt. A different kind of trap. She held up her hand, the platinum ring stark and clean now, the blood washed away but the memory of the cut a faint pink line on her thumb. “A night off,” she repeated, tasting the absurdity of the phrase.
Chandler closed the door, the lock engaging with a solid, final thud. He came up behind her, his body a solid presence against her back. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her firmly against him. He dipped his head, and his lips touched the sensitive skin just below her ear, his breath warm. His hands moved slowly, seductively, from her waist down over her hips, tracing the curve of them through her jeans.
“You deserve more than highway dust and bloodstained sheets,” he murmured into her neck, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones.
She leaned back into him, her eyes fixed on the city laid out before them. “This is just another room, Chandler. Fancier cage.” But her pulse was beating a faster rhythm under his lips.
“It’s a statement,” he corrected, one hand sliding up under her shirt, his palm flat and hot against her stomach. “This is the world. And we’re above it.”
He turned her around to face him. His eyes were dark, intense, but there was a new softness there, a possessiveness that went deeper than the casual dominance of the motel rooms. It was the look he’d had in the church. The one that promised forever in a language only they understood. He kissed her, but it wasn’t like the frantic, consuming kiss in the ruins. This was slow, deliberate, an exploration. He tasted of coffee and the faint, metallic tang that always seemed to linger on him.
He broke the kiss and took her hand, leading her along the trail of petals. They stuck to the soles of her boots. The bedroom was immense, dominated by a vast bed piled high with white linens. More petals were strewn across the duvet. The air was thick with their cloying, sweet scent.
Chandler guided her to the center of the room, then turned her to face the window, the city stretching out infinitely below. He stood behind her again, his hands on her shoulders. “Look at it all,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “They’re all down there. Sleeping. Living their little lives. They have no idea.”
His hands moved to the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head, dropping it to the floor. He unclasped her bra with a single, practiced motion. The cool air of the climate-controlled room raised goosebumps on her skin. His lips returned to her neck, his stubble a rough counterpoint to the softness of his mouth. His hands slid down her arms, then around to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened under his touch.
Kate closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. The sensory overload was immense: the dizzying height, the sweet smell of roses, the heat of his body, the expert touch of his hands. It was a world away from the quarry’s choking water, from the gritty reality of their work. This was the reward. The prize for being what they were.
“I want to see you in this light,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire. He turned her again, his eyes drinking her in. He backed her toward the bed until her legs hit the edge and she sat down. The petals crackled delicately beneath her.
He knelt before her, not in proposal this time, but in worship. He unlaced her boots, pulling them off, then her socks. His hands moved to the button of her jeans, popping it open, dragging the rough denim down her legs. He left her there, sitting on the edge of the bed in just her panties, exposed in the morning light. He stood and stripped off his own clothes with an efficient, unhurried grace.
He came to her, pushing her back gently onto the bed, the petals clinging to her skin. He hovered over her, his weight supported on his arms, his gaze tracing every inch of her face. “My wife,” he said, the words a statement of fact, a seal on the oath they’d sworn in blood.
This time, when he entered her, it was with a slow, deep certainty that made her gasp. There was no violence in it, only a profound, unsettling claiming. It was quieter than the church, more intense than the motel. His rhythm was hypnotic, his eyes never leaving hers. The world outside the window ceased to exist. There was only the feel of him, the smell of roses and sweat, and the silent understanding passing between them.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the ruined field of petals. The sun was fully up now, glaring off the glass towers of the city. Kate traced the outline of the jellyfish scars on her side, then the newer, fainter scratch from the church floor. She looked at Chandler, who was propped on one elbow, watching the city with a hunter’s calm.
“What now?” she asked, her voice husky.
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up a sleek, expensive-looking cell phone she hadn’t noticed before. He tapped the screen and handed it to her. On it was a photograph of a man in his fifties, smiling warmly, his arm around a woman. He had a kind, forgettable face. The kind of face that blended into a crowd.
“His name is Arthur Finch,” Chandler said, his voice back to business, flat and cool. “He’s a partner at a law firm downtown. He gets off on hurting women who can’t fight back. The kind who disappear and no one asks too many questions.”
Kate studied the picture, a familiar thrill cutting through the post-sex languor. The rush was better than any drug, any luxury suite. She zoomed in on the man’s face, memorizing the lines around his eyes, the shape of his mouth.
“He’s having a charity gala at his estate tomorrow night,” Chandler continued. “Black tie. We’re going.”
A slow smile spread across Kate’s face. She dropped the phone on the bed and rolled over, straddling Chandler, her hair falling around them like a curtain. The rose petals clung to her back. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.
“I’ll need a new dress.”
He grinned, a flash of white in the dim room, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck. “Already taken care of. There’s a boutique downstairs. Nothing off the rack.”
“You think of everything,” she said, leaning into his touch, her voice a low purr.
