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Hollis’s words echoed in your chest with the force of thunder.
"That woman was you... Your soul reincarnated, but your memory remained buried in this castle."
Processing the abstract, fantastical idea that the Count was a creature of the night—an immortal of ice-cold skin and superhuman strength—was one thing. But feeling the violent collision of reality with old Barnaby’s warnings was something infinitely more terrifying.
The echo of the village lunatic’s ravings resounded in your mind with a cruel, lucid clarity: "He has marked you... he doesn’t seek your company out of courtesy, girl... he seeks something in you that reminds him of what he lost when he stopped breathing."
The realization struck you like a bucket of ice water. Hollis didn’t see you. He wasn’t fascinated by the young woman who read botany books or who tended to his raven in the snow. To him, you were merely a shadow—the empty vessel of a three-hundred-year-old ghost. The pressure of his presence, the coldness of his forehead pressed against yours, and the unbearable weight of a past life you didn’t remember birthed a suffocating panic that crushed any remaining trace of logic.
"No... no, this isn't real," you whispered, taking a step back.
"It is the truth, my life..." Hollis murmured, extending a hand toward you with a heartbreaking desperation in his eyes.
"Don't touch me!" you screamed, the sound of your own voice echoing off the stone walls of the east wing.
The instinctive fear of the unknown took absolute control of your body. You turned sharply and bolted.
"Wait! Do not go out into the night!" Hollis’s voice pleaded behind you, heavy with genuine alarm, but you didn't stop.
You burst through the black velvet curtain, ran down the library corridors stumbling over your own skirts, and crossed the castle’s inner courtyard. No one tried to stop you; the servants didn't even have time to react as you shoved open the heavy oak doors and threw yourself out into the elements.
Outside, the winter storm had reached its most ferocious peak.
The north wind howled with fury, whipping your face with hard snowflakes like needles of ice. You wore no coat or gloves, only your midnight-blue wool dress, which quickly began to soak through and freeze against the blizzard. The cold burned your lungs with every breath, but the terror of being overtaken by the Count’s shadow drove you faster than the threat of frostbite.
You ran blindly down the path leading to the forest, the accumulated snow reaching up to your shins. Your leather boots slipped over icy rocks, making you stumble time and again. The dark trees loomed around you like threatening talons, and the gloom of the night devoured any trace of the trail back to the village.
You plunged deeper into the thick vegetation, desperately seeking the shelter of the pine canopy. The crunch of your steps and the wild sound of your breathing were the only noises for miles around... until you stopped dead, clutching the frozen trunk of an ancient pine.
The wind seemed to abate for a second, and in the midst of the deathly silence, a sound made your blood run cold.
A low, gutural, deep growl echoed barely a few meters away.
Slowly, with your heart in your throat and tears freezing on your cheeks, you raised your eyes.
Emerging from the thicket, silhouetted against the stark white snow, massive shapes appeared. A pack of wild mountain wolves surrounded you in a perfect semicircle. Their thick, greyish coats were matted with frost, and their yellowish eyes burned with the ferocious hunger of deep winter.
The alpha of the pack took a step forward, baring a row of sharp fangs from which thick saliva dripped and froze upon contact with the air. A second growl spread through the pack, coordinating their advance toward you.
You were trapped. Behind you lay the darkness of the forest; at your sides, the hungry pack; and high above on the peak, the vampire from whom you had fled. You pressed yourself against the tree trunk, feeling your strength slip away and your legs tremble uncontrollably, waiting for the initial strike.
The alpha wolf’s growl cut through the freezing air like a steel blade.
Instinctively, you tried to back away, digging your heels into the deep snow, but your back struck hard against the pine's icy trunk. There was nowhere to run. The predator flexed its hind legs and, in the blink of an eye, lunged at you with its jaws wide open, aiming straight for your throat.
You squeezed your eyes shut and stifled a scream, bracing for the impact.
But the blow never came.
In a fraction of a second, a shadow burst onto the scene at blinding speed. The dull thud of a heavy blow echoed through the clearing: Hollis had intercepted the beast mid-air, casting it aside with a kick that sent the wolf rolling violently across the snow for several meters, yelping in pain.
"Stay behind me!" the Count ordered, his voice monstrous, guttural, and booming—nothing like his usual tone.
Hollis placed himself between you and the pack. He was no longer the refined host of the library; his feathered coat was torn by branches, and his eyes burned with a wild, crimson fury. The pack, enraged by the loss of their leader, attacked all at once.
The scene around you dissolved into a whirlwind of shadows, fierce growls, and claws. Hollis fought with superhuman brutality, dodging bites and seizing the beasts to hurl them against tree trunks. Yet the mountain wolves were relentless. In the chaos of the fray, while the Count held one by its back, another animal managed to flank him, sinking its jaws into his shoulder while a third tore open his forearm with a deep swipe.
Hollis let out a roar of rage, violently tearing himself free from the beast before overpowering the rest of the pack, forcing the few survivors to flee howling into the gloom of the forest.
Your legs gave out. The sheer terror, coupled with the hypothermia beginning to freeze your blood, left you entirely paralyzed. Your breathing became short and erratic. You saw Hollis’s figure approaching through the mist, but your strength abandoned you completely. The extreme cold extinguished your vision, and you collapsed unconscious into the snow, sinking into absolute darkness.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
A dull headache and a suffocating heat pulled you back to reality.
You blinked slowly, your eyelids heavy and your throat as dry as tinder. The ceiling above you was not rough stone or the frozen vault of the library; it was a carved wooden canopy hung with heavy velvet drapes embroidered with gold thread.
You were lying in a colossal bed, tucked beneath several layers of warm blankets and fine silk sheets. A sweet warmth emanated from the room's fireplace, where oak logs crackled rhythmically. On your forehead rested the comforting dampness of a cold cloth, placed there to soothe the burning fever consuming your body after prolonged exposure to the blizzard.
With immense effort, you turned your head on the pillow.
Sitting in an armchair beside the bed, watching over your sleep in the gloom, was Hollis.
He looked visibly worn and injured. He no longer wore his elegant jacket; he wore only a white linen shirt open at the collar, its cuffs stained with dark spots. His left arm was firmly bandaged, and through the cloth of his torn shoulder, the fresh marks of wolf bites were visible. Though his immortal nature accelerated his healing, the wounds inflicted by the mountain beasts showed just how much he had pushed himself to protect you.
Noticing your movement, the Count rose slowly. His face reflected a mixture of infinite relief and an ancient weariness.
"You have finally awakened..." he murmured softly, reaching for a cup of warm tea infused with medicinal herbs from the nightstand. "The fever is only just beginning to break, my life. Please, do not try to get up."
Noticing Hollis standing up and extending his hand with the teacup, a spark of panic reignited your feverish body.
You recoiled sharply across the bed, scrambling toward the headboard until your back hit the carved wood. The silk sheets crumpled around you, and the damp cloth slipped from your forehead, falling onto your lap. Your breathing was raspy and heavy from the cold burning in your chest.
You looked at Hollis not with the fear of the wolves' claws, but with the painful certainty of being trapped in someone else's illusion. You saw his bandages, the blood-stained shirt, and the exhaustion on his alabaster face, but the words he had spoken in the east wing corridor continued to poison your mind.
"No... stay back," you murmured, your voice raspy with fever as you hugged your knees to your chest. "Don't call me that. I am not your wife... I am not the ghost you lost three hundred years ago. You don't see me, Hollis... you only see the memory you're desperate to reclaim."
The Count froze mid-gesture. The porcelain cup trembled for a fraction of a second between his long fingers before he set it back on the nightstand. His dark eyes clouded with a suffocating melancholy, as if every one of your words were a blade cutting into his immortal skin.
"I want to leave," you added, tears burning in your eyes from sheer helplessness. "Let me go back home. Please... let me leave."
Hollis shook his head immediately, his tone turning firm and sharp, shattering the fragility of the moment.
"No. That is impossible," he said flatly.
"Hollis, please!"
"I said no!" he commanded, taking a step toward the window before softening his voice upon seeing you flinch. "Look outside. The storm has worsened since I brought you back. The mountain pass is completely buried in ice; not even heavy carriages could advance three yards without tumbling down the ravine. You are ill, your body can barely handle the fever, and outside you would die within minutes. You will remain in the castle until the weather clears."
You remained in absolute silence. You wanted to scream at him, demand answers, and counter his logic, but you knew he was telling the truth. The furious howling of the wind battering the room's tall windows was irrefutable proof that the mountain held you prisoner. You clenched your fists over the blankets and lowered your gaze to the silk bed, accepting the crushing reality without uttering another word.
Hollis released a heavy sigh, observing your curled-up form with a mix of sternness and repressed frustration. He adjusted the bandage on his forearm carefully, suppressing a wince of pain he couldn't entirely hide.
"The servants have prepared clean clothes for you," he continued, regaining that cold, distant composure he used as a shield. "In an hour, you will come down to dinner in the main dining hall. My dear... whether you wish to or not, you need to eat and regain your strength. I will not allow the fever to consume you under my roof."
Without waiting for a response he knew you wouldn't give, Hollis turned with elegance and left the room, shutting the heavy oak door behind him with a sharp click.
An hour later, the castle’s silence felt almost suffocating.
Following his orders out of a sheer lack of alternatives, you dressed in a simple yet warm dark-blue velvet dress the servants had left on an armchair. Though your body still felt heavy from fever and weakness, the warmth of the hearth and the brews left for you had partially relieved your headache.
You descended the grand marble staircase with slow, hesitant steps. A liveried servant awaited at the foot of the stairs to guide you through the dark corridors to the main dining room.
A long mahogany table dominated the center of the hall, illuminated only by the tapers of a silver chandelier and the roaring fire of a majestic stone hearth. At the head, Hollis was already seated. He had changed out of his stained shirt into one of immaculate black silk, though the rigidity of his posture betrayed the discomfort of his bandaged wounds underneath.
Opposite his seat, at the far end, a place had been set for you with a bowl of hot poultry soup, freshly baked bread, and a glass of spiced wine. In front of him, however, stood only a cut-crystal goblet filled with a thick, dark liquid that reflected the firelight in crimson tones.
"Take a seat," Hollis said softly, gesturing to the place across from him without standing up.
You moved forward in silence and sat on the edge of the chair, keeping as much distance as possible. The scent of the hot soup was comforting, but the tension between you made every passing second feel like an eternity.
For several minutes, the only sound in the massive hall was the crackling of the logs and the metallic clink of your spoon against the porcelain. Hollis did not eat; he merely held his goblet by its crystal stem, observing you over the rim with an almost hypnotic intensity, studying your every move until your cheeks burned.
"The soup will restore color to your lips," he said, breaking the silence, his voice echoing in the vastness of the room. "My servants added the herbs you used to... that they usually recommend in the village for the chest."
You paused with your spoon halfway to your mouth, locking your eyes onto his.
"Usually recommend... or the ones she used to use?" you asked in a low voice laced with cold bitterness, unable to hold back your resentment any longer.
Hollis tightened his fingers around the stem of his glass until his knuckles turned even paler. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before answering.
"Are you going to turn every gesture of care into a battle over the past?"
"It isn't a battle, Hollis. It's that I cannot eat in front of a man who saved me from wolves only because he believes I've belonged to him for three centuries," you said, letting the spoon drop with a sharp clink onto the table. "You said you were certain I was her. Why are you so sure? Why can't you accept that I am simply a different person who had the misfortune of looking like a ghost?"
Before you could catch your breath, the air in front of you shifted with silent violence.
Hollis did not walk. He crossed the length of the endless mahogany table in a thousandth of a second, reappearing right beside your chair. The superhuman speed made you stifle a gasp and recoil against the backrest. The Count leaned over you, resting both hands on the arms of your seat, cornering you in an aura of cold and the metallic scent of the crimson wine in his glass.
