Chapter 6: The Game of Trust
The silence Leo left behind was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. Clare stared at the bedroom door, the imprint of his ringless finger burning in her mind. Finn’s arm around her tightened, a warm, solid anchor in the sudden chill.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Breathe, Red. Just breathe.”
She let out a shaky exhale she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The urge to scramble out of bed, to run after Leo and beg for a different answer, was a frantic bird beating against her ribs. But Finn’s hold was firm, grounding her.
“He’s just… processing,” Finn said, though the words lacked conviction.
“He’s retreating,” Clare corrected, her voice small. “He thinks it was a mistake.”
“Last night was not a mistake.” Finn’s tone left no room for argument. He shifted, turning her to face him. His blue eyes, usually bright with mischief, were sober. “He’s scared. He doesn’t know how to do messy. Thinks if he can’t flowchart it, it’s broken.”
A weak laugh escaped her. “He does love a flowchart.”
“See? We’ll tease him about it later.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering on her skin. “Right now, you’re here with me. And you’re all wound up. We can’t have that.”
He climbed out of bed, his movements loose and easy, a stark contrast to Leo’s stiff exit. He pulled on a pair of low-slung jeans, not bothering with a shirt, his tattoos a vibrant map across his torso and arms. “Come on. Up. We’re changing the channel.”
The apartment was still steeped in the rich, comforting aroma of coffee. Finn poured her a mug, adding a splash of cream exactly how she liked it, and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers, a simple touch that sent a current of calm through her frayed nerves.
He wandered over to the vintage record player in the corner, flipping through the crate of albums with a practiced ease. The soft jazz Leo had put on earlier cut out. A moment later, the raw, driving guitar of a garage rock band filled the space, pushing back against the quiet.
“Better,” Finn declared, turning to her with a grin that was all challenge. “Now, drink up. I have an idea.”
She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “What kind of idea?”
“The fun kind. A game.” He walked back to her, stopping just inches away, his presence suddenly dominating the space between the sofa and the bookshelf. “A trust game.”
Her anxiety, which had receded to a low hum, spiked again. “Finn…”
“Shhh.” He placed a finger gently on her lips. “Rules are simple. You stand right here. Perfectly still. You don’t move a muscle. No matter what I do.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s the fun part. You don’t get to know.” His eyes glittered. “You just have to trust me. Can you do that? Can you be my good girl and stand still for me?”
The phrase, usually a balm, now felt like a test. Her need for his approval, for the structure of his command, warred with the jittery energy left by Leo’s departure. She nodded, a quick, jerky motion.
“Words, Clare.”
“Yes. I can.”
“Good.”
He stepped back, his gaze appraising. He started slowly, circling her. He trailed a single finger along the line of her shoulder, down her arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. She held her breath, her muscles locking into place.
His teasing was a world away from Leo’s intense, focused control. It was unpredictable, playful. He plucked the mug from her hands and set it aside without a word. He leaned in, his breath warm on her neck, and she flinched, expecting a kiss. He didn’t deliver one. He just smiled against her skin and moved away.
He found a feather from one of her art projects on the desk. He drew it lightly over her collarbone, down the sensitive skin of her inner arm. The sensation was maddening, a tickling, whispering tease that made her want to squirm and slap his hand away. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
“Still,” he reminded her, his voice a low murmur beside her ear.
He switched tactics. He picked up an ice cube from her water glass, now sweating on the coffee table. He held it up, letting her see it glint in the morning light. Then he pressed it to the base of her throat.
She gasped. The cold was a shock, a sharp, bright pain that made her whole body tense. A rivulet of freezing water traced a path between her breasts. She shuddered, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were locked on his, wide and pleading.
He watched her, his expression unreadable. He was testing her limits, but he was also pulling her out of her head, away from the ghost of Leo’s ring. This was a different kind of surrender. Not to order, but to chaos. To his chaos.
He brought the melting ice cube to her lips. “Open.”
She parted her lips, and he slid the sliver of ice into her mouth. The cold was intense, making her teeth ache. She held it there, her eyes watering, as he watched her.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The hard part.”
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his closed switchblade. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. He saw the fear in her eyes and gave a slow, reassuring smile.
“Remember the apple?” he asked, referencing a time weeks ago in the park when he’d peeled one for her with terrifying, beautiful precision.
He flicked the blade open. The sound was sharp, final. He didn’t move toward her. Instead, he reached up and carefully sliced through the thin strap of her camisole. The fabric gave way with a soft sigh. He did the same to the other strap. The silky material pooled at her waist.
She was exposed, trembling, the ice melting on her tongue, the cold trail on her skin now warming under his gaze. He was a whirlwind of sensation—teasing, shocking, dangerous. And she was standing in the center of it, utterly still, as commanded.
He leaned in again, his lips brushing her ear. “You are so beautiful when you’re trying to be good.” He nipped her earlobe, a sharp, possessive sting. “And you are being so very good for me.”
A broken sound, half-sob, half-sigh, escaped her. The combination of fear, trust, and a dark, swelling need was overwhelming. He was pulling her apart, piece by piece, and she was letting him.
The front door clicked open.
The spell shattered.
Clare flinched, her body finally breaking its stillness as she spun towards the sound. Leo stood in the doorway, his keys in hand, his face a mask of cold fury. His eyes took in the scene: the rock music, Clare standing half-undressed and flushed, Finn with the switchblade still open in his hand.
The air crackled.
Finn slowly closed the blade, the click echoing in the sudden silence. He didn’t look away from Leo. “You’re back early.”
Leo’s gaze, glacial and disappointed, settled on Clare. “I see you found a distraction.”