Chapter 4: Torn Lace and a Dirty Text
The Uber smelled like pine air freshener and someone's forgotten fast food. Vera slumped in the backseat, her forehead pressed against the cold window, watching the city smear past in streaks of neon and streetlight. The driver didn't try to make conversation. Smart man. She wasn't sure she could form words that weren't his name.
Her phone buzzed in her bra. She didn't check it. Couldn't. Not yet. Not while the taste of tequila and Leo still coated her tongue like a secret she wasn't ready to swallow.
The apartment building loomed ahead—a squat brick structure with a flickering exterior light and a front door that never locked properly. She mumbled thanks to the driver, stumbled out of the car, and climbed the three flights to her apartment on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
The door swung open. She didn't bother with the lights.
Moonlight bled through the slats of her dust-choked blinds, painting jagged gold stripes across the disaster zone she called home. Wine bottles clustered on the counter like a glass army. Receipts carpeted the floor in crumpled white drifts. The air smelled like cheap perfume and old cigarettes and the ghost of every bad decision she'd ever made.
She kicked off her boots. They hit the wall with a satisfying thud.
The dress came next. She peeled it off her sweat-slicked skin, the torn lace catching on her hip, the satin clinging to her thighs like it didn't want to let go. The fabric was ruined—stained with alley grime and whiskey and the evidence of what she'd let him do to her against that brick wall. She dropped it on the floor and didn't pick it up.
Her underwear was worse. She stepped out of it, kicked it toward the corner, and stood naked in the middle of her living room.
The phoenix on her back caught the moonlight. The octopus on her hip curled its tentacles like it was reaching for something. The piercings in her nipples glinted—silver barbells, small and simple, a secret she kept for herself.
She grabbed the first shirt she found. An oversized band tee from a concert she'd gone to three years ago. The fabric was soft from too many washes, the logo faded to near-illegibility. It fell to mid-thigh. Just barely covered her ass.
Good enough.
She collapsed onto the couch, pulled her phone from her bra, and stared at the screen.
His contact was still saved as Unknown. She hadn't changed it. Hadn't wanted to admit she was keeping him.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. The alcohol was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in her chest and a persistent throb between her legs. She could still feel him. The stretch of him. The heat of him. The way he'd filled her up and left her empty.
She typed: I want your mouth again soon.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Her heart stopped.
Then: Open the door.
Vera's breath caught. She looked at the door—the cheap wood, the deadbolt, the chain she never used. It was closed. Locked. It had been locked when she came in. She was sure of it.
She stood up. The shirt brushed against her bare thighs. Her feet were silent on the cluttered floor.
She reached for the deadbolt.
The lock clicked open.
She pulled the door wide.
Leo stood in the hallway.
He was still wearing the same shirt from the bar—the whiskey-soaked button-down with the sleeves rolled up, the fabric wrinkled from her nails digging into his back. His hair was disheveled. His jaw was set. His eyes—those dark, endless eyes—were fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
He didn't say anything.
He just stepped forward.
Vera stumbled back. The apartment swallowed them both, the door swinging shut behind him with a click that sounded like a lock and a promise. He kept walking. She kept retreating. Her calves hit the edge of the kitchen counter and she stopped, trapped between cold granite and the heat of his body.
He dropped to his knees.
The tile was hard and unforgiving under his weight. He didn't seem to notice. His hands found her hips, rough and demanding, and he shoved the band shirt up over her waist. It bunched around her stomach, exposing her completely.
She was already wet. Had been since the bar. Since the alley. Since the moment she'd seen him sitting in that booth like he owned the place.
He didn't say a word. He just buried his face between her legs.
Vera's head fell back against the cabinet. A moan ripped from her throat, raw and animal, as his tongue dragged through her folds. Flat and filthy, exactly like she'd imagined. He licked her like he was starving, like she was the first meal he'd had in years, like nothing else existed but the taste of her on his tongue.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Oh fuck, Leo—"
He didn't respond. His tongue circled her clit, teasing and relentless, while his hands gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise. She was pinned against the counter, her legs trembling, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the edge of the granite.
He sucked her clit into his mouth.
She screamed.
The sound echoed off the walls, off the empty wine bottles, off the dust-choked blinds. She didn't care. Didn't care about the neighbors, about the thin walls, about the fact that anyone could hear her falling apart. All she cared about was his mouth. His tongue. The way he was eating her like she was the last thing he'd ever taste.
