It's been five days. five fucking days, and I still can't get her out of my head. Not just my head—my body, my every nerve, every inch of me aches for her.
I need her.
I try to clear my mind, hit up a club after Sophie left. That's where I saw her. She was in the middle of the crowd, like she owned the room, moving like she knew I was watching. And God, did I watch. The moment my eyes locked on her, I knew. She was mine.
Before I even realized it, I was dancing with her. And then we were alone in one of the rooms. Time slipped away. Hours passed, but all I remember were the sounds she made. The way she came, over and over, moaning louder with each thrust, begging for release. Each gasp and moan—a symphony.
Her little gasps, that tiny nose of hers—it looked like she couldn't get enough air. I thought she might pass out, and I liked that. I wanted her to suffocate on her own desire. On me.
But then she made a mistake. She kept calling me Neo. Over and over, like she didn't know who she was dealing with. I told her if she moans that name one more time, I'd kill every single Neo in that goddamn club. She didn't listen. They never do.
I don't make empty threats.
I sent her picture to Liam. He's my guy—tech genius. Give him a photo, and he can tell you everything about a person. Down to what they ate for breakfast.
"I've sent all the info I could find to your email," he says.
"Good."
Liam's tone shifts. He always tries to play the moral compass. "Ky, what are you going to do with this? I'm not prying, but from what I found, she's not exactly a bad person."
Bad person? That's laughable. He has no idea what she's done to me. What she's making me feel. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I smile. "Anything else?"
He hesitates. "Well... a few sex tapes of hers got leaked a while back."
That smile slipped right off my face. My pulse slowed. Cold. Calculating. Someone had seen her. My goddess. Touched her. Defiled her. My blood boiled. I wanted to hunt down every filthy bastard who'd watched those tapes and gut them. One by one.
"Who leaked it?" I ask, barely keeping the venom out of my voice.
Liam gives me the name. I don't waste time. I call an old friend from jail. "Kill him."
Then I turn my attention back to Liam. My fingers toy with my gun, itching to pull the trigger.
"I've scrubbed the internet clean. Took down every trace of the videos."
Good. But my hand's still on the trigger. Without thinking, I raise the gun and fire a shot into the pillow beside me. The stuffing explodes, fluttering around the room like snow.
"Did you watch them?" I ask, voice calm.
I can hear his pulse quicken through the phone. "Uh… I mean, I didn't mean to—"
He watched them.
I laugh, a slow, cruel chuckle. He's terrified. I can feel it. The idiot probably jerked off to her. I don't need to watch to know what she looked like. I already know.
She's perfection. My goddess.
"How did it feel?" I ask, eyes fixed on her picture. I have it hanging on my ceiling, my everyday prayer.
"Ky, I didn't know you were into her like that…"
Her lips. Perfect bow-shaped lips. The top, dark brown, the bottom, pink. I can taste them, even now. "How many times did you come watching her?"
"Come on, man. I said I'm sorry—"
That tiny nose. I wonder if it'll be enough to draw in air next time I push her further. I'll push her harder. Make her beg harder. "Did you wish she was there with you? Did you want to touch her yourself?"
Silence on the line. His breathing quickens again. "Am I in trouble?" he finally asks.
Her eyes… those pretty brown eyes, swallowing me whole. My heart slows. Everything slows.
"Ky?"
She's beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous in every twisted way that makes you want to own every inch of her. Mine. My lips twist into a smirk as I murmur, "Get off my phone," and the idiot on the other end scrambles to hang up.
He's lucky I'm too distracted to deal with him right now. Perhaps he's more useful breathing than rotting six feet under. For now.
I glance down at my screen, Rayna Tayson's personal data gleaming at me from the email Liam sent. The rest of the information fades into static as my eyes lock on her phone number, digits begging to be dialed. Should I call her? Or text? The question flickers for a second before my fingers decide on their own, tapping the call button with a thrill of anticipation.
Beep...one. Beep...two. Beep...three. Silence.
"Come on, Mama," I hiss, tapping my fingers restlessly. Pick up the call. Pick up the goddamn call.
Suddenly, her voice breaks through—Sweet and Seductive, the kind that makes your cock twitch with excitement. "Thank goodness you called back. I'm starving! So, you were asking for my order, right? It's rice, fries, and chicken. Wait, let me ask my friend for his order…"
His?
My grip tightens around the phone, a dark heat simmering in my chest. A friend. With a goddamn his. He better be trans, or I'll be happy to give him the pronoun meant for a corpse.
