Chapter 5: The Devil’_year old. She is a flirt, and acts out in order to piss off her mother Marion
She wasn’t bored anymore.
A metallic taste, like old pennies, coated the back of her tongue. She swallowed, but it clung. Forty-five minutes was a lifetime spent drowning in the polite roar of the party. She slipped back into the light. Faces swirled, conversations a meaningless buzz.
Someone offered her another drink. She took it, her fingers numb on the cool glass.
The clock in her head ticked, a frantic metronome matching her pulse. She spotted her mother, a queen surveying her court, one manicured hand on Mark’s arm. Lauren’s jaw tightened. She turned before their eyes could meet, heading for the nearest bathroom.
The lock clicked. Mirrors everywhere, multiplying her pale, fractured reflection. The girl in the silver dress looked hollow. She braced her hands on the marble sink, staring at her own wide eyes. They reflected back a strange, glittering emptiness.
Swallow every drop.
Her stomach gave a hard, slick twist. Not from disgust, but from the pure, galvanic thrill of it. This was more than pissing off her mother. This was crossing a new, permanent line. He knew it. She knew it. The shadows still felt painted on her skin where his fingers had been.
A fake, bright laugh leaked under the bathroom door. She splashed cold water on her face, the droplets cutting trails through her makeup. She blotted with a towel, leaving smudges of gray and black under her eyes like bruises. Better.
Twenty-eight minutes left.
She walked out, moving through the crowd with new purpose. The corridor to the east wing felt like a runway. Her heels tapped a lonely rhythm on the hardwood, then muffled on the thick runner.
Adam’s door was at the end, slightly ajar. A slice of dark room beyond. Her breath hitched. This was it. No party noise here, just the hum of the house and her own blood rushing in her ears.
She pushed the door open without knocking.
The room smelled like him – laundry soap, clean cotton, and underneath, a hint of clove from his cigarettes. A single desk lamp cast a dim, warm pool of light. He was at the window, back to her, staring out at the dark gardens. He’d shed the pirate coat. Just a simple black t-shirt, the lean lines of his back visible through the fabric.
He didn’t turn around.
“Shut the door.”
His voice was flat.Casual, almost. She did, the soft click of the latch sealing them in. The silence that followed was louder than any noise.
“Turn the lock.”
She hesitated for a single, breathless second. Her finger found the small brass button on the knob. She pushed it. The tiny, mechanical thunk felt final.
He turned then. His face was half in shadow, his expression unreadable. He looked her up and down, a slow, assessing scan that felt more clinical than desirous.
“You came.”
“We had a deal.”
He gave a short, soft exhale, not quite a laugh. He walked to the desk, picking up a small, sleek black leather case she hadn’t noticed. He placed it on the bedspread with deliberate care.
“Let’s see the currency.”
Lauren frowned. “What?”
“You said you’d let me watch.” He gestured vaguely toward her. “But a deal’s a deal. Both sides put their cards on the table. You showed me yours. I’m showing you mine.”
He flipped the case open.
Nestled in black foam wasn’t a baggie of powder. It was a small, jewel-like digital scale, a silver razor blade, a short glass straw, and two fat, pristine glass vials. Each was filled nearly to the top with a fine, crystalline white powder. It glittered under the lamplight like crushed diamond.
Her mouth went dry. Two grams. Two entire grams of absolute purity. It was more than she’d ever seen. A fortune. A promise.
Her gaze lifted from the case to his face. He was watching her reaction, a scientist observing a reaction. The easy charm was gone, replaced by a cool, detached control that made her skin prickle.
“It’s real,” he said, answering her unasked question.
“I know.” Her voice sounded thin.
He nodded toward the corset. “So take it off.”
The command hung in the air. This wasn't the shadowy press of bodies in a corridor. This was a transaction in a lit room. She felt exposed, the vulnerability sharp and new.
Her fingers went to the first hook at the top, trembling. The tiny metal loop slipped. She fumbled, her knuckle brushing her throat. She took a slower breath, focused. The hooks gave way one by one with soft, metallic snicks.