His dark eyes burned with a heartbreaking fire, so close you could see the shadows of his lashes against his alabaster cheekbones.
"Why am I so sure?" he whispered, his voice deep, rapid, and raspy, vibrating directly in your chest. "Because it isn't just your face! It's that same noble heart... that ridiculous, reckless impulse that drove you to save an injured raven in the middle of the snow, uncaring if you bled or froze your hands."
He leaned in a millimeter closer, seeking your gaze with an intensity that took your breath away.
"It is your insatiable curiosity, the way your fingers caress the spines of botany books, the way you observe the world around you. Every gesture, every habit, every fiber of who you are... is her. You are not a ghost, my life. You are you. Your soul returned to me, even if your mind cannot remember it."
The weight of his words and the suffocating closeness of his presence broke what little thread of patience you had left. With the fever still lingering in your head and your chest burning with frustration, you stood up abruptly.
"I'm not hungry," you said, your voice breaking, turning your back on him to break eye contact before confusion overtook you.
You took two steps toward the dining room exit, but stopped dead, remembering the detail that had been hammering inside your head since you woke up in that bed.
"And my family?" you asked without turning fully, resting a hand on the archway. "My family in the village... When they don't find me in my room tomorrow morning, they'll panic. They'll come looking for me."
Hollis drew himself up slowly behind you, adjusting the cuffs of his silk shirt with absolute, cold calm.
"I have already taken care of that," he replied simply.
"What do you mean, you've taken care of it?" you demanded, turning toward him with suspicion.
"A messenger from the castle delivered a formal letter to your residence tonight. I informed them that, due to the pass being closed by the storm, you were stranded in the guest wing of my estate following your visit to the library, and that you are under the care of my physicians until the roads are safe. No one will come looking for you. They are at ease... and you are safe here."
You remained silent, clenching your fists. You knew you couldn't fight his control or his network of influence in the province. Without another word, you turned and rushed up the stairs to your room, locking the door behind you.
The next day dawned beneath a leaden sky. The snow had stopped falling violently, but a thick, impenetrable blanket covered the entire landscape, keeping the castle in total isolation.
All morning you refused to leave the bedroom. The fever had finally broken thanks to the previous night's remedies, but emotional exhaustion kept you glued to the armchair by the window, staring out at the white forest. You refused to speak to the maid who came in to drop off breakfast, sending the untouched tray back with her.
Midway through the afternoon, three firm knocks echoed on the oak door.
You didn't answer, but the key turned from the outside anyway. The door swung open to reveal Hollis. He wore an impeccable charcoal-grey day suit, his injured arm resting rigidly beneath the fabric. His face did not carry the anger of the previous night, but rather a palpable desire to build a bridge between you.
"You haven't eaten a thing all day," he said from the threshold, keeping a discreet distance.
You kept looking out the window, hugging your legs to your chest.
"I have no appetite."
Hollis sighed, a long sound that seemed to cool the room further. He took a couple of elegant steps forward.
"I know you are upset... and I know you are afraid. But we cannot spend the days this storm lasts locked in a duel of silences," he spoke with calculated gentleness. "The air in the castle conservatory is warm. The plants brought from southern lands are blooming despite the winter. I would like you to come down and have tea with me there. You may read, you may ignore me if you wish... but I need you to step out of this room and breathe something other than dust and confinement."
You turned your head slowly to look at him. His dark eyes held a silent plea that contrasted with his imposing demeanor. The prospect of being trapped in that bedroom all day was beginning to suffocate you, and the mention of a conservatory full of botanical life amidst the frozen mountains inevitably sparked that curiosity he spoke so much about.
"I will go..." you said at last, your tone distant. "On one condition: you will not speak to me of past lives or that woman ever again."
Hollis stood motionless for a second. Then, he bowed his head in an impeccable gesture.
"I accept your terms. I shall await you in the central gallery in ten minutes."
Ten minutes later, you descended the main staircase, adjusting a wool shawl over your shoulders.
Hollis was waiting for you at the foot of the central gallery, erect and faultless, his hands clasped behind his back. Seeing you approach, he inclined his head in a silent greeting and offered his arm. Though you kept a cautious distance and did not lean on him, he made no comment; he simply guided you in silence through the stone corridors until crossing the heavy wrought-iron doors leading into the conservatory.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The castle's icy draft vanished, replaced by a vast space sheltered beneath a vaulted glass-and-iron ceiling. The temperature inside was strangely warm and humid, rich with the intense scent of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and exotic orchids blooming in defiance of the blizzard visible through the glass.
In the center of the conservatory, surrounded by giant ferns and carnivorous plants, stood a small wrought-iron table with two chairs. Atop it rested a steaming porcelain teapot, accompanied by fine pastries and a clean cup.
You sat in one of the wicker armchairs, opening the botany book you had brought along to establish your distance. Hollis settled across from you, holding his eternal glass of crimson liquid. For the first few minutes, the silence was almost peaceful, broken only by the rustle of turning pages and the soft sound of tea pouring into your porcelain cup.
Yet, the presence of the creature before you and the warmth of the space began to ease the stiffness in your shoulders. Your mind was spinning. You had a three-hundred-year-old vampire sitting three feet away from you, and as much as you wanted to remain aloof, your thirst for knowledge ultimately won out over your resentment.
You closed the book slowly, resting your hands on the leather cover.
"Hollis..." you called in a soft voice.
He looked up immediately from the rim of his glass, attentive.
"Tell me."
"Yesterday you mentioned that this land has its own shadows... but I'm curious. How many like you actually exist in the world? Are there more vampires?"
A small, almost imperceptible smile played on the Count's pale lips.
"Far too many," he replied, setting his glass on the table with measured elegance. "We are spread across nearly every continent, though most prefer discretion so as not to provoke humanity. However, not all of us rule alone in mountain castles. There are families, entire clans with very strict hierarchies... Like the Volturi in Italy."
You blinked, taken aback by the name.
"The Volturi?"
"Indeed. They have resided in Volterra for millennia. They consider themselves the royalty of our species, the enforcers of the laws that keep us in anonymity. They are ancient, ruthless, and would not hesitate to exterminate anyone who risks our race's existence. A council of elders with terrifying gifts who wouldn't hesitate to see this castle burn if they discovered I was breaking the rules."
You froze for a moment, processing the scale of what he was revealing. Your curiosity, far from dwindling, flared up even more.
"And... what about the others?" you asked, leaning slightly forward over the table. "Are there other things in the night? Witches... or werewolves? Like the ones that attacked us yesterday?"
Hollis let out a soft, deep laugh—a melodic sound that vibrated through the conservatory air, one you had rarely heard from him. His dark eyes sparkled with genuine amusement as he looked at you.
"Are you truly asking me if such things exist... with me sitting right in front of you, sipping tea while the snow falls outside?"
A sudden, warm blush rushed up your neck to your cheeks. You realized how absurd it sounded to doubt myths when you had an immortal, scarred by wolf claws, sharing a table with you. Embarrassed, you dropped your gaze to your teacup, nervously playing with the porcelain handle.
"Well... I just wanted to know if they were like in the stories," you murmured, feeling your face burn.
Noticing your embarrassment, Hollis’s expression softened completely. His teasing vanished, replaced by an overt tone of absolute fascination at your reaction.
"You have no reason to be embarrassed," he said in a warm, enveloping tone. "Witches do exist, yes. But they are not decrepit old hags on brooms; they are weavers of nature, masters of the ancient magic of earth and blood. And the werewolves... well, yesterday you had the misfortune of encountering the wild mountain variety. There are ancient shape-shifter families who protect their territories with honor."
Forgetting entirely about the botany book you had brought as a shield, you rested your elbows on the table and propped your chin in your hands, utterly captivated by his voice. Over the next hour, the distance between you seemed to dissolve as Hollis recounted tales of ancient courts, secret alliances between witches and counts, and legends of eternal nights across the old continent.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The days at Frostshadow Castle passed with an almost surreal fluidity.
As the blizzard’s isolation wore on, the initial tension between you began to thaw. Strictly keeping his word, Hollis never again brought up the woman in the portrait or the bond from three centuries ago. Instead, the Count proved to be a brilliant, cultured conversationalist, deeply passionate about the arts and sciences. You spent afternoons in the library or the conservatory, debating exotic botany, ancient history, and literature, while he shared fascinating accounts of bygone eras with an intellect that eclipsed anyone you had ever met in the capital.
You came to realize you no longer feared him. Beneath his cold aura and immortal nature, you discovered someone who listened to you with genuine respect, making the hours by his side feel strangely warm.
However, winter did not last forever. At the end of a week, the northern winds relented, and the paths to the valley were finally cleared by the province’s road-crews.
The farewell at the castle gates was austere and quiet. Hollis escorted you to the carriage, pausing only to kiss the back of your gloved hand with an impeccable bow.
"The doors of this estate will always remain open to you..." he whispered before the carriage door clicked shut.
The return to the Clairmont residence brought an even greater sense of unreality than the castle itself.
You expected questions, worried glances, or a thorough interrogation from your family after being absent for days. Yet, upon crossing the threshold, you were met with a freezing indifference. Your family greeted you with astonishing normalcy, as though you had never left the room, or as if your trip to the Count’s library had lasted a mere couple of hours.
No one asked about your health, the storm, or the physicians who had supposedly cared for you. They carried out their routines, read the mail, and drank tea like wax figures trapped in a pre-written script. That reaction left a sharp, unsettling knot in your stomach.
Needing fresh air and a way to clear your mind of the suffocating atmosphere, you bundled up in your dark coat and went for a walk along the town's cobblestone streets.
The village continued its usual bustle beneath the winter sky. Merchants shouted their wares, and children played in the packed snow. You walked slowly, absorbed in your thoughts, when crossing a side alley behind the chapel, a rough, icy hand grabbed your coat sleeve firmly.
You gasped, stifling a scream as you spun around violently.
It was old Barnaby.
His yellowish, feverish eyes were fixed on you, filled with harrowing panic. He looked even more gaunt than the last time, his lips chapped by the cold, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
"You... you have returned from the raven's lair," the old man whispered, his raspy voice barely rising above the wind. "Be very careful with what you are doing, girl. That pale face... that demon is beginning to manipulate your family. He does it to everyone in this town. He clouds them, lulls their willpower to sleep so no one asks questions when someone vanishes up on the mountain."
You gently but firmly pulled yourself free from his grasp, taking a step back. The old man's words echoed the strange behavior you had witnessed in your own home just hours prior.
"Barnaby, please..." you said, looking at him with a mix of confusion and concern. "Why do you insist so much? Why do you warn me so fiercely about him? People say you're mad, but you speak as if you truly know something."
The old man let out a bitter, dry laugh that sounded like a cough. He pressed himself against the chapel's stone wall, wrapping his arms around himself as he looked toward the snow-capped peaks.
"Know? I don't assume anything, girl... I lived it," he confessed, and for a second, the madness in his eyes gave way to a tragic, terrifying clarity. "Fifty years ago, when I was just a boy, my older sister was just like you. Curious, beautiful... she read books no one else understood. The Count saw her in the market and began inviting her to the castle."
A chill ran down your spine.
"What happened to her?" you whispered.
"My family became just like yours: blind, docile, smiling like fools while she spent whole nights up there," Barnaby continued, a tear freezing on his wrinkled cheek. "One day, she simply didn't return. When I went looking for her, my own father struck me to shut me up, saying she was 'well cared for.' Months later, I saw her... or what was left of her. She was gaunt, hollow, her eyes blank as if they had drunk her soul away. She didn't survive the winter."
