Chapter 1: The Betrayal of Trust
The rooftop garden floated above the city like a held breath. Brandon leaned against the steel railing, the cool metal pressing into his palms, and watched the traffic crawl twenty stories below—a river of red taillights bleeding into the distance. The air smelled like jasmine and money, and somewhere behind him, a string quartet was butchering a jazz standard.
He took another sip of his whiskey and grinned at nothing in particular.
"Bro, you're missing this." Marcus appeared beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "They're about to do the raffle. Fifty-inch TV."
"Let them have it." Brandon gestured vaguely at the glittering skyline. "I'm having a moment."
"You're having a beer buzz."
"Same thing."
Marcus laughed and peeled off, disappearing back into the crowd of executives and their bored wives. The gala was a snoozefest, a corporate thing his buddy had finagled invitations to, but Brandon had discovered the open bar within the first ten minutes and had been riding that wave ever since. His sales pitch was on autopilot. His smile was practiced. His tie was loosened just enough to suggest he was fun.
He was, in his own estimation, killing it.
Then he saw her.
She was across the terrace, half-hidden behind a column of potted ferns, but the rooftop lights caught her platinum ponytail and made it gleam like a blade. She was tall, sharp-shouldered, dressed in black that seemed to drink the light around her. A crimson silk blouse. A silver pendant that caught the breeze and swung in slow, deliberate arcs.
She was watching him.
Brandon's instincts kicked in. He straightened, tucked his chin, and let his cocky grin slide into place like a favorite glove. He raised his glass in her direction—a small, confident salute.
She didn't smile back. She just tilted her head, eyes glinting, and then turned away, vanishing into the maze of caterers and suits.
He blinked. Then he laughed, shaking his head. Cold one. He'd handle that later.
But she was already gone.
---
"Mind control sluts, man. That's the gig."
Brandon's voice was a little too loud. He knew it. He didn't care. He was holding court by the champagne tower, three of his buddies clustered around him, all of them grinning like hyenas who'd found a wounded gazelle.
"Like, there's this hypnotist chick on YouTube," he said, gesturing with his drink. "She's got this whole shtick—'relax your eyes, focus on my voice'—and dudes are literally out here barking like dogs. In public. On camera. Entire careers ruined because some chick in a corset said 'act like a chicken.'"
Marcus snorted. "Bro, you'd be the first one up there."
"In your dreams." Brandon's grin sharpened. "I'd be the one they can't crack. You know how stubborn I am. I don't do that hocus-pocus shit. My will's too strong."
He was rewarded with a chorus of laughter, some appreciative nods. He rode the wave, letting his shoulders loosen, his voice drop into a mock-serious cadence. "Nah, for real. If some woman tried to put me under, I'd just look at her and go, 'Babe, you've got the wrong guy.' And then I'd walk off. That's it. That's the whole trick. Don't let them get in your head."
"Easy for you to say," one of the guys muttered, "you've never had a woman that hot in your head."
"Wrong." Brandon winked. "They're always in my head. I just never let them drive."
More laughter. Someone clinked his glass. He took a victory sip.
He didn't notice the platinum-blonde figure standing at the edge of the terrace, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain, her ice-blue eyes fixed on him like a hawk cataloguing a field mouse.
---
Later, when the crowd thinned and the music shifted to something slower, Brandon stepped out alone onto the far end of the terrace.
He needed air. Or another drink. Both, maybe.
He loosened his collar, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled a long, slow breath. The city hummed below him, indifferent and huge. For a second, the noise felt like a headache building behind his eyes.
"You look tense."
He turned.
She was there. The woman in black and crimson, the one with the ponytail and the silver pendant that swayed gently as she walked toward him. In her hand, she held two flutes of champagne, and her smile was a beautiful, measured thing—like a scalpel wrapped in silk.
Brandon straightened, his grin snapping back into place. "Tense? Nah. Just taking a breather."
"Of course." She handed him a glass. Her fingers brushed his, cool and deliberate. "I saw you by the champagne tower earlier. You're... entertaining."
"Entertaining." He laughed, taking a sip. The bubbles went straight to his head. "I get that a lot. Brandon." He offered his hand.
"Selena." She shook it, her grip firm but brief. Her palm was cool, her nails perfectly manicured—painted a deep, glossy red. "So tell me, Brandon. You work in sales?"