“I have to.” His thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “You’re impulsive. I plan.” He shifted, reaching for his jeans on the floor without dislodging her. He pulled his wallet from a pocket and extracted a black credit card, holding it up between two fingers. “Go wild. But make it something he’ll remember.”
Kate took the card, the cool plastic feeling like another kind of weapon. She slid off the bed, the petals falling from her skin like dried blood. “What’s his type? So I know what to avoid.”
Chandler lay back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Quiet. Blonde. Fragile.” His eyes traveled over her, from her dark, tangled hair down to the scars on her side. “The opposite of you.”
“Perfect.” She padded naked toward the bathroom, the marble cold under her feet. “I’ll be the surprise he never sees coming.”
An hour later, she was surrounded by silent, attentive women and the whisper of silk. The boutique was a temple of pastels and soft lighting, a world away from the dusty church. She held up a dress the color of champagne, its fabric slithering through her fingers. “Too sweet,” she muttered, letting it drop.
Her eyes landed on a slash of emerald green hanging apart from the others. It was backless, cut on a brutal bias, the fabric heavy and liquid. She pointed. “That one.”
In the changing room, surrounded by her own reflection, she watched the dress transform her. It clung to every curve, the deep green making her skin look like porcelain and her eyes like dark pools. It was armor and invitation all at once. She turned, looking at the dramatic plunge down her back, knowing the scars from the quarry and the motel would be visible. A public record of their private world.
She walked out and did a slow turn for Chandler, who had come down to watch. He was leaning against a pillar, dressed now in dark trousers and a simple black shirt. His gaze was analytical, assessing, like he was inspecting a tool before a job. He gave a single, slow nod. “He won’t be able to look away.”
“That’s the point,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
Back in the penthouse, the afternoon sun bled across the floor. The rose petals had been swept away by a discreet hotel service, erasing the evidence of the morning. Chandler stood at the window, his phone in his hand. He turned as she entered, his expression shifting from distant calculation to focused intensity.
“It’s time,” he said, his voice low. He tossed the phone onto the sofa. “The final guest list came through. We’re confirmed.”
A familiar electricity crackled in the air between them, the languid luxury of the suite suddenly feeling like a cage. Kate walked to the minibar and poured two fingers of whiskey into a heavy crystal glass, not bothering with ice. She drank it in one burning swallow, the heat a welcome anchor.
“Tell me about the house,” she said, placing the empty glass down with a sharp click. “Layout. Security. His routines.”
Chandler pulled a tablet from his bag, pulling up schematics and satellite images. “Stone manor. Old money. Woods on three sides. Security is pretentious—a couple of gate cameras and a lazy patrol. He feels safe there.” A cruel smile touched his lips. “He shouldn’t.”
Kate leaned over his shoulder, her damp hair brushing his cheek, taking in the blueprints. Her finger traced a path from the main ballroom to a secluded study on the first floor. “Here. After the speeches, when he’s feeling proud of himself. I’ll get him alone.”
“And I’ll be close,” Chandler said, his hand finding the small of her back, right where the emerald dress plunged. “Remember, this isn’t for fun. This is a statement. Clean. Sharp.”
“I know the difference,” she said, a edge of defiance in her voice. She thought of Lena, the messy, personal thrill of it, the black water. This was different. This was business, a performance for an audience of one. Her husband.
She moved to the vast window, pressing her palms against the cool glass. The city teemed below, a million unknowing lives. One of them was already marked. The game was in motion, the hunt begun. The emerald dress hung in the other room, waiting to become a weapon.
He pulled two tiny, flesh-colored earpieces from a hard case, their minuscule LEDs blinking a steady red. "Test," his voice crackled, both in the room and directly inside her head.
She jumped, the dual-source sound unnerving. "Shit, that's loud."
"Adjusting." His voice in her ear softened to a intimate murmur. "Better? We stay linked. Constant. I need to hear his voice, the room tone, everything."
She watched him slot the device into his own ear, his fingers precise. "So you can babysit me."
"So I can watch the show." He met her gaze, his eyes flat. "And clean up if your fun gets messy. Like the quarry."
The mention of Lena was a deliberate needle. Kate’s jaw tightened. She remembered the weight of the body, the surprising effort of sinking it. "That wasn't messy. That was personal. This is just business."
"Then act like it." He tossed her the other earpiece. She caught it, the plastic warm from his hand, and fitted it into her ear. The world now had a soundtrack only they shared.
"Can you hear me breathing, Chandler?" she whispered, the words for him alone.
"Always." The single word was a ghost in her ear. He walked to the bedroom and returned with the emerald dress draped over his arm. He held it out to her. "Get dressed. We have plans before the gala."
The dress felt heavier than it looked, the silk a slick, cold weight against her skin. She shimmied into it, the fabric clinging like a second skin. She turned her back to him. "Zip me."
His fingers were cold on her bare skin as he pulled the zipper up. They stopped at the top of the scars, leaving a deliberate inch of pale, marred flesh exposed. A public claim. He leaned in, his lips brushing the highest ridge of scar tissue. "Perfect."