The old man took a step toward you, pointing a cracked finger at your chest.
"They do not love like humans, girl. To that creature, you are merely a whim, a toy that reminds him of something he lost. They seduce you with their books, their elegance, and their wise words... until they take everything you are and leave you an empty shell. They can cause you damage you will never recover from! Flee while your mind still belongs to you."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The return to the castle was inevitable.
Old Barnaby’s words had lodged themselves in your mind like splinters of ice. Every time you watched your family dine in silence, answering your questions with automated, hollow smiles, you felt the walls of your own home suffocating you. You needed to look Hollis in the eye, confront the shadows of that past, and wrench the truth from him before the doubt drove you mad.
You climbed the mountain again of your own free will, crossing the iron gates beneath a leaden sky.
Hollis received you in the grand library, beside the roaring hearth. He wore a dark velvet frock coat and held a book in his hands, but upon seeing you enter, he set it on the side table with that characteristic, slow elegance. His dark eyes fixed on you with a light that blended surprise with deep contemplation.
"You have returned," he said softly, taking a step toward you. "I thought village life would keep you away from these walls a bit longer."
You stood several paces away, wrapped in your coat, keeping your hands clenched inside your pockets to hide a slight tremor.
"I need to ask you a question, Hollis," you said bluntly, your chest heaving with the firmness you tried to project.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the tension in your posture.
"Go ahead. You know I have no reason to hide anything from you."
You gritted your teeth, taking a step forward. The warmth of the fireplace contrasted with the freezing cold creeping up your spine.
"In these three hundred years... in all this time you've been alone on the mountain... did you love anyone else?" you asked, your voice raspy. "Was there another woman here with you? Other young women from the village whom you brought to this castle?"
Hollis froze. His usually serene face hardened completely. The candlelight cast stark shadows over his alabaster cheekbones as he observed you in a heavy, dense silence. His mind seemed to connect the dots instantly, realizing where that question came from and the poison someone had planted in your thoughts.
"Barnaby..." he murmured, his tone low, echoing like distant thunder. "The old man from the village has been speaking to you again."
"Answer my question!" you demanded, your voice threatening to crack under the accumulated anguish. "Was there someone else? Is it true what they say? Did you lure a young woman from the village fifty years ago and leave her to waste away until nothing was left of her?"
Hollis released a sigh, a long sound heavy with an ancient sorrow that seemed to chill the library air. He walked calmly toward you, closing the distance unhurriedly until he stood just inches away.
"It was not me," he answered with crushing seriousness, holding your gaze without flinching. "The story that old man told you does not belong to me; it belongs to Roman."
You blinked, caught off guard by the mention of the unfamiliar name.
"Roman...?"
"A vampire who shared this territory with me for decades," Hollis explained, his voice low and deliberate. "Unlike me, Roman did not believe in restraint or respect for mortals. To him, the townspeople were mere sustenance, playthings to entertain his immortality. It was he who brought Barnaby’s sister to these lands. It was he who fed on her vital strength, night after night, until she was reduced to a shell before he abandoned her to her fate."
You felt a knot form in your stomach. The account fit the old man's grief, but a part of you, traumatized by the warnings, refused to yield so easily.
"And you allowed it?" you whispered bitterly, clenching your fists. "You let it happen under your shadow? How do I know you aren't lying to clear your name?"
Hollis did not grow angry. Instead, his dark eyes softened with infinite, tragic tenderness.
Slowly, as if asking permission without uttering a word, he raised his black velvet-gloved hand. With extreme delicacy, his long, cool fingers caressed the curve of your cheek, ascending until they rested gently on your temple. The touch was so subtle it felt like a breath of cold air against your skin.
"Because when I discovered what he had done to that young woman, I did not tolerate it," Hollis murmured, leaning in barely a millimeter closer so his voice resonated in the deepest corners of your mind. "I confronted Roman and banished him from this province forever. I forbade him from ever setting foot on these mountains again under penalty of death. I could not save that old man's sister in time, and that is a weight I carry, but I never allowed Roman to continue his cruelty in my domain."
The heat of tears threatened to spill over, but the touch of his hand and the firmness of his words conveyed an absolute truth—a sincere vibration that left no room for doubt.
"Look at me..." he asked in an enveloping whisper, cradling your face with both hands. "I would never lie to you. I have never sought to harm you or override your will. My only sin has been waiting for you for three centuries, watching over your rest until fate brought you back to me. You are not my victim... you are the only thing that gives meaning to this eternity."
The fear, Barnaby’s warnings, and even the memory of your own family dissolved like frost beneath the sun. The outside world, with its doubts and cold houses, seemed to vanish entirely. The warmth of his gaze, the gentleness with which he held your face, and the tragic sincerity of his confession dismantled your final defenses.
Your shoulders dropped, letting out a long, trembling sigh, and you leaned almost involuntarily into the cool touch of his hand. For a moment, you forgot the reasons you had climbed the mountain. You finally surrendered to the certainty that, amidst the night and the shadows, Hollis was your only true refuge—choosing once more to stay by his side in the castle.
The chill of the late afternoon was settling over the valley when Hollis accompanied you to the castle's grand inner courtyard. There, atop stone ledges and dry branches, dozens of ravens gathered in respectful silence, recognizing the presence of their master. With patience and fascination, you extended your hand to let a pair of them draw close to feed from your palm, feeling the soft vibration of their feathers while Hollis watched you from a couple of steps back, arms crossed, his gaze filled with contemplative affection.
Suddenly, the leaden sky seemed to part gently. Large snowflakes began to drift through the air, falling slowly onto your hair and the jet-black plumage of the birds.
A playful, joyful impulse, born from the relief in your chest after clarifying the truth, took hold of you. Without a second thought, you let the food fall from your hands, turned toward Hollis, and, taking him firmly by his gloved hands, dragged him laughing toward the center of the yard, right where the snow was beginning to blanket the ground in white.
"Come! Don't just stand there!" you laughed, twirling over the snow, your dress skirts flaring around you.
Hollis allowed himself to be pulled along, completely caught off guard by your shift in energy. His usually rigid, aristocratic posture dissolved in seconds at the sight of your smile. The massive birds, far from being startled, began to flutter around you both, gliding low over the fresh snow and walking in circles as if joining an improvised dance. Hollis let out a low, genuine laugh—a warm sound he rarely released—as he caught you by the waist to keep you from slipping on the ice, spinning with you under the snowfall in a moment of absolute weightlessness.
When the wind picked up and your cheeks turned red from the cold, your breathing grew rapid. Hollis brought you to a gentle halt in his arms, using his long fingers to brush away the snowflakes caught in your eyelashes.
"Let us go inside before the cold catches you again..." he murmured with infinite tenderness.
Leaving the courtyard and the fluttering ravens behind, the bustle of winter and the vastness of the castle were completely forgotten.
Hollis guided you to his private sitting room, a sheltered, warm sanctuary lit only by the roaring fire of a grand stone hearth and half-burnt candles casting golden shadows over the oak walls. He helped you out of your heavy, snow-dampened dark coat; his cool fingers barely brushed the skin of your neck as he slid the fabric away, making you catch your breath with a slight shiver that had nothing to do with the weather.
He invited you to sit beside him on the deep velvet sofa positioned right before the embers. The contrast between the coldness of his hands, which still held the chill of the outdoors, and the searing heat burning in your chest created an almost suffocating tension.
Hollis settled next to you and leaned in with calculated slowness, cradling your face with the same devotion and reverence a believer offers a sacred altar. In that instant, the cold, the village, and the rest of the world vanished entirely.
Hollis locked his intense eyes onto yours, a gaze that seemed to devour your soul while his thumb gently traced the contour of your lips.
"Do not be afraid, my life... just let me feel your warmth, the very thing that keeps me alive."
His breath, though icy, sparked a sharp desire deep within you. He drew closer, closing the distance until his nose brushed yours, allowing his presence to envelop you completely. Your heart hammered against your ribs—a signal of alarm that soon transformed into an irresistible invitation before the proximity of his lips.
Hollis finally closed the gap, sealing his lips to yours in a kiss that began with reverent timidity but quickly turned ravenous. Your tongues danced in a battle of power and need, while his hands slid down your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress. The heat of the fireplace seemed to intensify with every stroke.
"You are so warm... you are driving me mad," he whispered against your mouth, his voice raspy with desire.
With his fingers, he began unbuttoning the row of fasteners down your back, letting the silk slide off your shoulders and pool on the floor. In response, your trembling hands sought his shirt, undoing the buttons with the impatience of someone desperately seeking skin-to-skin contact. As you stood exposed to one another, the shock of his cold chest against your burning skin drew an involuntary groan from your lips.
Hollis guided you gently onto the velvet, his weight settling over you, claiming your space with a restrained urgency. His lips traveled down your jawline to reach the sensitive curve of your neck, where your pulse beat frantically, like a drum calling to him. You felt the icy touch of his lips near your jugular; you could sense his breath hitching as he fought the instinct to sink his fangs into your flesh. His hands slid down to your thighs, parting the remnants of your undergarments, preparing you for the most intense encounter of your life.
You felt the pressure of his length against your thigh—a rod of ice-cold marble of unrelenting hardness that made you shudder all at once. At the contact with your internal heat, you let out a ragged gasp, a mixture of surprise and pure desire.
"Hollis... you are so cold..." you panted, arching your back as you dug your nails into the firm muscle of his back, desperately seeking to anchor yourself to him.
You felt like a human torch attempting to melt an iceberg. Your skin burned, slick with a fine sweat, feeling as though you were the sole source of life in that room. He looked at you with eyes that gleamed in the dim light, his desire warring with his frigid nature as he positioned himself to enter you.
Hollis penetrated you with a slow, deep stroke, making you gasp as his lips joined yours in a kiss filled with divine devotion. Yet, instinct proved stronger; his head descended to your neck, and after a second of hesitation, his fangs pierced your skin with surgical precision.
"Forgive me... I cannot help it, your scent consumes me," he growled between groans, as the pleasure of the union and the sharp pain of the bite fused into an overwhelming euphoria. You felt your strength draining alongside your blood, but the intensity of the climax was so devastating that the world began to fade into shadows, leaving you unconscious in his arms.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
You woke up among silk sheets, your body wrapped in a strange warmth. The pale morning light filtered through the drapes of the large window, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. Instinctively, your hand went up to the curve of your neck, searching for the wound, the pain, or the trace of blood from the previous night's bite.
There was nothing. Not a mark, not a scar, nor the slightest ridge on your smooth skin. Only the hazy yet searing memory of the surrender, the wild pleasure, and Hollis’s breath against your ear.
You dressed hurriedly in a dark-green velvet dress the servants had prepared in the dressing room. With a racing pulse and the urge to find the Count to seek an explanation for the magic of that unblemished skin, you stepped out of the room.
You moved down corridors steeped in a sepulchral, almost unnatural silence. The air felt thick, heavy, charged with a tension that made the hair on your arms stand on end. Turning into the portrait gallery, you caught sight of a silhouette with its back turned, standing before a painting. It was a tall man with broad shoulders, wrapped in a travelling cloak covered in a thin layer of snow that was beginning to melt onto the floorboards.
"Hollis...?" you whispered, taking a hesitant step forward.
The figure froze. With unsettling slowness, the stranger turned on his heels.
It was not Hollis.
The man before you possessed a sharp, gaunt beauty, with prominent cheekbones and dark eyes that burned with a fierce malice. His smile, far from conveying the aristocratic devotion you were accustomed to, was that of a beast barely contained beneath velvet clothes.
The air in the hallway seemed to freeze in your throat. A primal instinct screamed at you to turn around and run, but your legs refused to answer.