Her hips bucked against his face. He growled—a low, possessive sound that vibrated through her cunt—and pressed her harder against the counter.
"That's it," he muttered against her. "Fucking ride my face."
She did. She ground against his mouth, chasing the pressure, chasing the release, chasing the oblivion she knew was waiting on the other side. His tongue slid inside her, fucking her with slow, deliberate strokes, while his nose pressed against her clit.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train.
She came with a broken cry, her body convulsing, her thighs clamping around his head. He didn't stop. He lapped at her through it, drinking her down, his tongue never faltering.
When she finally stopped shaking, he pulled back just enough to look up at her.
His mouth was wet. His chin glistened. His eyes were black.
"Again," he said.
It wasn't a question.
He dove back in.
This time, he was rougher. His tongue was faster, his suction harder, his fingers digging into the meat of her thighs with enough force to leave marks. The overstimulation was almost too much—she was still sensitive, still throbbing, still riding the aftershocks of the first orgasm—but he didn't give her time to recover.
He built her up again. Higher. Faster. Until she was sobbing, her hands fisted in his hair, her hips jerking against his face with no rhythm, no control.
"Please," she begged. "Please, Leo, please—"
He sucked her clit between his teeth and flicked his tongue against it.
She came again.
This time, her legs gave out.
She slid down the cabinet, her back scraping against the wood, until she was sitting on the kitchen floor with her knees splayed and her chest heaving. Leo rose from his knees, towering over her, his shadow swallowing her whole.
His cock was hard. She could see it straining against his zipper, thick and obvious.
He didn't touch it.
He just looked at her—sprawled on the tile, the band shirt still bunched around her stomach, her cunt glistening with her own juices and his spit—and smiled.
"There," he said. "Now we're even."
Vera laughed. It came out breathless and broken.
"Even?" she repeated. "You think we're even?"
"I think you needed to come twice before I fucked you again. I think you needed to remember what my mouth feels like."
He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. His thumb brushed her bottom lip.
"I'm not done with you, Vera. Not even close."
She believed him.
He stood up and walked toward her bedroom. She heard the creak of her mattress, the rustle of sheets, the clink of his belt buckle hitting the floor.
She stayed on the kitchen tile for a long moment, her body still humming, her mind a blank white page. Then she pushed herself up and followed him.
He was lying on her bed, shirtless, his cock in his hand. Stroking it slowly. Watching her.
"Get on the bed," he said.
She climbed onto the mattress. Her knees sank into the cheap foam. The sheets were cold against her bare skin.
He reached for her, his hand closing around her wrist, and pulled her on top of him. She straddled his hips, her cunt hovering just above his cock.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
"Put it in."
She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. He was hot and hard and thick, and she guided him to her entrance, sinking down inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
They both groaned.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You're so—"
"I know."
He grabbed her hips and started moving her. Not hard. Not fast. Just a slow, deep grind that hit something inside her with every thrust. She braced her hands on his chest, her nails digging into his skin, and rode him.
The moonlight painted stripes across their bodies. The phoenix on her back spread its wings. The octopus on her hip curled and uncurled with every roll of her hips. His hands roamed her body—her tits, her waist, the curve of her ass—claiming every inch of her.
"You're mine," he said. "Say it."
"I'm—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
He thrust up into her. Hard. She cried out.
"Again."
"I'm yours, Leo. I'm yours."
He fucked her harder. Faster. The bed creaked and groaned beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall. She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his, and kissed him.
His tongue filled her mouth. She tasted herself on him—salt and musk and something darker—and it made her cunt clench around his cock.
"Close," she gasped.
"Not yet."
He flipped them over.
She landed on her back, her head hitting the pillow, and he was on top of her, still inside her, still hard. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and started pounding into her.
The angle was brutal. Perfect. Every thrust hit her cervix, sending shockwaves through her body. She grabbed the sheets, twisted them in her fists, and screamed his name.
"Vera," he groaned. "Fuck, Vera—"
"Come inside me."
"I'm going to."
"I want to feel it."
He thrust one more time—deep, deep, so deep she thought she'd split in half—and came.
She felt it. The hot pulse of him filling her up. The way his body shuddered and stilled. The way he collapsed on top of her, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he rolled off her, and they lay side by side in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling.
Vera's heart was still racing. Her thighs were slick. His come was starting to drip out of her.
She turned her head to look at him.
He was already looking at her.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah," he said.
She laughed. A real laugh, this time. Warm and surprised.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone... scarier? Someone with more tattoos? Someone who doesn't sit on my kitchen floor and eat me out like a last meal?"