He led her not to the elevator, but to a private door she hadn't noticed, which opened onto a stark, concrete stairwell. The opulent hum of the penthouse vanished, replaced by the echo of their footsteps on raw steps. It smelled of damp concrete and isolation.
They emerged into an underground garage, the air thick with the exhaust of idling luxury cars. Their van looked brutally out of place, a scarred beast among glossy thoroughbreds. Chandler opened the passenger door for her. "We're not taking a cab?"
"We need our things," he said, his tone leaving no room for question.
He drove them out of the city, the towers shrinking in the rearview mirror, replaced by sprawling suburbs and then by scrubland. He pulled off onto a dirt service road that led to a secluded storage facility, its units like metal tombs under the harsh sun. He stopped at unit 117, unchaining the heavy lock.
Inside was a climate-controlled silence, smelling of gun oil and new plastic. Weapons were racked neatly on one wall. Beside them hung two perfectly tailored tuxedos and a rack of elegant dresses. He went to a locked cabinet and opened it, revealing tools that had nothing to do with guns: syringes, vials of clear liquid, rolls of heavy-duty plastic, and a bone saw whose teeth glinted in the low light.
"Business," he said, running a hand over the saw.
Kate’s eyes lingered on the tools, a familiar heat coiling in her stomach. This was the reality beneath the Ritz-Carlton's roses. This was their true home. She reached out and touched the cold steel of the saw. "He deserves this one?"
"He deserves a lesson." Chandler selected a small, boxy handgun, checked the action, and slid it into a leather holster. He attached it to the small of his back, then put on his suit jacket. The weapon vanished completely. He handed her a tiny, pearl-handled derringer. "For your clutch. Last resort."
She tucked the cool, heavy little gun into her palm, its weight a comfort. "I won't need it."
" You never know." He looked at her, fully dressed in the emerald armor, a killer poised for a ball. "You ready to be my wife in public?"
A slow, dark smile spread across her lips. She adjusted the earpiece, his quiet breath a constant in her head. "I was born for this."
He drove them back toward the glittering city, a beast returning to its hunt. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple. As they merged into the evening traffic, heading for the hills and Arthur Finch's estate, Kate closed her eyes. She could still smell the roses from the suite, but underneath it was the scent of oiled metal and the phantom chill of the bone saw.
"Earpieces live," Chandler's voice murmured, a secret just for her. "Game face on."
She opened her eyes, the city lights blurring into streaks. "I'm always ready."
The van’s engine cut, and the sudden silence was louder than the city. Arthur Finch’s estate sprawled before them, a monument of old stone and new money, every window blazing with light. Music and laughter drifted down the manicured drive, a foreign language.
Chandler adjusted his cufflinks, his movements economical and final. "Remember the plan. You lure. I listen. We end it in the study."
"Lure, listen, end," Kate repeated, her voice flat. She touched the earpiece, a tiny piece of him buried in her skull. "Don't enjoy the show too much."
His smile was a cold, sharp thing. "I always enjoy your work." He got out, a handsome stranger in a perfect tuxedo, and opened her door.
The air was cool and smelled of clipped grass and expensive perfume. She took his arm, the emerald silk of her dress whispering against his black jacket. As they walked toward the roaring noise of the party, she felt the derringer’s weight in her clutch, a dark secret against her palm. The scars on her back, exposed by the dress, tingled in the night air.
The ballroom was a crushing wave of sound and light. Crystal chandeliers threw dizzying reflections across a sea of gowns and tuxedos. A string quartet sawed away at something classical and forgettable. Chandler squeezed her hand once, a signal, then melted into the crowd, becoming another smiling, anonymous face.
Kate stood alone for a moment, letting the current of the party flow around her. She spotted him near a grand fireplace, holding court. Arthur Finch. He was shorter than his photo suggested, his laugh a little too loud, his hand resting possessively on the arm of a young, blonde woman who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
Quiet. Blonde. Fragile. Chandler’s words echoed in her ear. The opposite of you.
She moved, a slow, deliberate drift through the crowd. She snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray but didn't drink. It was a prop, something to do with her hands. She positioned herself at the edge of his circle, a splash of vivid green in a room of muted colors, and waited.
It took less than a minute. His eyes, slick and assessing, slid over the blonde and found her. They paused, widened slightly. He was a man used to acquiring pretty things, and she was the most interesting object in the room. She met his gaze, held it for a beat too long, then looked away as if flustered.
"Excuse me for a moment, dear," she heard him say to the blonde, his voice oily with false charm.
He was beside her instantly, his presence crowding her space. "I don't believe we've met," he said, his smile a practiced display of warmth. "Arthur Finch. I would certainly remember a face like yours."
"Kate," she said, letting her voice soften, letting a hint of a tremor into it. She looked up at him through her lashes. "It's a beautiful home. Overwhelming, really."
"Don't be overwhelmed." He leaned in closer, the scent of his cologne cloying and expensive. "It's just a house."