"Well, well..." the man hissed, his deep voice dragging the words like a blade across stone. "Look what the freezing wind brought back to the castle halls."
He took a step toward you. The speed of his movement was so fluid you didn't even see his boots move across the marble. Suddenly, the distance between you was cut in half.
"You... you are Roman," you articulated in a thread of a voice, pressing your back against one of the carved columns.
Roman let out a low, raspy laugh, a sound that echoed cruelly through the vastness of the gallery. He tilted his head, studying you up and down with a fixed gaze that made you feel exposed and vulnerable.
"I see my pious blood-brother has filled your head with tales of my wickedness," he said, taking another slow step toward you, trapping you in his shadow. "He told you he protected you, that he banished me... but I wager he omitted the detail of how this face remains the nightmare that keeps him awake at night."
He extended a hand clad in black leather and, before you could react, caught your chin between two fingers, forcing you to look up into his feline eyes. His touch lacked Hollis's warmth or respect; it was a cold, invasive, and threatening pressure.
"I know you perfectly, my little reincarnated obsession," he murmured, leaning in so close you could feel the icy draft of his breath. "You haven't changed at all. That same foolish spark of curiosity in your eyes... the same fragility. It was over this exact face, over this very same finicky soul, that Hollis and I declared war on each other three centuries ago and destroyed everything in our path."
You tried to wriggle free from his grip, but his iron fingers didn't budge a millimeter.
"He told me you left... that you couldn't return to these lands," you said with shallow breath, desperately searching the hallway for any sign of Hollis’s presence.
"Hollis believes his will is law in these mountains," Roman smiled, revealing the tips of his sharp fangs, which gleamed in the candlelight. "But eternity is far too long to abide by the orders of a sentimental vampire. He keeps you in a glass cage and tells you he loves you; I remember precisely the taste of the discord you sowed between us. And this time... I will not leave without taking what I consider mine."
Tags: dark romance, slow-burn, supernatural, Victorian era, vampires.
Fem!reader × Vampire!Hollis.
Nextpart.
Frostshadow
[Year 1888]
The carriage journey from the capital had been long, interrupted only by stops at post houses where the horses’ breath transformed into thick clouds of steam in the freezing air. As the Clairmont carriage ascended the winding roads of the province, the stone-and-soot urban landscape gave way to an overwhelming, majestic wilderness: hills blanketed under a thick layer of fresh snow and dark pines whose boughs bent beneath the weight of the ice.
Inside the coach, the steady clatter of wooden wheels with iron rims could be heard against the frozen ground. You pressed your forehead against the window frame. The chill of the glass seeped through the thin fabric of your gloves, but the view outside was far too captivating to look away.
Beside you, the murmur of family conversation felt distant, like an echo muffled by the heavy marten-fur blankets and wool coats filling the compartment. They spoke of expectations for the winter season, dressmakers to visit in the village, and the aristocratic families residing nearby.
It was at a sharp bend, where the road skirted a deep ravine, that the thick fog clinging to the mountain seemed to part for a few brief seconds.
There, perched atop the highest peak and silhouetted against a leaden-gray sky, rose the castle of Hollis Von Ravencliff.
It was a colossal Neo-Gothic structure of dark stones that seemed to absorb what little afternoon light remained. Its sharp spires and angular towers defied the wind, while its tall, narrow windows remained unlit, like sleeping eyes watching over the entire valley. Beholding it, a strange mix of vertigo and mystery ran down your spine. It was not a terrifying fortress, but rather a monument to an ancient, elegant solitude.
"Ah, the Count’s castle..." your companion remarked, adjusting her fur collar upon noticing where your gaze was directed. "They say the provincial lands have belonged to him for generations. A respected man among the locals, undoubtedly. A true gentleman who maintains order and ensures the village markets lack for nothing during the harshest winter months."
"And why does he live so far from the town?" you asked, never taking your eyes off the stone silhouette as it was swallowed once more by the mist.
"Respect, my dear, but also distance. The townspeople hold a sincere appreciation for him, yet they dare not wander near his domain come nightfall. Though it is not him they fear... but the forest surrounding the mountain. There are old tales of creatures and shadows dwelling among the ancient pines. Count Hollis is, in everyone's eyes, the guardian keeping that darkness at bay."
The carriage began its final descent into the valley, and within minutes, the wheels clattered over the cobblestones of the village.
The Clairmonts' winter residence welcomed you with immediate warmth. Crossing the heavy oak threshold, the sharp scent of the freezing air outside was instantly replaced by the cozy aroma of pine logs burning in the main fireplace, the sweet touch of beeswax used to polish the mahogany furniture, and a gentle hint of cinnamon and orange peel wafting from the kitchen.
The servants, their cheeks rosy from the hall’s chill and wearing kind smiles, rushed to take your heavy coats and hat. The grand hall was illuminated by the golden glow of bronze chandeliers, casting warm shadows over the walls upholstered in dark brocade. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath footsteps, and steam from freshly poured cups of tea rose in delicate spirals toward the high ceiling.
You walked slowly toward the drawing room’s large bay window. Holding the warm porcelain between your hands, you looked out toward the mountain range. Below in the town, chimneys puffed white smoke, and people walked peacefully along streets lit by gas lamps. There was a serene peace in this place, a sweet everyday comfort amidst the rigor of winter.
Yet, high upon the peak, the castle's silhouette remained, etched into the twilight darkness. Something in the provincial air promised that this winter would be unlike any other; that behind the quiet of the village and the whisper of the wind through the pines, a secret was waiting to be uncovered.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The days in the province passed with a slow, cushioned serenity. While the rest of the family spent their mornings by the hearth discussing shopping lists and correspondence from the capital, you found a different refuge in the residence’s vast library. From the polished wooden shelves, you retrieved a volume bound in bottle-green leather with faded gold lettering: Compendium of Wild Botany and the Hidden Virtues of Plants.
The book was a delight for the senses. Its thick, soft ivory paper pages rustled delicately under your fingertips with every turn of a leaf. It smelled of ancient dust, resin, and preserved time. Fascinated by the ink illustrations detailing the properties of aconite, belladonna, and mountain mosses, you decided the afternoon was too bright to stay cooped up indoors.
Bundling up in a heavy dark cloth coat, a faux-fur collar to keep the wind at bay, and fine kidskin gloves, you held the book against your chest, crossed the rear garden of the property, and stepped onto the trail winding toward the edge of the forest.
Outside, nature seemed frozen in a breath. Frost covered every blade of dry grass in a layer of tiny crystals glistening under a pale, distant sun. The air you inhaled was so crisp and cold it felt sharp in your lungs, leaving a trail of white steam every time you exhaled. The only sound for miles was the dry crunch of packed snow beneath the soles of your leather boots.
You stopped beside an old, leafless oak, fascinated by a cluster of red berries surviving the harsh winter. You opened the compendium, searching for the corresponding illustration amid the rustle of the wind swaying the pine tops.
It was then that a sound shattered the forest's quiet.
It was neither the wind nor the snap of a falling branch, but a desperate fluttering and a muffled, low, raspy caw.
Closing the book slowly and tucking it under your arm, you stepped cautiously toward the dense brush. The trees there grew thicker, their dark trunks rising like columns of a forgotten temple, and the sunlight struggled to break through the frost-laced branches.
At the base of a frozen thorn bush, you saw it.
It was a raven of extraordinary size. Its plumage was not merely black; it carried an iridescent sheen, deep as night, reflecting flashes of blue and purple under the filtered light. But the majestic bird was trapped: one of its primary wings was caught among the sharp brambles, and a thin trail of dark blood stained the pure snow beneath its talons.
"Easy..." you whispered instinctively, taking a slow step so as not to startle it.
The raven flapped its uninjured wing forcefully, puffing out its neck feathers in a defensive posture. You expected it to peck furiously or try to pull away, but as you knelt on the cold snow, the bird seemed to freeze. It slowly cocked its head and fixed its eyes on you.
They were dark, clear, and strangely intelligent eyes, devoid of the wild panic typical of trapped animals. It stared at you with such absolute focus that, for a second, your skin prickled.
With utmost care, you removed the glove from your right hand, instantly feeling the bite of the icy air against your bare skin. Pulling a white lace handkerchief from your coat pocket, you folded it to protect your fingers.
"I won't hurt you," you said softly, keeping a steady gaze.
You reached out. The warmth of your fingers brushed against the rigid, smooth structure of its jet-black feathers. The raven did not move; it let out a soft click with its beak and remained motionless while you, with infinite patience, unhooked the thorns stuck in the fold of its wing one by one. The small wound was barely bleeding now, numbed by the cold.
When the last thorn finally yielded, the bird released a long breath that rustled the feathers on its chest.
You expected it to take flight immediately, startled by human proximity. However, the raven took a couple of clumsy hops across the snow and perched on a rock covered in frozen moss, just a few inches from you.
It cocked its head once more, appraising you from your boots to the book tucked under your arm. The distance between you was so close that you could see the stark contrast between your stained lace handkerchief and the absolute blackness of its feathers. For several seconds, time seemed to stand still amidst the hum of the forest.
Finally, it spread its enormous wings. A gust of icy air tousled a few strands of your hair as the raven gained altitude, silhouetted against the leaden sky. It did not head toward the village nor the open fields. It flew in a straight line, majestic and serene, rising above the treetops toward the mountain peak... toward the dark towers of the Count's castle.
You stood there, your bare hand numb from the cold and your heart beating with a strange, sweet flutter in your chest. Looking down, you noticed a single, perfectly formed black feather resting on the snow. You bent to pick it up and carefully slipped it between the pages of your botany book, right beside the pressed flowers.
From that afternoon at the edge of the forest, the quiet routine in the province took on a profoundly different tone.
At first, they were almost imperceptible details. The next morning, while sipping your morning tea by the bedroom window, you noticed a figure silhouetted against the stone ledge of the balcony. It was a massive raven with iridescent plumage, observing you through the fogged glass. When you approached slowly, it did not flee; it simply cocked its head, remained still for a few long seconds, and then spread its wings to perch on a nearby oak branch.
As days passed, the birds' presence became constant. No matter where you went—if you walked along the village’s cobbled streets to buy silk ribbons or writing paper, a raven was always perched on a roof eave, watching your steps from above. If you stayed to read in the drawing room, two of them would land on the windowsill, standing guard like silent sentinels.
In the house, the servants began whispering under their breath, glancing sideways at the windows whenever they passed with porcelain cups.
"It is strange behavior for birds in the dead of winter," the old housekeeper muttered one morning while stoking the hearth. "They seem to be... guarding you, Miss. As if awaiting a signal."
You, however, felt no fear. Every time your gaze met the dark, intelligent gleam of those eyes, an inexplicable warmth spread through your chest, accompanied by the vivid memory of the jet-black feather tucked between the pages of your botany compendium.
Expectation reached its peak midweek, on an afternoon when heavy, slow snowflakes drifted over the valley.
The sharp clatter of horse hooves and the rumble of a heavy coach echoed down the main street, pulling up directly in front of the Clairmont residence. From the drawing room window, you watched a footman alight, dressed in impeccable burgundy velvet livery and white gloves. In his hands, he carried a polished silver tray upon which rested a heavy paper card.
A stir instantly swept through the house. The housekeeper opened the front door, receiving the missive with solemn hands before presenting it in the drawing room where the family was gathered.
"A direct delivery from the castle, Miss," the servant announced reverently. "The Count's envoy has left this for the family."
The card was a tactile and visual delight. It was made of heavy, ivory linen paper with gold-leaf edges. At its center stood a jet-black wax seal, stamped with the crisp relief of a raven with outstretched wings over an aristocratic crest.