He smiled. It was a small thing, barely a twitch of his lips, but it felt like a victory.
"I can be scary," he said.
"I'm sure you can."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek.
"Get some sleep," he said.
"Are you staying?"
"I'm staying."
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the sun was up, and his side of the bed was cold.
But there was a note on her pillow.
See you tonight.
No signature. No explanation. Just three words in neat, unfamiliar handwriting.
Vera crumpled the note in her fist and smiled.
She had no idea what she was getting into.
She couldn't wait to find out.
She couldn't wait to find out.
The morning arrived with the kind of gray, reluctant light that made everything look like a hangover. Vera's head throbbed in a dull, distant way. The other side of the bed was still faintly warm. Or maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she just wanted it to be.
The note sat crumpled on the nightstand where she'd dropped it. See you tonight. Three words. No number. No address. No explanation. Just a promise or a threat or both.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her feet hitting the cold hardwood. The come from last night had dried on her inner thighs, a tacky reminder of everything she'd let him do. Everything she'd begged him to do. She needed a shower. Needed coffee. Needed to figure out what the hell she was doing.
She did none of those things.
Instead, she grabbed her phone from under the pillow and checked her messages. Nothing from Leo. Nothing from Bree, either, which was strange. Bree always texted after a night out. Always wanted to dissect every detail, every glance, every touch. The silence felt deliberate. Felt like a door closing.
Vera tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the shower.
The hot water scalded her skin. She stood under the spray until the bathroom filled with steam and her thoughts dissolved into white noise. She scrubbed herself clean—twice—but she could still feel him. His hands on her hips. His mouth between her legs. The weight of him inside her.
When she stepped out, dripping and pink, she caught her reflection in the fogged mirror. The phoenix on her back spread its wings across her shoulder blades. The octopus curled around her hip like it was holding her together. She looked like herself. She felt like a stranger.
She padded naked into the bedroom and surveyed the disaster of her closet. Clothes everywhere. Nothing to wear. Nothing that felt right for whatever tonight was going to be.
Then her eyes landed on the Fleetwood Mac shirt.
It was buried under a pile of laundry, soft and worn from years of washing. The fabric was thin, almost translucent in places, the logo cracked and faded. She'd stolen it from an ex-boyfriend in college and never given it back. It smelled like her now. Like lavender detergent and old perfume and the faint ghost of weed.
She pulled it over her head.
The cotton settled against her skin like a second layer of flesh. It fell to mid-thigh, loose and comfortable. No bra. No pretense. Just her.
Next came the leggings. Black, high-waisted, soft as butter. They hugged her curves without squeezing, the kind of pants that felt like pajamas but looked like she'd actually tried. She paired them with black lace boyshorts—the ones with the scalloped edges that peeked just above the waistband. A secret. A small rebellion.
No makeup. No heels. No armor.
She was just Vera. The real one.
The living room was still a disaster from last night, but she didn't bother cleaning. She grabbed the half-smoked blunt from the ashtray on the coffee table, lit it, and collapsed onto the couch. The TV flickered on with a press of the remote. Some reality show about people renovating houses. She didn't care about the plot. She just needed noise.
The smoke filled her lungs. She held it there, letting the high creep in slow, until her limbs felt heavy and her thoughts felt far away.
She watched the show for twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. She wasn't keeping track. Her phone sat on the cushion beside her, dark and silent. Waiting. She was waiting too.
Then she picked it up.
She opened the camera and held it at arm's length. The angle was awkward. The lighting was bad. She didn't care. She snapped a picture—just her, sitting on the couch, the Fleetwood Mac shirt rumpled and soft, the leggings hugging her thighs, the remote in one hand, the blunt in the other. No filter. No pose. Just her.
She sent it to Leo.
No caption. No explanation. Just the image of a girl who wasn't trying to be anything other than what she was.
Then she typed the second message.
You know, Leo. Sometimes I can be scary too. You don't know everything about me.... yet.
She hit send.
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
She watched them pulse on the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. The high was still humming through her veins. The smoke still curled from the blunt in her other hand. She took another hit and waited.
The dots disappeared.
Then reappeared.
Then disappeared again.
She laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was sharp and surprised in the quiet apartment.
He was thinking. Good. Let him think. Let him wonder.
She took another hit and watched the TV without seeing it. The reality show had shifted to a commercial. Something about car insurance. She didn't care.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
His reply was one line:
What are you afraid of?