"Tech sales. Best in the district." He shrugged, pretending to be modest. "What about you? You're not with the company."
"I'm entertainment." She gestured vaguely. "I do... performances. Private events."
"No kidding." He leaned against the railing, adopting a casual stance. "What kind of performances? Magic? Singing?"
"Something like that." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I work with the mind."
Brandon was already bored. He took another gulp of champagne, the room swaying gently at the edges of his vision. "Sounds artsy. You know what I do? I convince people they need things they don't. Now that's real magic."
"Is it?" She took a small sip from her glass. "I imagine it's more about confidence. Control."
"Control." He nodded, warming to the topic. "That's the word. You've got to control the conversation. Control the energy. If you let them think they're in charge, they're not."
She stepped into his space. Not aggressively—just... closer. The scent of jasmine and something metallic drifted around her. Her pendant caught the light, swinging gently after her movement.
"You said you were tense," she murmured. "But I think you're more than that. I think you're a man who likes to be in control of everything. And you're afraid of what happens when you let go."
His grin flickered. "I'm not afraid of anything."
"No?" Her voice lowered, soft and warm. "That must be exhausting. Holding it all together, all the time. Always performing. Always proving yourself."
"I'm not performing anything."
"Of course not." She touched her pendant, absently, and it swung in a slow, hypnotic arc. "You just can't relax. You're always on. Always ready for the next joke, the next conquest, the next thing that proves you're still on top."
He opened his mouth to argue, but the words came out slow. "That's not—"
"You work in sales." She circled him now, unhurried. "You're good at it. You're charming. But you've never once felt like you're actually in control, have you? You've just gotten good at faking it."
"I don't fake anything." His voice sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else. He blinked, trying to focus on her face. "Look, I don't know what you're—"
"You look tense, Brandon." She stopped beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "Let me help you relax."
The champagne glass slipped from his fingers.
It shattered on the stone floor. Neither of them looked down.
Her hand touched his arm, light as a whisper. "Just for a moment. Just for a second. Let the weight fall away."
He heard himself exhale. A long, shuddering breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"Look at me," she said, and he did. His eyes found hers, those ice-blue depths, and they were all he could see. The city noise faded. The distant chatter of the gala faded. Even his own thoughts seemed to quiet, like a radio turning down its volume.
"Your eyes are getting heavy," she said, not as a command but simply as an observation, a fact settling into place. "You've been holding yourself so tight for so long. You don't even remember what it feels like to let go."
"No," he said, and it came out thin and unsure, the last echo of a voice he used to know.
"Yes." Her smile was gentle, devastating. "You remember. You just forgot you knew how."
The pendant swung. Left. Right. Left. Right.
"Your muscles are relaxing," she continued, her voice a low, warm melody. "Your shoulders are dropping. Your breathing is slowing. You don't need to fight. There's nothing to fight. There's only this moment, and the sound of my voice, and the weight of your eyelids pressing down."
"I shouldn't—"
"You can," she said. "You can give it to me. All the tension. All the fear. All the tight little knots you've been carrying like armor. Let them go, Brandon. Trust me."
He didn't even notice the moment it happened.
But his shoulders dropped. His breath evened out. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy, stared straight ahead, fixed on the silver glitter of her pendant as it swayed in the night air.
"There you are," she murmured, and there was genuine satisfaction in her voice. "That's better, isn't it? That quiet place. That soft, empty dark."
"Mmm," he said, a sound with no words behind it.
She studied him for a long moment. Then she snapped her fingers—a sharp, clean crack.
His body jolted, but his eyes didn't change. He stood there, swaying slightly, his arms limp at his sides. A thin line of drool glistened at the corner of his mouth.
"You can hear me," she said.
"Yes." His voice was a mumble.
"Good. Open your eyes, Brandon."
He blinked. Slowly, heavily, his eyes dragged open. They were unfocused, glassy, like a doll's. He looked at her without seeing her.
"You will not remember this conversation," she said. "Not me, not the champagne, not anything that happened after you stepped out onto this terrace. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"When I snap my fingers again, you'll return to your body as if nothing has changed. You'll feel a little dazed, a little thirsty, but you'll chalk it up to the alcohol. And then..." She paused, savoring the moment. "You'll crave my presence for the rest of the night. You won't know why. You'll feel a pull toward me, a longing you can't explain. But you won't act on it. You'll just... ache."