Your family member carefully broke the seal and read aloud, as the firelight illuminated the elegant calligraphy rendered in India ink:
"Count Hollis Von Ravencliff requests the honor of the Clairmont family's presence at Frostshadow Castle on the occasion of the Grand Winter Ball. An evening dedicated to the beauty of the season and to gathering with the distinguished guests of the province."
Exclamations of surprise and excitement followed instantly. The village's high society had spent weeks speculating whether the mysterious Count would open his fortress doors this season. That the invitation had arrived so swiftly at the residence was an unmatched social honor.
However, when the card was passed to you to examine, your fingers paused at the bottom corner of the reverse side.
There, traced in black ink with an infinitely delicate and fine hand—almost invisible unless one knew what to look for—was a tiny drawing: the delicate lace pattern of a handkerchief.
Your heart fluttered against your ribs. Instinctively, you glanced up toward the bay window. On the highest branch of the garden walnut tree, silhouetted against the leaden afternoon sky, the massive raven watched you silently before taking flight toward the icy mountain peak.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The ascent toward Frostshadow Castle was a spectacle in itself. The carriage moved slowly through the wrought-iron gates, whose spears and scrollwork were frosted in a thin, shimmering layer of ice. On either side of the drive, iron lanterns with burning candles cast a warm, flickering light over the snow-laden pines.
When you pulled up to the grand entrance, the icy air brushed your cheeks, but it was immediately swallowed as you crossed the majestic carved-oak threshold.
The main foyer was breathtaking. The perfume of winter roses, cedarwood, soft incense, and the sparkling crispness of champagne filled the air. Servants clad in flawless dark liveries received velvet cloaks and furs from the guests, revealing a tide of Victorian elegance: gentlemen in tailcoats of perfect tailoring and ladies sporting opulent satin gowns, imported lace, and dazzling jewels that caught the light.
Crossing the pointed arches into the grand ballroom, you lost your breath.
The ceiling was a monumental work of art: a Baroque fresco depicting golden-winged angels floating over soft clouds of rose and sky-blue hues, precisely like in tales of ancient castles and forgotten kingdoms. Hanging from the center, colossal Bohemian crystal chandeliers held hundreds of burning candles, dripping golden gleams onto the polished marble floor, which reflected the Gothic architecture as though you were walking on a frozen lake.
Around you, the tension of high society was palpable. Many young ladies of the village and neighboring provinces had spent weeks preparing for this single night. They fanned themselves nervously, adjusting tight corsets, smoothing the perfect curls of their feather-and-pearl-laden updos, and darting constant glances toward the top of the grand marble staircase. Everyone sought to be the most dazzling silhouette, the most charming laugh, or the most coquettish gesture to capture the attention of the castle's mysterious lord.
You, on the other hand, had not devised a strategy to stand out. Your gown was one of understated, striking elegance: a deep forest-green velvet that fell in heavy, soft folds, with long sleeves adorned at the cuffs with delicate lace reminiscent of the texture of dry leaves in the snow. Your hair was styled with natural simplicity, letting a few soft tendrils fall against your nape. You wore no flashy necklaces or dazzling gems; your only "ornament" was your composure and the genuine curiosity with which you admired the ancient books displayed in the corridor cabinets and the painting on the ceiling.
The murmur of the crowd, accompanied by the string orchestra’s gentle tuning, gradually began to hush.
A respectful, expectant silence swept through the grand hall like a wave. Ladies drew themselves up, adjusting their fans, and gentlemen adopted solemn postures.
At the top of the upper staircase, he appeared: Count Hollis Von Ravencliff.
His physical presence was even more hypnotic than all the rumors circulating in the village. He wore a tailcoat of flawless black velvet, featuring dark, iridescent feather details on the shoulders that draped gracefully down his back. His complexion was pale, his cheekbones sharp, and his lips held a serious, distant line. Yet it was his eyes—dark, deep, and penetratingly lucid—that froze the air in the room.
Hollis began descending the staircase with slow, rhythmic steps. Dozens of ladies' eyes fixed upon him, anticipating a nod, a polite smile, or a gesture indicating whom he would choose to open the first dance. Several nobles tried to step forward to greet him, but the aura surrounding the Count possessed an untouchable reserve.
Yet Hollis did not look at the elaborate updos, the glittering jewels, or the brightly colored gowns fluttering in his wake.
His eyes scanned the room with indifference until, suddenly, they stopped.
All the coldness in his demeanor seemed to transform into an intense fascination. Without a moment's hesitation, Hollis altered his path, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd that parted around him with almost involuntary bows.
He walked directly toward you.
The sound of his black feathers rustling against his jacket interrupted your heart’s rhythm as he stopped merely two paces away. His tall silhouette blocked the golden light of the chandelier, enveloping you in his own elegant shadow.
"Miss Clairmont," Hollis said. His voice was deep, soft, and resonant, echoing through the hum of the ballroom.
He bowed with flawless courtesy, extending a hand gloved in black leather toward you.
"I see the landscape of my home is not entirely unfamiliar to you... and that you prefer admiring the art on the ceiling to the ornaments of the ballroom."
The crowd’s gaze locked onto the two of you, laden with surprise and hushed whispers. But when you raised your eyes to meet his, you noticed a dark, grateful gleam deep within his pupils—the same intelligent spark of the bird you had saved in the snow.
"Would you grant me the honor of this first waltz?" he continued, a slight curve appearing at the corner of his lips that only you could perceive. "Or perhaps... would you prefer I show you a place where written stories run deeper than the orchestra's music?"
You hesitated.
For a moment that seemed to freeze time in the entire hall, your eyes traveled from the gloved hand Hollis offered to the steady gaze he held upon you. Around you, the hushed murmurs of the ladies and the hurried fanning of high society faded into distant, insignificant white noise.
Gently, you slid your fingertips over the fine leather of his glove before lacing your hand in his.
An intensely icy chill shot up your arm instantly. The cold emanating from his body was not normal; it was a dense, deep cold, almost like that of a marble statue that had never known the sun.
Looking up to meet his eyes from such close proximity, you noticed details the crystal chandeliers clearly revealed. His skin was an almost translucent alabaster, and his lips, thin and sculpted, lacked the warm blush of life, bearing a pale, slightly violet and dark tint at the edges. He looked magnificent, mysterious... and terrifyingly similar to the beauty of someone who did not belong to the world of the living.
"What place do you refer to, Lord Von Ravencliff?" you asked in a soft murmur, trying to maintain your composure as the orchestra struck the first slow, solemn notes of a waltz.
Hollis closed his long, firm fingers around your hand, squeezing with infinite care, as if fearing he might tear the lace on your cuffs. He brought it toward his chest, right over his velvet jacket and the dark feather detailing, to guide you to the center of the dance floor.
"I refer to a sanctuary that holds the weight of three centuries of history, Miss Clairmont," he replied, dipping his head so his voice resonated for you alone, in that deep tone reminiscent of the wind whispering through the pines. "A three-story library where the paper of ancient manuscripts preserves the scent of time, and where secrets need no fans to hide behind."
As you began to turn over the polished marble, the contrast between you was hypnotic. The heavy fabric of your gown billowed in soft folds to the rhythm of the music, brushing against Hollis's dark, elegant silhouette. He moved with fluid grace and without the slightest physical effort; you could not hear his breath, nor feel the rhythmic heartbeat any other gentleman would have after taking the first steps of a waltz.
"You seem... strangely distant from the rest of the party, Count," you whispered, holding his dark gaze while the angel-painted dome spun above your heads. "Almost as if the warmth of this ballroom fails to reach you."
An almost imperceptible smile curved his pale lips.
"The warmth of this room is fleeting, Miss," he said, dipping you gently in a turn that made the silk of your skirt rustle. "Parties end, candles burn out, and guests return to their mortal lives. But there are things that endure in the shadows... like the kindness granted to a wounded creature in the middle of the snow."
Your eyelashes fluttered in surprise.
"You have known who I was since that afternoon?"
"I have known of you from the moment your carriage crossed the boundaries of my lands," Hollis confessed, and for a second, his dark pupils seemed to flash under the golden light. "My guardians spoke to me of a lady who prefers botany books to village gossip... and who did not hesitate to stain her lace handkerchief to save one of my own."
He led you delicately toward the edge of the dance floor, taking advantage of the symphony's climax to subtly step away from the curious eyes of the crowd. You stopped near a stone archway draped in heavy burgundy velvet curtains, leading to a side corridor shrouded in soft gloom.
"The waltz has ended for them," Hollis whispered, releasing your waist with flawless courtesy, though not entirely letting go of your hand—chilled by his touch. "If you still possess the courage to accompany a host who is said to be made of shadow and ice... the library door awaits."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
That night, returning to the Clairmont residence felt insubstantial, as if walking inside a dream from which it was impossible to wake.
Once in the solitude of your bedchamber, you unlaced your gown and let the heavy fabric fall to your feet. Yet, the memory of his touch lingered on your skin. You sat before the vanity, staring at your reflection in the dim light of a single candle.
Your mind kept racing around Count Hollis Von Ravencliff.
What was he, truly?
That composure, his pale and lifeless skin, his dark-tinted lips, the freezing temperature of his hands that felt as if they belonged to a tomb rather than a nobleman... And above all, how had he known about you? How was it possible that he spoke of the birds as his "guardians," as though sharing a direct bond with the creatures of the night? None of it had a logical explanation within the science or botany books you usually studied.
Two days passed while the valley air grew even denser. Snow fell relentlessly, and the ravens' presence on your window ledge became more pronounced, almost watchful.
One afternoon, needing to clear the fog from your thoughts, you decided to venture into the village. Wrapped in your dark coat, you walked the streets toward the market district to buy silk ribbons and a new bottle of India ink.
The local market was bustling, flooded with the murmur of vendors and the aroma of freshly baked bread and burning firewood. As you stepped out of the apothecary holding a small package, a raspy, trembling voice cut through the street noise.
"Young lady! You... the girl from the big house!"
You turned slowly. Leaning against the stone wall of an old tavern was old Barnaby, whom the villagers affectionately—and with a degree of pity—called the town "lunatic." He was a man with an unkempt gray beard, wild eyes, and tattered clothes, who often wandered whispering stories to the shadows.
Passersby ignored him, but when his feverish, yellowish eyes locked onto you, an icy pang struck your stomach. You approached cautiously.
"Are you alright, sir?" you asked softly.
"He has marked you..." the old man whispered, taking a faltering step toward you while pointing a trembling finger, cracked from the cold. "The demon of the peak stalks you, girl. I can smell the mountain's breath upon you."
You froze, pressing the package to your chest.
"What do you mean?"
"The birds!" he gasped in a stifled whisper, looking panic-stricken toward the nearby rooftops. "Those ravens are no simple animals of God. They are his eyes, his ears... his messengers. He is a Pale Face, a creature that knows no sunlight."
A chill ran down your spine as you remembered Hollis's dark lips and icy skin.
"A Pale Face?" you repeated in a whisper.
"Demons of the night..." Barnaby said, leaning toward you as his breath bloomed in thick clouds of vapor. "Ancient creatures that feed on blood and the very essence of men. They drink life to remain eternal while the rest of us rot in the earth. He seeks not your company out of courtesy, child... he seeks something in you that reminds him of what he lost when he ceased to breathe. Stay away from those stone gates before it is too late!"
A nearby merchant stepped in to gently usher the old man away, apologizing for his "ravings." You returned home in absolute silence, the crunch of your footsteps on the snow echoing in your head to the rhythm of the old man's words: blood, souls, eternity... Pale Face.
Upon entering your residence, you went straight up to your bedchamber, needing a moment of solitude to process everything you had heard.
Pushing open your bedroom door, you stopped dead in your tracks.
