I shaved.
That felt like progress.
Stared into the bathroom mirror like it might offer absolution. It didn't. Just reflected a man who looked like he'd seen God, and then sinned against her.
Because that's what she was, wasn't she?
Still didn't know her name, but I knew her mouth. Her hands. Her breath against my throat.
It came back in flashes, cruel and untimely.
The curve of her thigh over my hip while I was brushing my teeth.
The sound she made when I bit her shoulder—while I was tying my shoes.
The way her skin felt under my palms—hot silk over stone—when I slid my fingers through my hair.
She was under my skin.
Still.
I had an interview at noon.
Some boring logistics company that wanted a driver who could lift boxes and shut up.
I could do that. I'd done worse.
Hell, I'd slept with a stranger in a haunted house that tried to eat me.
This was nothing.
Still—I couldn't stop picturing her.
Bent backward on that velvet chaise.
Nails in my back.
Breathless, but smiling like she'd planned it all.
I adjusted my belt, cursed under my breath, and tried to focus.
The train was late.
Figures.
I stood on the platform surrounded by people with places to be, trying to look normal. Like I wasn't remembering the way she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me in like she'd waited centuries for it.
Because maybe she had.
She never told me her age. Or anything at all, really.
But she looked at me like I was an echo of something she thought she'd lost.
And when I was inside her...
Jesus.
I shook my head hard enough to make a kid nearby stare.
Focused on my boots.
They were scuffed. One lace fraying. Left heel almost gone.
Normal. Human. Grounding.
But even then, I could still feel the imprint of her teeth on my collarbone.
My skin had healed.
My mind hadn't.
The office was gray.
Receptionist was bored. Waiting chairs creaked. My interviewers wore cardigans and buzzwords like armor.
I smiled. Sat up straight. Said all the right things.
But somewhere between "I'm very punctual" and "I've always been a self-starter," my brain short-circuited.
Because I remembered the look she gave me after.
When I was shaking.
Spent.
Still inside her.
And she cradled the back of my neck like something fragile.
Like I'd broken open, and she liked the sound of it.
I snapped back to the present just as the interviewer asked me something about "long-term career goals."
"Uh," I said. "Right. Longevity. Stability."
He nodded like that meant anything.
I didn't remember the rest of it.
Outside, the sky was too bright.
I ducked into a newsstand to hide my face and buy a fizzy drink I didn't want.
Behind my ribs, something ached.
A hunger, maybe. Or a warning.
Because no matter how far I walked from Villa Dahlia, I still carried her with me.
In the bruises that faded too slow.
In the cash in my pocket that smelled faintly like rose and smoke.
In the part of me that didn't want to forget her at all.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two months later. A cold flat, colder luck, and choices he didn't want to make.
The electric was due in three days.
Tiff's school fees were already overdue.
The fridge had a half-bag of rice, three eggs, and soy sauce clinging to its sides like guilt.
I sat at the kitchen table in the same hoodie I'd worn yesterday—maybe the day before—flipping through unopened bills like they might magically change amounts if I looked hard enough.
They didn't.
Every red number glared back at me like it knew.
Like they were all in on the joke.
Cassian Roan, survivor, thief, professional screwup.
But I wasn't stealing anymore. I promised myself. Promised Tiff.
No more Brack. No more black eyes and split knuckles for fifty quid and a blood-stained apology.
Just... work. Real work.
Except real work didn't call back. Real work didn't care about charm or desperation or the way I'd once made a woman older than empires scream my name against silk pillows.
Real work wanted clean history and clean references.
I didn't have either.
The rings Seraphine gave me were long gone.
Pawned, sold, converted into groceries and rent.
I hadn't seen her since that night.
Didn't know if I wanted to.
But the thing was—she hadn't come looking for me, either.
And that? That was the part that stung.
She let me go like I was nothing.
Like I wasn't the man she whispered to, mouth against my throat, while she held me down and took her pleasure slow.
Stop it, I hissed under my breath.
Didn't help.
My hands were still shaking.
The mail slot rattled.
More bills. Probably final warnings.
I didn't check.
Instead, I stared at the cracked tile in the kitchen and did the math.
Fourteen pounds in my wallet. Two weeks 'til next housing credit.
Tiff's birthday in five days.
Something had to give.
I stood slowly, every joint stiff with cold, and walked to the window.
Grey sky. Grey street. Same two drunks yelling at each other by the corner shop like it was a routine.
And just for a second... I wondered.
What would she give me, if I went back?
Not just money.
Not just silk sheets and ruby rings.
But that feeling.
Of being wanted.
Of being seen.
Of being dragged into her bed like a prayer that got answered too violently.
My fists clenched.
I hated myself for thinking it.
But the hunger was real.
I turned away from the window and stared at the table.
Then slowly—like a man walking toward a fire—picked up my coat.