"Yes," he said again, the word sliding out like honey.
Her smile widened, sharp and private. "Good boy."
She reached out and wiped the drool from his chin with her thumb, then smoothed his shirt collar with a motherly touch that was anything but kind.
"Now. When I snap my fingers, you'll wake up feeling refreshed. You'll remember nothing but a pleasant buzz. You'll return to your friends and laugh and tell your jokes, and you'll feel a strange, soft emptiness in your chest that you can't name." She stepped back, tilting her head. "But you won't come looking for me. You'll wait. And when I find you again—and I will—you'll be putty in my hands."
"Putty," he repeated, the word slurring at the edges.
"Putty," she confirmed. She paused. "One more thing. You mentioned mind control sluts earlier."
A flicker crossed his face—a distant, embarrassed recognition, like a dog flinching at a memory of a punishment.
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. "After tonight, I want you to think back to that conversation and feel a deep, squirming shame. I want those words to make you shrink inside, to feel small and foolish. And when you think of me—when you remember my face, my voice, my name—I want you to feel a thrill of fear and excitement mixed together. Both. At once. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you're about to fall."
"Yes," he breathed.
"Good." She snapped her fingers.
Brandon gasped.
His eyes flew open, wild and blinking. He stumbled, catching himself on the railing, and stared around the terrace with confusion. The champagne flute lay shattered at his feet. He looked down at it, then at his hand, then at the absent glass he was still holding.
"What the—" He blinked, wiped his mouth, and grimaced at the wetness on his fingers. "Did I pass out?"
Selena was already walking away, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the stone.
"Hey!" he called after her, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed. "Hey, did I drop your drink? Sorry, I—"
She didn't look back.
He watched her go, frowning. His chest ached, a strange, hollow emptiness settling behind his sternum. He pressed a hand to his breastbone, confused. It felt like he was missing something. Like he'd lost a phone he never remembered holding.
A faint, tingling warmth spread through his limbs, and he swallowed hard. He was thirsty. And somewhere, deep in his gut, a wordless craving bloomed—a need for something he couldn't name.
A woman's voice echoed in his memory, though he couldn't place it.
When I snap my fingers...
He shook his head hard, banishing the ghost of the thought, and pushed off the railing. "God, I need another drink," he muttered, and shuffled back toward the warmth and noise of the party.
Behind him, the shattered crystal glittered against the marble like one small, shattered constellation.
He didn't notice.
But five minutes later, when he glanced across the dance floor and caught a glimpse of platinum hair and a crimson blouse, his heart gave a strange, sharp thump—and he couldn't look away.
But five minutes later, when he glanced across the dance floor and caught a glimpse of platinum hair and a crimson blouse, his heart gave a strange, sharp thump—and he couldn't look away.
She was standing near the far end of the bar, talking to a man in an expensive suit. Her head tilted back in laughter, the pendant at her throat catching the amber light, swinging in that slow, deliberate rhythm. Brandon's mouth went dry. He felt a pull in his chest, a magnetic ache that made no sense. He didn't know this woman. He'd never even spoken to her.
But his feet were already moving.
"Bro, where you going?" Marcus called out, but Brandon barely heard him. He was threading through the crowd, past the cluster of laughing execs, past the waiter with the tray of martinis, his eyes locked on that crimson blouse like it was the only fixed point in a tilting world.
She saw him coming. Of course she did. Her smile didn't waver, but something flickered in those ice-blue eyes—a knowing glint, a quiet amusement.
"Well," she said, turning to face him fully. "Hello again."
"Hey." He stopped a little too close, his heart hammering. "I, uh—I saw you over here and I just... I had to come say hi."
The man in the expensive suit looked between them, caught the tension, and made a discreet exit. Brandon didn't even notice.
"I'm Brandon," he said, offering his hand. "We didn't actually get to introduce ourselves earlier."
"We didn't." She took his hand, her palm cool and smooth. "I'm Selena."
"Selena." He repeated it like a prayer. "That's a beautiful name."
"It is." She didn't let go of his hand. "You look flushed, Brandon. Are you feeling alright?"
He laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just... the heat in here, you know? Crowd's packed."
"Mmm." Her gaze drifted down his body, unhurried. "You're sweating."
He reached up, wiped his forehead. His hand came away damp. "Guess I am."
Her thumb traced a slow circle on his palm, and he felt the sensation travel straight down his spine. "There's a quieter spot on the terrace," she said. "I could get you some water."
"That would be—" His voice cracked. "Yeah. That would be good."
She led him through the crowd, her hand still holding his. He followed like a dog on a leash, his eyes fixed on the sway of her ponytail, the curve of her spine beneath the black fabric. His cock was half-hard in his trousers, which was absurd. He didn't even know this woman.
But he wanted her. God, he wanted her. The craving was overwhelming, irrational, animal.
The terrace was empty now. The string quartet had moved inside, and the only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the whisper of wind through the potted ferns. The city sprawled before them, a thousand glittering lights.
Selena released his hand and leaned against the railing, looking out at the skyline. "Drink?"
"Water. Please." He was still sweating. His shirt clung to his back.
She reached into a small cooler on the ground—catering must have left it—and pulled out a bottle of water. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to him, her fingers brushing his.
He drank greedily. The water was cold, crisp, and it did nothing to quench the fire in his gut.
"You said you were in performance," he said, wiping his mouth. "What kind, exactly?"
She smiled, slow and secret. "I work with the mind."
"The mind." He laughed, a little too loud. "Like, psychology?"
"Something like that. I do hypnosis, mostly. Stage shows, private events. Helping people unlock their potential." Her eyes glinted. "Or their secrets."
"Huh." He took another gulp of water. "That's wild. You ever make anyone do something crazy?"
"Define crazy."
"I don't know, like... cluck like a chicken. Or forget their own name."
"I've done worse." She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the stone. "You'd be surprised what the human mind will do when you tell it just the right way."
He should have felt a flicker of unease. A whisper of warning. But all he felt was that pull, that aching, inexplicable need. He set the water bottle aside and straightened.
"Show me," he said.
Her eyebrow arched. "Show you?"
"Yeah. Hypnotize me. I want to see if it's real."
She laughed, light and musical. "It's not a party trick, Brandon. It takes focus. Trust."
He puffed out his chest. "I can focus. And I trust you."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He stepped closer, invading her space. "I know I want you."
The words hung in the air, raw and honest, and he was surprised he'd said them. He didn't even mean them—or did he? The craving was so intense it felt like love, like hunger, like the only thing that mattered in the world.
Selena tilted her head, studying him like a specimen under glass. "You think you can handle it? Being under my control?"
"I can handle anything."
"Famous last words." She reached up and touched his face, her palm cool against his burning cheek. "Alright. Let's play."
She guided him to the wrought-iron bench in the center of the gazebo. The metal was cold through his trousers, a shock against his overheated skin. He sat, looking up at her, his heart slamming against his ribs.
"Close your eyes," she said.
He did.
"Take a deep breath in through your nose. Hold it. Now, breathe out slowly through your mouth."
He followed her voice, inhaling the scent of jasmine and something metallic—her perfume, or the city, or something stranger. The world around him faded, shrinking to just her words, the sound of her breathing.
"Focus on the weight of your body," she said. "Feel the bench beneath you. Feel the air on your skin. Feel the beat of your heart, slowing down, like a drum that's finding its rhythm."
His heart was racing. But as she spoke, it began to steady. The tension in his shoulders eased.
"Good," she murmured. "That's it. You're doing so well. Now, I want you to imagine a door. A heavy, iron door. It's closed, locked, blocking off all the noise and chaos of your mind. Do you see it?"
He nodded, a small, drowsy movement.
"Now, hold up your hand."
He did. His arm felt heavy, like it was made of lead, but he raised it.
"I'm going to count down from ten. With each number, your hand will drop a little lower. And when it reaches zero, your mind will be completely empty. Completely quiet. Completely mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Ten."
His hand dropped a fraction.
"Nine."
The world was getting fuzzy. The city noise faded to a distant hum.
"Eight. Seven."
He felt himself sinking, the bench swallowing him, the world tilting on its axis.
"Six. Five. Four."