The tulle curtains of the balcony window fluttered gently, letting in a draft of icy air. Perched on the iron railing, silhouetted against the gray twilight sky, was the massive, iridescent-feathered raven you had saved days ago. It observed you in total silence, its head cocked.
And right in the center of your bed, resting on the white lace bedspread, lay an envelope of heavy linen paper.
You stepped slowly toward the bed. The envelope was sealed with the unmistakable jet-black wax bearing the crest of the raven. Breaking the seal with slightly trembling fingers, you unfolded the note. The calligraphy in India ink was flawless, elegant, and serene:
Miss Clairmont:
I know the village winds often carry ancient tales and fears fed by ignorance. But true knowledge is rarely found in town rumors; it dwells within the pages waiting in the shadows.
The promise of my library stands. If your curiosity is stronger than the world's warnings, my carriage will await you at dusk at the forest's edge.
Yours in shadow,
Hollis Von Ravencliff.
You looked up from the letter. The raven on the balcony spread its majestic dark wings, letting out a soft click with its beak before taking to the air toward the castle, leaving you alone with the invitation, the cold, and a choice that would alter your life forever.
Dusk fell over the province with suffocating speed. You waited until the murmurs in the Clairmont house faded entirely and the servants cleared the evening tea cups. Wrapped in a thick midnight-blue wool dress and your heaviest coat, you unlatched the back door and slipped out into the freezing night air.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The walk to the edge of the forest was silent, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Arriving at the oak where days ago you had found the raven, the jet-black silhouette of a carriage awaited in the gloom. The horses, two imposing dark Percherons whose breath formed thick clouds of vapor, stood motionless. A dark-liveried footman opened the polished wooden door without a word, giving a firm nod.
You hesitated for a moment. The forest air smelled of pine, frost, and the dangerous mystery old Barnaby had warned you about. You had one foot on the step and the warning echoing in your head: Pale Face. But the curiosity of a mind that loved truth was a fire stronger than fear. If this man—this creature—kept a three-story library, somewhere among its volumes must exist a written answer about what he truly was.
You climbed into the carriage. The door closed with a dull thud, and the wheels began to roll toward the heights.
The journey concluded in the castle's inner courtyard. Hollis awaited you at the foot of the grand side staircase, away from the eyes of servants or any late guests. This time he did not wear ball attire; he wore a white linen shirt with subtle lace at the cuffs, a dark velvet vest, and his feather coat draped over his shoulders.
Offering his hand to help you alight, the same icy temperature brushed your skin. However, glancing down at his long fingers under the light of the iron lanterns, a detail completely caught your attention.
On the middle finger of his left hand, he wore an imposing ring of antique silver. The piece held a lapis lazuli stone of a deep, night-ocean blue, surrounded by dark metal filigree engraved with arcane runes belonging to no modern tongue.
"You seem fascinated by jewelry, Miss Clairmont," Hollis murmured, noticing your fixed gaze as he guided you down a private corridor of the fortress.
"It is an unusual ring, Lord Von Ravencliff," you replied cautiously, feeling the echo of your steps reverberate off the stone walls. "It seems... far too ancient..."
Hollis stroked the stone with the thumb of his other hand, a slight curve appearing on his pale lips.
"It is. A relic carved centuries ago by hands that mastered alchemy and the blessings of shadows," he explained softly. "For someone like me, this object is more than an ornament; it is an indispensable protection. It is what allows me to walk beneath the sunlight on winter days and observe the village markets without the sky reducing me to ashes."
A knot tightened in your throat. That casual confession, spoken with the calm of someone discussing the weather, instantly confirmed the old man's words. He was not human.
They walked down a hallway flanked by colossal oil portraits in aged gold-leaf frames. You paused before one: a canvas depicting a knight in dark steel medieval armor holding a sword with a raven-head hilt. The warrior’s complexion was pale, his lips held the same dark hue, and his eyes were unmistakably Hollis's.
"My ancestor, the first Count of Ravencliff... or at least, that is what official history tells the province," Hollis whispered, stepping directly behind you. His icy breath raised the fine hairs on your nape. "In truth, it is me. Three centuries ago, back when I still believed war could give me purpose."
His words echoed in your mind, yet even with that confession, you felt no fear.
He moved to the next painting, where a lady with a serene face and a Renaissance gown posed beside a window.
"She was Lady Genevieve. The first person who tried to understand the nature of the night's hunger without judging it as a divine curse. She taught me patience and botany... before mortal time took her, as it takes all of her kind."
Your eyes traveled from painting to painting, fascinated by the tragic elegance with which he narrated his immortal existence. Finally, you arrived before the majestic double oak doors leading to the colossal three-story library.
Hollis pushed the doors open. The scent of ancient paper, old leather, and beeswax enveloped you instantly. Thousands of volumes stood on shelves reaching the carved wooden ceiling, lit by the golden glow of bronze chandeliers.
"Everything you see here is at your disposal," Hollis announced, opening his arms in majestic courtesy. "You may read of the history of fallen kingdoms, mystical botany, and the myths of the night demons that the townspeople so dread."
However, before you could take a step toward the spiral staircase, Hollis's expression turned serious, taut as a violin string. His dark gaze locked onto you with unyielding authority.
He pointed toward the gallery at the far end of the grand room, where a corridor covered by heavy black velvet curtains stretched into the shadows.
"There is only one rule in this castle, Miss Clairmont," Hollis said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dense and firm as temple stone. "You have absolute freedom in this hall and on the upper floor. But I strictly forbid you from approaching or crossing into the east wing."
You paused, turning toward him with a mix of surprise and instinctive curiosity.
"The east wing?" you asked, taking a subtle step in that direction. "Is there something there I shouldn't see? Some forbidden manuscript or family secret?"
Hollis stepped toward you swiftly, cutting the distance with supernatural speed that barely allowed you to blink. He stopped inches from your face, cloaking you in his presence of shadows and feathers.
"Just... do not enter there," he stated, his eyes darkening to the point where his pupils seemed to swallow the candlelight. "There are shadows in that place that do not respond to my courtesy, and things that not even your bravery should witness. Promise me you will keep your distance from those doors."
You swallowed hard, feeling the library's silence grow as thick as the snow outside. Hollis's gaze was overwhelming, a mixture of ancient coldness and a vulnerability that seemed to burn within him.
"I promise you," you whispered, keeping your voice steady. "I will not go to the east wing."
The Count did not step back immediately. Instead, he slowly raised his gloved hand. His long fingers rested delicately under your face, cupping your chin with calculated gentleness; yet you could feel the rigidity of his sharp nails pressing lightly against your skin—a tangible reminder of the supernatural strength he hid beneath that facade of politeness.
"But I don't understand entirely, Lord Von Ravencliff..." you continued, holding his dark eyes. "Why tell me all this? Why reveal such a secret to a stranger?"
A strange, almost painful flash crossed Hollis's eyes. He leaned a fraction of a millimeter closer, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
"Because I know you..." he murmured, his tone so intimate and raspy it made your skin prickle.
But before you could process those four words, Hollis seemed to catch himself. He blinked, adjusting his posture with his characteristic distant elegance, and redirected his words without letting go of your chin:
"I feel... as though I have known you for a long time, Miss Clairmont. And for some reason my own nature cannot comprehend, I feel I can trust you with my secret."
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, accelerating like a drum in the quiet room. The air grew thin between you. Hollis noticed the racing pulse at the base of your neck; the slight curve of his pale lips deepened into a soft, almost melancholic smile.
"Besides... I do not feel fear in you," he added in a final whisper.
He loosened the pressure of his fingers on your chin, brushing your skin with one last touch before stepping back. He bowed in a perfect reverie, wrapping himself in his raven-feather coat.
"Enjoy the books. I have matters to attend to."
He turned with grace and disappeared into the gloom of the main hallway, leaving you completely alone amidst the scent of old paper, the wild pounding of your heart, and the echo of his confession.
From that night on, Frostshadow Castle became your secret sanctuary.
For the next two weeks, the black carriage returned to fetch you at the edge of the forest whenever night fell over the valley. You spent endless hours in the three-story library, wandering the wooden galleries, climbing spiral staircases, and leafing through leather-bound tomes.
You searched tirelessly. You read chronicles of night creatures, medieval alchemy treatises, and legends about the "hunger of the night," but no book gave you the definitive answer to what you had felt in Hollis's eyes when he said, "I know you." All you found were vague descriptions of the vampire curse and their need for blood, but nothing explaining the immediate connection that seemed to bind your fates.
As days passed, frustration and intrigue began to consume you. And every time you walked the first level of the library, your steps ended up stopping, almost of their own accord, before the hallway of the east wing.
The pointed archway remained draped in heavy black velvet curtains. No candlelight reached into it—only an icy breeze and a sepulchral silence that seemed to call to your curiosity.
You remembered your promise to Hollis, the touch of his nails on your chin, and the warning in his voice. You knew the danger of disobeying an immortal being. But as you looked at the volumes lacking the answers you sought, a certainty took root in your mind: if the truth about Hollis, his past, and the reason he felt he knew you was not in the library... it could only be hidden behind the black curtain of the east wing.
Temptation and doubt eventually triumphed over prudence.
It was an exceptionally bitter night in that winter of 1888. The north wind howled against the library’s tall stained-glass windows, and shadows cast by candles onto the frescoed ceiling danced restlessly. Hollis had retired to his private quarters to attend to estate matters, leaving you once more in the solitude of the grand reading room.
Your steps moved unhesitatingly toward the arch of the east wing.
Holding a bronze candelabra with three lit candles, you extended your bare hand and pulled back the heavy black velvet curtain. The fabric fell behind you with a dull thud, insulating you completely from the subtle warmth of the main hall.
The east wing corridor was glacial. The air smelled of damp stone, old wax, and a perfume reminiscent of dried roses withered by time. The walls were not paneled in wood; they were raw ashlar stone, flanked by tall portraits in faded, blackened gold-leaf frames.
You advanced slowly, feeling the flicker of the candelabra flame make the painted figures on the canvas quiver.
You passed paintings of desolate moonlit landscapes, medieval battles, and faces of knights in dark armor. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, however, the candlelight illuminated a colossal painting half-draped in a pale gauze veil. With trembling fingers, you pulled at the fabric.
The gauze fell to the stone floor. A gasp escaped you, and the air seemed to freeze in your lungs.
You were left entirely breathless.
The portrait did not depict a stranger. It depicted you.
It was your exact face: your eyes, the delicate curve of your lips, the slope of your cheekbones, and the shape of your hands. The only difference lay in the attire and hairstyle. You wore a Renaissance gown of deep crimson silk embroidered with gold thread, and your hair cascaded in intricate braids adorned with tiny pearls. You smiled with sweet serenity, holding the hand of a male figure standing beside you on the canvas: a young Count Hollis Von Ravencliff, wearing the very same lapis lazuli jewelry he wore today.
"I warned you not to come here..."
The voice did not come from down the hall; it resonated directly beside your ear, laden with supernatural speed and violence.
Before you could react or drop the candelabra, a shadow enveloped you. An arm of supernatural, unyielding strength seized your waist while an icy hand shoved you firmly against the cold stone wall of the corridor. The candelabra clattered to the floor, extinguishing instantly and plunging the corridor into an oppressive gloom, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through a high window.
You found yourself cornered. Hollis's body was millimeters from yours, blocking any escape. His dark eyes no longer reflected hostly courtesy; they burned with a dangerous, bluish gleam, and pale veins around his cheekbones stood out against his alabaster skin.
An uncontrollable tremble wracked your body. Fear—that primal terror of a creature that could destroy you in a heartbeat—finally broke you. Tears began to stream down your cheeks, glistening under the moonlight, and your shoulders shook with a muffled sob.