She covers the phone's speaker, but I still catch the muffled sound of her voice. "Byron, what are you ordering?"
"I'll have whatever you're having." His voice is deep, confident—definitely not trans. I clench my jaw, the phone creaking under the pressure of my grip as I resist not to snap it in half.
She comes back, oblivious to the storm she's stocked. "He's having the same thing." She pauses, waiting for a response, but I'm no fucking Afrocuisine. "So… when should I expect my delivery?"
I hang up, and before I can think, the phone is already hurtling across the room. It smashes into the wall, splintering into pieces that scatter like confetti. For a second, I watch the shards fall, taking some sick satisfaction in the destruction.
My fists clench at my sides, and I feel the rage boiling up, clawing to the surface. I try to contain it, but there's no use. I can't just stand here and swallow this anger. Not this time. Two opposite genders can't be friends—not without one of them wanting something more. It's basic human nature, and anyone who thinks differently is a damn fool.
I grit my teeth, my gaze fixed on the ceiling, the name still circling in my mind.
Byron.
The name feels sour on my tongue, and I picture him sitting there, laughing, breathing my air, taking what's mine. I'll make him regret that. I'll make her regret it, too.
She needs to understand that we're made for each other. I'm her better half. Me and me alone.
I'll make her happy. I'll give her everything she could ever dream of. Hell, if she wants the stars, I'd rip down the night sky just to lay them at her feet. If Mars is what she craves, I'd find a way to bring it to her.
I don't hate the idea of her having a male friend. No, I don't. I despise it. Ninety-nine percent of them are beasts, predators wrapped in false charm. They lure you in with sweet words and smiles, but once you're close enough, they show you their true colors. She's too trusting, too blind to see it.
And I'm no dashing Romeo. I'm gonna show her every broken, fucked up part of me and make her equally obsessed—every single inch of me, raw and real. She'll think of me every second of every day, feel my presence like a shadow she can't shake, even when I'm not there. I'll root myself so deep into her mind that she won't know where I end and she begins. She'll crave every twisted, imperfect piece of me, until I'm all she can see, all she can need.
Soon. Very soon.
I slip a cigeratte between my lips and light it, savoring the burn as I take a long drag. Smoke curls around me as I make my way to the control room—the one I use to monitor people I've put a hit on. The type of people that use politics as a shield, a convenient cloak to hide their rotten deeds.
I'm already three years behind, and the thought of that makes me want to resurrect everyone responsible and watch the light fade from their eyes, over and over again, until I'm satisfied.
I do have people working for me, but there's a vast difference between doing it yourself and relying on some incompetent fools who can be easily influenced by tears to handle something that's more important to you than life itself.
I stare at one of the monitors showing a very famous minister. I slip my earpiece in as one of my team comes through on the other end. "Who do we have?" I take in another drag.
"Ethan Vynx. Drug trafficking."
I throw my head back and let out an exhale. "Location?"
"We can handle him."
I crease my brows. None of my team would jump on the offer of handling it themselves, except… "Keesha?"
"One and only."
I smile widely. "How you been?"
"You left all this for me to handle, and you're asking me how I've been? Don't even get me started, Ky."
I chuckle. "You know it ain't my fault. I thought you dead, though."
"You ain't funny."
I clutch my chest. "Ouch." Keesha isn't just my team member; she's the closest thing to a friend and one of the few people who could talk to me this way and still keep their tongue in their mouths.
"Wait…" I hear her gasp, the disbelief ringing in her voice. "You did not!"
She probably just saw the news.
"You killed Sophie. No, no, no. Ky, what did you do!"
"Can we not talk about that?" I say, yet I know Keesha won't listen.
"Ky!!!" she yells.
"What? You didn't expect me to spare her, did you?" I drop the cigeratte in the ashtray, feeling the need for something stronger.
"You didn't have to kill her."
"You think I wanted to?" I ask, rolling up a blunt.
There's a long pause before she speaks again. "What you gon' do about Kendrick?"
What's everyone's fucking problem with Kendrick? Sure, he's gonna be a problem. Have we faced bigger problems? Hell yes. "I'll figure out what to do with him when the time comes." I light it and take a slow, languid puff, savoring the taste as it burns.
"Ky, it's Kendrick we're talking about."
"I know," I drawl.
"I'm fed up with you. I'm out." And with that, she tunes me out.