His hand was halfway down now, and he was barely conscious of it. The only thing that existed was her voice.
"Three. Two. One."
His hand dropped to his lap.
"Zero."
Brandon's head lolled forward. He was gone.
Selena watched him for a long moment, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. She reached out, tilting his chin up with two fingers. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even.
"Open your eyes," she said.
He blinked, slowly, heavily. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, glassy. He stared at her without seeing her, his mouth slack.
"Hello, Brandon."
"Hello," he echoed, his voice distant.
She took a seat beside him on the bench, crossing her long legs. The pendants swung gently against her chest, catching the light.
"Do you remember what you said earlier? About mind control sluts?"
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, then a flush of shame. He didn't answer.
"You called me a mind control slut," she continued, her voice soft and warm. "You joked about hypnosis, about girls making men bark like dogs. You thought it was funny. You thought you were untouchable."
"I'm sorry," he said, and the words came out thin, almost pleading.
"I know you are." She reached out, stroking his hair. He shivered under her touch. "But sorry isn't enough. You've been such a bad boy, Brandon. And bad boys need to be punished."
He didn't respond. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling, his body trembling with the effort of holding onto consciousness.
"Stand up," she said.
He stood, obedient, swaying slightly.
"Take off your shirt."
His hands moved to the buttons. He undid them slowly, clumsily, like his fingers didn't quite belong to him. The shirt fell to the ground, and he stood there in his undershirt, his skin glistening with sweat.
"Good. Now the undershirt."
He pulled it off, baring his chest. He was fit—lean but defined, with the body of a man who worked hard but not obsessively. Selena's eyes trailed over him, a satisfied hum escaping her lips.
"Get on your knees."
He dropped to his knees on the cold stone. The impact jarred him, but he made no sound.
"Look at you," she murmured, rising from the bench to circle him. "So proud, so cocky. And now so obedient. So empty."
She stopped in front of him, the hem of her black dress brushing his bare chest.
"Do you want me, Brandon?"
"Yes," he breathed, the word raw and desperate.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want..." His voice trailed off. He swallowed hard. "I want you."
"Where do you want me?"
"Everywhere." His hands twitched, wanting to reach for her but not daring to move without permission. "Please. Please."
She smiled, slow and cruel. "Beg me."
"I'm begging you." His voice cracked. "Please, I need you. I need to feel you. Please, Selena."
She laughed—a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver through his frame. "Such a good boy when you try. But you're still thinking too much. You're still aware. Let's fix that."
She snapped her fingers, and his eyes went blank again, his body swaying like a puppet on strings.
"From now on," she said, "you'll do exactly what I say. You'll feel exactly what I tell you to feel. Nothing more, nothing less. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." She reached down, took his chin in her hand, and tilted his face up. "Open your mouth."
He obeyed, and she slipped her thumb past his lips, pressing down on his tongue. He sucked without being told, his eyes fluttering closed.
"That's it," she murmured. "That's it. You're learning so fast."
She pulled her hand away and unzipped the side of her dress. The fabric slithered down her body, pooling at her feet. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her skin was pale and flawless in the moonlight, her breasts high and full, her nipples hardening in the cool air. Her body was a weapon, a work of art, and she knew it.
She stepped out of the dress and stood before him, naked, her hands on her hips.
"Look at me."
He raised his eyes. His gaze traveled over her body—his lips parted, his breathing ragged.
"Take off your pants," she said.
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy and thick. Finally, he got them undone, pushing his trousers and boxers down to his knees. His cock was hard—painfully hard, straining and red, pre-cum beading at the tip.
Her smile widened at the sight. "Look at that. You're so eager, aren't you, Brandon?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Touch yourself."
His hand moved to his cock, wrapping around the shaft, and he began to stroke. Slow, uncertain movements, like he was learning his own body for the first time.
"Faster."
His hand picked up the pace. He let out a shaky moan, his head falling back.
"Stop."
He froze, his hand still gripping his cock, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
"I didn't tell you to come," she said. "Did I?"
"No."
"No. So you'll wait. You'll wait until I give you permission. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
She walked toward him, her hips swaying. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, smell the scent of her arousal. She was wet, her thighs glistening.
"Now, open your mouth."
He did. She grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and lowered herself onto his tongue.