"I-I don't understand..." you whispered through tears, trying to brace against the cold stone while your chest heaved in panic. "I don't understand what is happening! Why... why am I in that painting?"
The sight of your tears and the sound of your weeping seemed to sever Hollis's supernatural fury in a single second.
The tension in his shoulders vanished. The dark veins beneath his eyes receded, revealing once more the anguished, melancholic face of the man who had guided you through the waltz. He loosened the pressure of his hands on your body, though he kept you gently cornered to prevent you from collapsing from your trembling legs.
"Do not cry... please," Hollis whispered. His voice was a mix of plea and ancient pain. He raised his hand to brush away one of your tears with the back of his icy thumb. "Forgive me. The hunger and the shadows of this place sometimes make me forget the fragility of life."
Hollis fixed his gaze on the portrait of the woman in crimson silk, then returned his eyes to yours, filled with confusion and tears.
"That woman was you..." he confessed in a whisper that seemed to drag the echo of centuries. "More than three hundred years ago, before this curse froze my heart and turned me into a creature of the night, you were my wife. The Countess of these lands, the only person who gave meaning to my mortal existence."
Your lips parted, but you could not utter a word.
"Fate was not merciful to us," Hollis continued, leaning his head down until his forehead nearly brushed yours, wrapping you in his cold breath and the scent of pine and dried roses. "A fierce illness tore you from my arms in the dead of winter. I wept over your lifeless body for days, begging any god or demon to return your breath to me. It was that desperation that led me to accept the embrace of the night... to become this, and wait."
He slid his long fingers with infinite tenderness along your jawline, seeking to soothe the trembling still wracking your frame.
"I waited three centuries. I saw empires fall, saw entire generations born and rot in the earth while I remained frozen in time. Until a few weeks ago... the ravens brought me news that a young lady from the capital had arrived in the village. Looking upon your face through their eyes, I knew the world had brought you back to me. Your soul was reincarnated, but your memory... your memory remained buried in this castle."
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The two words Nate spoke that day hung in the air, heavy, distorting the reality of the small apartment.
He’s alive.
Nate kept talking. You watched his lips move, you could see the water dripping from his jacket onto the wooden floor, but his voice turned into a distant hum, as if you were listening to him from the bottom of a well. The sound of the rain against the window faded away. Your mind simply shut off in that moment, unable to process the present, and the dam you had kept closed for seven hundred days shattered all at once.
Everything came flooding back. Everything all at once, with a violence that stole your breath away.
The whispers in the dim light of the car returned: the bitter taste of tobacco and whiskey on his tongue, the suffocating heat of his body pressing you against the leather. You felt the rough touch of his hands again, the absolute devotion in his eyes, the metallic weight of the ring on your finger, and the promise whispered in your ear: "If one runs, we both run." You felt the icy chill of the warehouse's concrete floor once more, the deafening roar of gunshots, the smoke burning your eyes, and the warmth of his final caress on your cheek before you were dragged away by force.
His voice echoed in your head again, clear and agonizing, cutting through the chaos of memory: "Live."
A violent shudder ran down your spine, snapping you abruptly back to the gray apartment. The impact was so strong it made you nauseous. You looked at Nate; he had stopped, watching you with concern, waiting for a reaction, a tear, a question. But there was none of that in you. There was only a sudden panic, a primal urge burning inside you.
"Go," you said.
Your voice sounded strange, raspy, as if it belonged to someone else. Nate blinked in surprise.
"Y/n, he needs you to—"
"Go. Now. Please," you interrupted, stepping back, wrapping your arms around yourself as the trembling in your hands grew uncontrollable.
Nate got the message. He didn't push. He knew shock when he saw it. He nodded in silence, put on his wet cap, and took a step toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he turned for a second, left a small folded piece of paper on the shelf by the door, and walked out, closing the door with a sharp click.
You were left completely alone.
The apartment's silence returned, but it was no longer the peaceful quiet of your dull routine. Now it was an icy, dense, suffocating space.
The air felt colder, as if the presence of Hollis's ghost had frozen every corner of the room.
You stood in the middle of the living room, listening only to your own ragged breathing. You looked at the drawer where you had kept the ring hidden for two years, and then fixed your gaze on the paper Nate had left by the door. The invisible woman you had built to survive had just died, and the coldness of the apartment was the only thing reminding you that, no matter how hard you tried, there was no going back.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The following days brought no calm; they brought an unbearable tension that seeped under your skin like icy needles.
The paper with the address Nate left remained untouched on the shelf, but you hadn't gone. Instead, the paranoia you had managed to numb for two years returned multiplied, more voracious than ever. The sound of distant police sirens was no longer just a faint memory; now it made your hands shake and your throat close up. But it wasn't just the sirens. It was the constant, suffocating feeling that the air around you had changed.
You felt eyes on you. On the walk from work to your apartment, in the reflections of dark shop windows, in the shadows that lengthened as night fell. Someone was following you. You felt the presence lurking from dark corners, an invisible thread pulling at you, spiking your pulse with every step.
On a particularly freezing night, instinct screamed that you weren't safe.
You walked at a hurried pace down the alley leading to your building. The streets were deserted, wrapped in a dense fog that muffled the sound of your own footsteps. The few streetlights flickered constantly, casting yellowish light that barely illuminated the wet ground. You kept your hands shoved inside your coat pockets, your eyes fixed straight ahead, but all your senses were on high alert, taut like a bowstring about to snap.
Suddenly, the harsh roar of an engine shattered the silence.
Before you could react, an unmarked black van accelerated around the corner and cut sharply across your path, screeching to a halt just a few feet away from you. The squeal of tires against the pavement echoed off the alley walls.
Panic exploded in your chest. The submissive, dull woman vanished in a fraction of a second, and survival took control. You instinctively turned to run in the opposite direction, but the van's side doors slid open with a slam.
Three men dressed in black jumped onto the pavement.
"Hey! Don't move!" one of them growled.
You didn't answer. Adrenaline burned through your veins. When the first one tried to grab your arm, you landed a precise elbow strike to his face that sent him stumbling back with a curse. You spun around to keep running, but another caught you by the waist from behind, dragging you toward the vehicle.
You fought like a wild animal. You dug your nails in, kicked blindly, and thrashed with desperate violence while your muffled screams bounced off the brick walls. For a second, memory betrayed you, and you felt like you were back in the warehouse, being dragged away from the life you knew.
"Grab her head! Don't let her hit you!" a coarse voice ordered.
You managed to free one arm and struck the throat of the man holding you with an open palm, making him groan in pain, but there were too many of them. A third man pinned you against the freezing side of the van, immobilizing your arms against the metal with a crushing weight.
You struggled, your breath escaping your lungs in white puffs from the cold, trying to gather air to scream for help. But before you could utter a single sound, you felt a sharp, brutal blow to the base of your neck.
The world went dark instantly.
The dull pain was the last thing you felt before your legs gave out completely. The flickering streetlights distorted into a black blur, the men's voices faded into a distant underwater echo, and you sank into a deep, inescapable darkness.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Waking up was a hell of dull pain thumping behind your eyes.
You opened your eyes slowly, but your vision blurred into a smear of cold white lights. You were tied to a metal chair in a room that smelled of dampness and concrete. The metallic taste of blood gathered in your mouth. In front of you, the blurry shadows cleared to reveal a man sitting on a wooden crate, watching you with a lit cigarette between his fingers. He was the leader of one of the rival gangs Hollis had crushed back in the day.
"We knew if we found you, the demon would crawl out of hiding," he said in a deep voice that echoed off the concrete walls.
You blinked, trying to swallow despite the dryness in your throat. Your brain processed his words through the pounding headache, but confusion took over. You had been buried in a lie for two years, isolated from everything.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about..." you murmured, your voice raspy but laced with instinctive poison.
The guy let out a dry, mocking laugh, blowing cigarette smoke directly into your face.
"Don't play dumb, sweetheart. You know damn well who I'm talking about," he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at you with amused contempt. "Hollis. Your prized owner."
A chill ran down your spine, but you stood your ground, clenching your teeth so as not to give away the shock that name caused you.
"For three damn years, you couldn't step into The Subsoil without hearing stories about the two of you," the man continued, making an exaggerated gesture with his hand. "You were the comedy of the hour. Everyone at the tables talked about the invincible couple. They said you danced alone on the floor while he killed people for you in the VIP booths, that you thought you were kings of the city just because you survived a couple of drive-bys."
He pinned you with a mock-filled glare, savoring every word.
"How did it go...? Ah, yeah: 'If one runs, we both run'... Right? That was the famous little promise everyone on the street repeated to laugh at you. They said you were all show. And look how the fairytale ended: he was turned into a sieve in a warehouse, and we had to drag you out of a shitty apartment, alone, forgotten, and shaking like a stray dog every time a patrol car drove by. The great queen of the underworld... reduced to nothing."
You felt the blood boil in your veins. Rage superseded the physical pain. You sat up as straight in the chair as the ropes allowed and held his gaze, your eyes burning with hatred.
"If you know so much about the stories of The Subsoil..." you responded, flashing a defiant smile, "you should know how dumbasses who talk too much about him in front of me end up."
The man's smile vanished instantly. He stood up from the crate, visibly irritated by your lack of submission, and grabbed your hair roughly to force your head back toward the ceiling.
"Let's see if you're still this cocky when—"
The dry echo of a gunshot shattered the air before he could finish his sentence, blowing the entrance door into a thousand pieces.
Chaos exploded in a second.
Flickering lights, screams, and the deafening roar of bullets tearing through the room. Through the haze of your consciousness, you saw a silhouette moving through the shadows with lethal, implacable speed, taking down the men one by one. It was that same dance of pure violence the guy had tried to ridicule just a moment ago.
Him.
In the middle of the firefight, the man holding you tried to use you as a human shield; he grabbed you roughly and, in his desperate struggle to save himself, slammed the butt of his gun hard against your temple. The last thing your eyes registered before you collapsed again was Hollis's silhouette charging at the guy with blind fury, his eyes burning with a murderous fire upon seeing that they had touched you. And then, darkness swallowed you for a second time.
When you opened your eyes again, the headache had dulled to a steady throb.
There was no longer the smell of gunpowder or flickering lights. The atmosphere was warm, quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of a nightstand lamp. You were lying in a spacious bed, wrapped in soft blankets, and you felt a warm, firm pressure on your hand.
Looking down, your heart took such a violent leap that it stole your breath away.
Hollis was there, kneeling by the side of the bed, resting his forehead against your hand intertwined with his. The ring shimmered under the dim light, in the exact spot where it always belonged.
He felt your movement and raised his head abruptly.
The shock of seeing him face-to-face took your breath away, but something in your chest shook violently as you noticed the change. Gone was the man with the long, platinum blonde hair that used to shine under the neon lights of The Subsoil, that almost angelic, carefree aura he had while smoking on the edge of the abyss. Time and tragedy had transformed him.
Now his hair was shorter, dark brown, falling in messy layers over his forehead that barely revealed his eyes. And his eyes... his eyes looked like two deep, dark pits, framed by an intense shadow that made them look fierce, marked by a dangerous gravity. His sheer presence filled the room; he looked physically stronger, more imposing, with broader shoulders and a hard energy that conveyed he was no longer just a lucky criminal, but a predator who had survived death itself.
Despite that dominant aura that would strike terror into anyone, the way he looked at you was filled with a devotion and pain so profound it burned. There was no trace of the monster who had slaughtered everyone in that room moments ago.
There was only the man who loved you.
"Forgive me..." he whispered with a broken voice, his breath hitched as he leaned closer, pressing his cheek against the palm of your hand. "Forgive me, my love. I took too long. I let them lay hands on you... forgive me."