She stared at the words. The blunt burned down between her fingers, forgotten. The high was still there, but it felt different now. Sharper. More focused.
She typed back: Nothing.
Three dots. Then:
Liar.
She smiled. It was a dangerous smile, the kind that lived in the corners of her mouth and only came out when she was feeling reckless.
She typed: Come find out.
She didn't wait for his response. She dropped the phone on the cushion and stretched out on the couch, her bare feet propped on the armrest, the Fleetwood Mac shirt riding up to expose the lace edge of her boyshorts.
The ceiling stared back at her. The smoke curled above her head. The TV droned on about something meaningless.
She closed her eyes.
Tonight, she'd show him exactly how scary she could be.
The blunt burned down to a roach between her fingers. She stubbed it out on the ashtray and swung her legs off the couch. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city. She paced. Poured a glass of water. Drank half of it and left the rest on the counter.
Her phone stayed dark.
She checked it three times in ten minutes. Then four. Then she forced herself to stop, tossing it onto the couch cushions and retreating to the bathroom to brush her teeth. The mint burned her tongue. She stared at herself in the mirror—dark hair tangled, green eyes bright with something she didn't want to name. She looked feral. She looked ready.
She spat, rinsed, and walked back into the living room.
He was standing in the doorway.
The door was open. She hadn't heard it open. She hadn't heard a knock. He was just there—lean frame filling the threshold, dark eyes scanning the room before landing on her. His sleeves were rolled up again. The shirt was different this time, a deep charcoal that made his skin look like carved stone.
"You didn't knock," she said.
"You told me to come find out."
She crossed her arms. The Fleetwood Mac shirt rode up her hips. "You found out."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock was quiet. Final.
"You sent me a picture," he said. His voice was low, steady. "You wanted me to know exactly what you looked like. Waiting."
"You came fast."
"I was already on my way."
Her pulse stuttered. She didn't let it show. Instead, she walked toward him—slow, deliberate—and stopped when she was close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled like cedar and clean soap. His jaw was tight. His hands stayed at his sides.
"You asked what I'm afraid of," she said.
"I did."
She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down onto the couch.
He landed hard, his back hitting the cushions, his legs sprawled. She climbed on top of him before he could move—knees on either side of his hips, hands braced on his chest. The Fleetwood Mac shirt bunched around her waist. The lace edge of her boyshorts pressed against the denim of his jeans.
"You want to know what scares me?" she said. "Probably the same thing that scares you."
His hands found her hips. Gripped them. Didn't move her.
"Never finding anyone who will accept me for me," she said. "The scary, dark parts. The parts I don't show anyone else."
She leaned down, her face inches from his. His breath was warm. His eyes were black.
"Damien and I met because of my past," she said. "You know that? Bree introduced us years ago. He was the first person who didn't flinch when I told him the truth."
Leo's jaw tightened. He didn't speak.
"I like you," she said. "A lot. More than I should. More than makes sense. But you don't know me. Not really."
"Then tell me."
She sat back. The shirt fell loose around her thighs. She could feel his cock hardening beneath her, a thick ridge pressed against denim, but neither of them moved. Not yet.
"I grew up in the Ozarks," she said. "Huge farm. Acres of nothing but trees and dirt and the kind of silence that makes you hear your own heartbeat."
Her voice was flat. Measured. She wasn't telling a story. She was reciting facts.
"My dad was a businessman," she said. "That's what he told everyone. What he told me. He worked for the cartel—producing, distributing, moving product through the backroads of Missouri like it was just another crop to harvest."
Leo's hands stayed on her hips. Warm. Steady. He didn't interrupt.
"His kids were security," she said. "We learned to shoot before we learned to ride bikes. My first rifle was a birthday present when I turned six. By eight, I could field-strip a pistol blindfolded."
She paused. The memories were cold, clinical, like watching someone else's life through glass.
"If you didn't learn fast enough, you got beaten," she said. "If you talked back, you got beaten. If you cried, you got beaten harder. My father didn't believe in softness. He believed in obedience."
Leo's thumbs traced small circles on her hipbones. The touch was grounding. She kept going.
"There were other kids on the farm sometimes," she said. "Kids taken as trade for debts owed. Collateral. They'd stay for weeks, months, sometimes years. My father said they were more moldable—easier to beat into submission. And he did. He beat them until they stopped fighting. Until they stopped crying. Until they stopped being anything except tools."