The corset loosened, the oppressive pressure releasing. She let the stiff garment fall from her shoulders, catching it before it hit the floor. She was left in just her silver panties and the high heels.
She felt the cool air on her skin, saw the way his eyes tracked the movement. There was no approval there. Just verification. He walked over, his movements unhurried. He took the corset from her limp hands, his fingers brushing hers.
He tossed it onto a chair. He stood very close now. She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the exact color of his eyes in the light—a gray-green, like sea glass.
She lingered in the corridor’s damp silence, the muffled thump of bass from the ballroom feeling worlds away. Her own breathing sounded too loud. Forty-five minutes was both an eternity and no time at all. She needed to disappear, to become a phantom moving through her own party.
Lauren slipped back into the light. She avoided the dancing, skirting the edges of rooms where laughter pooled. Each smile she passed felt like a judgment. She ascended the main staircase, her hand cool on the polished banister, moving with a purpose that defied the swirling panic in her gut.
Her own room was a sanctuary of pastels and unused vanity tables. She closed the door and leaned against it. The reflection in the full-length mirror was a stranger’s—pale, fierce, with dilated pupils. She peeled the sticky, rumpled dress from her skin, letting it pool on the floor like a discarded skin.
A shower was out of the question; it felt like an admission of preparing for something. Instead, she rubbed a coconut-scented wipe over her chest and neck, erasing the scent of the party and the service corridor. She pulled on simple black leggings and a thin, drapey sweater, the soft fabric a shock against her hypersensitive skin. It was armor of a different kind.
She watched the clock on her nightstand. Twenty minutes had bled away. The wait was a physical ache, a buzzing in her teeth. She left her room and walked down the carpeted hallway towards the east wing, towards his room. Her socks made no sound.
Adam’s door was, as promised, unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped into a different atmosphere. The air was cooler, smelled faintly of clean laundry and the sandalwood of his shaving balm. A single lamp on his desk cast long shadows. The room was tidy, almost sparse, a stark contrast to the decorative chaos of the party below.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the dark garden, his back to her. He’d shed his pirate coat. The white linen shirt hung untucked over his dark jeans. He didn’t turn around.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice flat.
“You counted on it.”
He did turn then, a slow pivot. His face was unreadable in the low light, all sharp angles and guarded eyes. He assessed her civilian clothes, the lack of costume. A silent acknowledgment passed between them: the games were over. This was the bare transaction.
He walked to his desk, opened a small, locked metal box. The click of the latch was obscenely loud. From it, he withdrew a small, clear baggie, then another. They were not the shaky, folded paper packets she was used to. These were professional, sealed, containing a fine, white powder that caught the lamplight.
He placed them side by side on the smooth wood of the desk. Two grams. The price.
“My end,” he said, not looking at her. He unbuttoned his jeans. The sound of the zipper was a metallic whisper in the quiet room. He pushed them down, just enough, and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. He stood there, in his shirt and black briefs, waiting. His expression wasn’t lustful; it was impatient, almost clinical. “Your end.”
The reality of it, the sheer vulgar physicality, hit her like a cold wave. The corset’s constriction had been a welcome pressure. This emptiness was terrifying. She crossed the room, her legs unsteady. The plush carpet felt deep and uncertain under her feet.
She stopped before him. The bags of powder glinted on the desk beside his hip. She could smell him, that same sandalwood, and underneath it, the clean, salty scent of his skin. Her throat was tight. She forced her hands to move, to reach for the waistband of his briefs. Her fingers trembled.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice low.
She dragged her gaze up from his stomach to his eyes. They were dark, focused, utterly present. There was no teasing Adam left in them. This was the chemist, watching the reaction.
She pulled the fabric down. He was already hard. The clinical part of her mind noted the reality of it, the simple, intimidating biology. The rest of her was a void of static. She had bargained for this. For the marks.
He didn’t touch her. He just watched as she lowered herself to the edge of the bed, then shifted, turning to face him. The mattress was firm. The comforter was a rough, navy blue cotton. She could feel every fiber.
She kneels on the bed.