He moaned—a desperate, muffled sound—and lapped at her like a man dying of thirst. She rode his mouth, grinding against his tongue, her head thrown back as she hitched her hips against him, riding every inch of him until she was slick with her own desire.
"That's it," she gasped. "That's it, you filthy little slut. Lick me. Drink me."
He obeyed, his tongue delving deeper, desperate for her taste. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking him closer. "Deeper. Harder."
He gave her everything he had, his mouth working against her until she was shuddering, her thighs tense, her fingers digging into his scalp. She came with a strangled cry, her body clenching around his tongue, and he kept going, kept licking, even as she pulled away, panting.
"Enough," she breathed, pushing him back.
He sat on his heels, his lips slick with her, his eyes glassy and dazed.
"Now it's my turn," she said.
She knelt down in front of him, her hands on his thighs. Her fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking him slowly, and he let out a whimper.
"You want to come inside me, don't you?"
"Yes. Please. Please, Selena."
"Not yet." She leaned forward, and her mouth closed around him.
The sensation was electric. His whole body bucked, a sharp moan tearing from his throat. She took him all the way to the base, her throat working as she swallowed him, her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock. She moved slowly, deliberately, drawing each inch out, savoring the sound of his desperate, broken pleas.
"Suck," she commanded, pulling off just enough to speak. "Thrust your hips, you stupid boy."
He obeyed, his hands gripping her hair as he fucked her mouth with a desperate rhythm. She gagged, saliva dripping down his length, and it only made him harder. He was close, so close, his balls tightening, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"I'm going to come," he gasped. "I'm going to—"
She pulled away. "No."
He let out a sob of frustration, his cock twitching, aching.
"Please," he begged. "Please, I need to—"
"You'll come when I'm inside you," she said, standing. She turned around, bracing her hands against the railing of the gazebo and looking over her shoulder at him. "Now. Fuck me. Fuck me like a good little dog."
He scrambled to his feet, his hands on her hips, his cock pressing against her wet entrance. She was soaking, dripping down her thighs.
"Do it," she demanded. "Right now."
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust.
She cried out, her hands gripping the iron railing as he slammed into her from behind. He didn't have any finesse left—all his bravado was gone, replaced by pure, animal need. He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and fucked her hard, his hips slapping against her ass.
"Look at you," she gasped. "Look at you, you cocky little shit. I broke you. I broke you so easily."
He was too far gone to answer. All he could do was grunt, thrust, beg.
"Please," he choked out. "Please, may I come? Please, I need to—"
"Not yet," she purred, squeezing her walls around him. "You keep going until I say."
He pounded into her, his rhythm turning sloppy and desperate. Sweat dripped down his face, his muscles screaming, his balls aching with the need to release.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please, Selena. Please."
She reached back, grabbed his hair, and pulled his mouth to her neck. "Bite me."
He sank his teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to leave marks. She gasped, but she didn't stop him.
"Now," she moaned, her voice ragged. "Come inside me. Come for me, you filthy boy."
He came with a cry, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her. He collapsed against her back, his arms wrapped around her waist, his breath coming in harsh sobs.
She held him there for a moment, her body still trembling from her own release. Then she gently pushed him away.
He stumbled back, falling onto the bench, limp and spent. His mind was foggy, his body shattered.
Selena turned, looking down at him with a satisfied smile. She was beautiful in the moonlight, her skin flushed, her hair wild.
"You were so much easier than I thought," she said, pulling her dress back up. "All that talk, all that bravado. And here you are, drooling on my bench like a puppy."
He blinked up at her, his eyes still glassy.
She knelt in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. "Did you have fun, Brandon?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Good." She smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Now, here's what's going to happen. When I snap my fingers, you'll wake up. You'll be back in your body, back with your friends. You won't remember where you went or what you did. But you'll feel... empty. Unfulfilled. You'll crave something, but you won't know what. And you'll find me. Tomorrow. Next week. Whenever I summon you. You'll have no choice but to come."
"Yes," he repeated.
She snapped her fingers.
Brandon gasped, his eyes flying open. He was on the bench in the gazebo, fully dressed, his shirt soaked with sweat. He blinked, disoriented, looking around the empty terrace.
What the hell?
He stood, swaying, and looked down at his hands. They were trembling.