Her voice didn't waver. She'd told this story before—to therapists, to Bree, to Damien on a night when the whiskey had loosened her tongue. It never got easier. It just got quieter.
"No one came without invitation," she said. "Those that did disappeared. I didn't ask questions. I learned not to."
She stopped. Inhaled. Exhaled.
"My dad made me execute people like it was washing dishes," she said. "A chore. Something to check off the list before dinner. The first time, I was twelve. He handed me the gun, pointed at the man kneeling in the barn, and said 'he stole from us.' I pulled the trigger. Didn't even blink."
Leo's grip tightened on her hips. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I've killed more people than I can count," she said. "I've watched the light leave their eyes. I've smelled the blood. I've buried the bodies. I am my father's daughter."
She leaned forward again. Her hair fell around their faces like a curtain.
"But I am one hell of a shot," she said. "And I am not afraid of you, Leo. I'm not afraid of the dark parts. I'm not afraid of what you do or who you are. I'm afraid of letting you in and watching you leave when you realize what I am."
The silence stretched between them. Long. Heavy. The TV droned on in the background, some commercial about laundry detergent. It felt absurd. It felt exactly right.
Leo reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek.
"Are you done?" he asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"Are you done telling me why I should run?"
She didn't answer.
He sat up slowly, his chest pressing against hers, his hands sliding from her hips to her back. He pulled the shirt over her head in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. She was bare from the waist up—tits exposed, nipples hard from the cool air and the heat of his gaze.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
His mouth found her throat. Hot. Wet. He sucked at the pulse point just below her jaw, dragging a moan from somewhere deep in her chest.
"You think I don't have bodies in my closet?" he muttered against her skin. "You think I don't know what it feels like to take a life? To watch the light go out?"
His hands moved to her tits, cupping them, thumbs brushing her nipples. She arched into him.
"I've been doing this since I was fifteen," he said. "I've killed men with my bare hands. I've ordered hits. I've watched cities burn because I gave the word."
He bit her nipple. She gasped.
"You're not scary, Vera. You're a mirror."
He pulled back, his eyes locking on hers. His expression was unreadable.
"Now get these fucking shorts off," he said. "Because I didn't come here to talk."
She stood up just long enough to peel the leggings and boyshorts down her legs. She kicked them aside. Then she climbed back onto his lap, straddling him, her bare cunt pressed against the rough denim of his jeans.
He grabbed her ass and pulled her forward, grinding her against his erection. She moaned.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I like it."
He unbuttoned his jeans. Lifted her just enough to shove them down his hips. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. She reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroking slowly.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She guided him to her entrance and sank down.
They both groaned. He was thick and hot, stretching her open, filling her completely. She braced her hands on his chest and started to move—slow at first, grinding, learning the angle.
"Faster," he said.
She obeyed.
The couch creaked beneath them. Her tits bounced with every thrust. His hands roamed her body—her waist, her ass, her thighs—gripping and releasing, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.
"You're so fucking wet," he said. "Dripping down my cock like you've been waiting all day."
"I have."
"Say it again."
"I've been waiting all day."
He thrust up into her, hard. She cried out.
"What were you waiting for?"
"You."
He grabbed her hips and started fucking her in earnest—pounding up into her with a rhythm that made her vision blur. She leaned forward, her hands braced on the back of the couch, and took it. Every stroke. Every thrust.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not. Yet."
He slowed down. Torturously slow. Long, deep strokes that made her feel every inch of him. She whimpered.
"You don't come until I tell you to," he said.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But the words died in her throat. Because she liked it. She liked the way he controlled her. The way he made her wait.
"Okay," she whispered.
He smirked. "Good girl."
He picked up the pace again. Harder. Faster. The couch was slamming against the wall now, a rhythmic thud that echoed through the apartment.
"Come," he said.
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her—violent, consuming, a white-hot explosion behind her eyes. She screamed his name. Her nails raked down his chest. Her cunt clenched around his cock like a fist.
He fucked her through it, his rhythm never faltering, and then he was coming too—hot and thick, spilling inside her, filling her up.
They collapsed together. Sweat-slicked. Breathless. The TV was still on.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. His cock was still inside her, softening. His come was starting to leak out around his shaft.
"That was—" she started.
"I know."
She laughed. A real laugh. It felt like something breaking loose in her chest.
"So," she said. "Still think I'm not scary?"
He looked at her. His eyes were dark and unreadable.
"I think you're the scariest thing I've ever met," he said. "And I'm not going anywhere."
She believed him.