You felt his wet tears against your skin, a devastating contrast to the blood still smeared on his face. After seven hundred days of coldness, solitude, and paranoia, the warmth of his body kneeling before you was the only proof that the ghost had finally come home.
Your tears spilled uncontrollably, hot and overflowing, blurring the image of the man kneeling before you. The emotional overload completely overwhelmed you: the pain from the blow to your head, the shock of having him within arm's reach after two years, and the pent-up rage that had been festering in your chest all this time.
You yanked your hand back from his cheek, refusing to give him easy comfort.
"You broke the promise!" you cried out, your voice coming out broken, choked by gut-wrenching sob. "You said if one runs, we both run! You left me, Hollis! You forced me to leave while I listened to you die through the gunshots!"
Hollis froze, his empty hands suspended in the air, taking each of your shouts as if they were direct stabs to his chest. He didn't try to defend himself. He didn't get up. He remained kneeling, his gaze fixed on your tear-soaked eyes.
"I became a ghost for two years!" you kept yelling, bringing your hands to your face to try to hold back the weeping while your entire body trembled on the bed. "I had to change my name, my life, everything! Living in the cold, having nightmares every damn night thinking you were six feet under! Why did you take so long? Why did you leave me alone?"
Hollis swallowed hard. His face reflected a devotion and guilt so crushing he looked on the verge of shattering from the inside. He moved a little closer, resting his elbows on the mattress with infinite caution, desperately trying to lock eyes with you.
"I left you because you were one second away from dying by my side," he said in a rough whisper, battered by anguish. "That night... the police weren't coming to arrest us. They were coming to kill us. When the car took off with you inside, they swarmed me. I took three bullets before I hit the ground."
A suffocating knot tightened in your throat upon hearing the truth.
"I spent six months in a coma in a prison hospital under government custody," he continued, his voice trembling, revealing the nightmare he lived in the dark. "When I woke up, I had no name, no freedom, no way of knowing if you were alive. It took me a whole year to plan my escape and recover from surgeries just to be able to walk again. And when I finally got out... the entire underworld knew I was alive. Every step I took searching for your trail was a bullet put to your head. If I found you too soon, they would have found you first."
Hollis reached out his hand again, very slowly, silently asking for permission to touch you. This time, tears fell silently down his cheeks too, washing away traces of gunpowder and blood on his skin.
"I had to destroy three rival families and clean up half the city from the shadows before I could make sure it was safe to look you in the eyes again," he murmured, resting his forehead with soft desperation against your bent knees. "I preferred you hating me for the rest of your life for abandoning you, over having to go search for your body in a mass grave. But never... not a single day of these two years... did I stop loving you."
There it was. The excuse wasn't a lack of love, but the living hell he endured to guarantee that the last order he gave you—"Live"—meant something.
The icy knot of rage you had harbored in your chest for two years dissolved all at once, crushed under the weight of his truth and the devastation in his eyes.
You couldn't hold back any longer. You threw yourself forward, sliding off the edge of the bed to wrap your arms around his neck with wild desperation. You would hold him until you broke if you could. You buried yourself in the crook of his shoulder, muffling your fierce crying directly against his skin, finally breathing in that scent of expensive cologne, tobacco, and blood that was the only thing bringing you back to life.
Hollis let out a ragged gasp as he felt your body impact his. His arms wrapped around you instantly with an almost violent strength, pressing you against his chest as if trying to fuse his broken pieces with yours.
"I was so scared..." you whispered to him, your voice completely cracking, sobbing against his neck while your hands dug into his soot-stained back. "I was so scared, Hollis... I thought about taking my life... so many nights I looked at the ceiling and just wanted to be with you... I felt like I was nothing without you. That the one who died in that warehouse was me."
Hollis shuddered completely at your words. The grip of his hands on your waist grew so tight it hurt, but it was the only pain you had been craving to feel.
"Don't ever say that... ever," he begged you in a hoarse, desperate whisper, kissing your temple, your cheek, every tear rolling down your face clumsily. "I'm here now, beautiful. You're never going to be alone again. I swear it on my fucking life."
There, on the cold floor of the room dimly lit by the soft lamp, they remained wrapped in their most intimate moment. It wasn't the wild, possessive passion they had in the bar or the car, nor the arrogant invincibility of their glory years. It was something much deeper, heartbreaking, and pure. It was the intimacy of two people who had lost everything, who touched hell with their bare hands and, miraculously, found each other again.
Their lips sought each other in a clumsy kiss, wet with tears and salt, but filled with an adoration so genuine it stole their breath away. Their hands trembled as they traced each other's face, making sure the flesh and skin were real, that it wasn't another nightmare. Hollis held your face as if you were a fragile miracle, resting his forehead against yours while they both breathed the same air.
They were broken, full of visible and invisible scars, but for the first time in two years, the coldness of the world disappeared. They were together again, and amidst the disaster, they finally felt invincible once more.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The bedroom mirror reflected an image you had almost forgotten.
You wore a form-fitting black dress with a plunging neckline, your lips painted a dark, bloody red. Your hair was styled once again with the elegance of before, and the ring shimmered on your finger under the warm light of the lamps. You should have felt like the queen you once were, but your hands trembled on the vanity.
You looked at your reflection and didn't see an invincible legend. You saw the woman who spent two years shaking in a lonely apartment every time she heard a siren in the distance. Paranoia and submissiveness were still etched into your posture.
What if you can't be that person anymore? What if fear made you weak?
"You're gorgeous."
Hollis's voice sounded behind you, low and raspy. You saw him in the reflection: he was dressed in a fitted black shirt that highlighted his now stronger, more imposing physique. His eyes watched you through the glass with absolute devotion.
He approached with slow steps until he rested his hands on your shoulders. The heat of his skin comforted you, but it couldn't dispel the chill of your doubts.
"I don't know if I can do this, Hollis," you confessed in a whisper, lowering your eyes. Your voice broke slightly. "I spent two years in hiding, pretending to be a nobody. I learned to be afraid of my own shadow... What if we walk in there and everyone sees how broken I am? What if I'm not the girl I used to be, the one everyone saw as untouchable?"
Hollis froze for a second. Then, he slid his hands down your arms until his fingers intertwined with yours, forcing you to look at him in the mirror.
"I don't want you to be the same as before," he told you firmly, leaning his head until his temple brushed yours. "The girl from before thought luck lasted forever. The woman standing here in front of me survived hell. You're not broken, Y/n. You're alive. And that makes you ten times more dangerous than any idiot in that bar."
He turned you around to face him. His hand cupped your chin, forcing you to hold that dark gaze that now commanded an almost terrifying respect.
"They need to see that we're back," Hollis continued, his warm breath brushing your lips. "They need to know they tried to destroy you and failed. You're not going to ask permission to return to your throne; you're going to claim it because it belongs to you. And if anyone dares to doubt you... I'll tear their throat out myself before they finish taking a breath."
A shiver ran down your spine. The fear didn't completely disappear, but the conviction in Hollis's voice and the weight of his hand on your waist began to burn away the insecurity.
Hollis smirked—a feline, dangerous smile you hadn't seen on him in years. He extended his arm to you, waiting.
"Shall we make them fear us again, beautiful?"
You looked at your reflection one last time. You took his arm firmly, straightening your back, feeling that old invincibility reignite in your veins.
The back door of The Subsoil opened heavily, letting out the dense mix of expensive tobacco, alcohol, and heavy bass booming through the floor. The place was packed with dealers, thugs, and gang bosses who had spent two years celebrating Hollis's fall.
Nate and three of the most loyal men walked behind you, hands tucked under their jackets, ready for anything.
As you crossed the hallway toward the floor, the crowd began to notice you. The murmur of conversations died down in a cascade. People parted in their path, stepping back with an instinctive dread upon seeing the dark silhouette of Hollis leading the way. But when the bar's eyes fell on you, walking at his side with a defiant glare, the silence in the room became sepulchral.
Hollis didn't rush his pace. He walked with that heavy, dominant elegance characteristic of him, one hand inside his pant pocket and the other holding yours with a firmness that radiated searing heat.
You felt their eyes digging into you. Familiar and new faces, dealers who just months ago were dividing up the territories that belonged to you, men who spread the story that you were reduced to nothing.
Instead of bowing your head or seeking refuge behind Hollis, you stepped forward beside him. Straight-backed, chin held high, wearing that icy, distant smile you used to wear two years ago. The ring on your finger caught the pink flashes from the ceiling, delivering to the room the irrefutable proof that the queen was standing.
You reached the center of the bar. The crowd parted instinctively, forming a circle around you, just like before. The difference was that now no one was smiling; no one dared to whisper.
At the VIP table in the back—the very one where it all began—sat the new "leader" who had tried to fill the void Hollis left behind. An older man, with scars on his neck, surrounded by four armed bodyguards. Seeing you two, the cigarette fell from his mouth and his drink trembled in his hand.
Hollis didn't even bother to draw his gun.
He stopped in front of the table, glanced at you sideways for a fraction of a second, and offered you a subtle, almost imperceptible smile, meant only for you.
"You're in my chair," Hollis's voice said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a low, rough, dangerously soft murmur that traveled through the silent venue.
The guy with the scars tried to swallow hard, looking desperately at his men, but his bodyguards were looking at Nate and the loyal men guarding Hollis's back. Nobody was going to lift a finger. Nobody was going to die for a lost cause.
"H-Hollis..." the guy managed to articulate, standing up so fast the leather chair scraped with a nasty screech. "We were told you were... that the two of you..."
"That we were dead," Hollis interrupted, taking a slow step forward, forcing the guy back until he hit the wall. "A common mistake. People talk too much when they think nobody is listening."
Hollis turned slightly, extended his hand toward you with chivalry, and gestured to the VIP table.
"Sit down, my love," he murmured to you, his voice regaining that warm, devoted tone reserved only for your ears. "I promised you tonight your feet wouldn't get tired."
You walked with a firm step, feeling the eyes of every criminal in the bar on your every move. You sat on the main leather couch, crossing your legs with implacable composure. You rested your elbows on the polished wooden table and let the glint of the ring be the first thing the scarred guy saw.
Hollis didn't sit. He stood by your side, resting one hand on the back of your couch, transforming into an insurmountable human wall. With his other hand, he pulled out a silver lighter, flicked it open with a sharp snap that made half the bar jump, and looked directly at the man occupying his old spot.
"Now..." Hollis said, blowing a thin trail of smoke toward the ceiling, "let's talk about who's going to pay me rent for the last two years."
The guy with the scars didn't even have time to beg. Hollis didn't even blink; with a quick, precise movement, he delivered a devastating blow that sent him straight to the floor, crashing against the glass table. Nate and Hollis's men handled the rest in seconds, dragging the impostor and his bodyguards out of the venue with kicks, making it crystal clear to everyone what happens to anyone who tries to usurp the throne.
Hollis adjusted the cuffs of his black shirt, flawless, and turned toward the DJ booth. With a single nod of his head, the sound engineer understood the order instantly.
The deathly silence was shattered by the thud of heavy bass, a vibrant, dark melody echoing off the wood and neon walls of the bar. The pink and blue lights spun again, casting flashes over the frozen crowd.
Nobody moved. Nobody dared to leave.
Hollis walked toward you, his eyes locked on yours. There was no longer a trace of the man who begged for forgiveness kneeling by the edge of a bed; now he was the king claiming his victory. He extended his hand to you with calculated slowness, offering his scarred palm.
"You owe me a dance from many days ago, beautiful," he murmured, his voice cutting through the music with that signature roughness.
That night it was just the two of you, dancing in the middle of a crowd that watched with a mix of terror and pure fascination. You proved that you were still the invincible couple, the legend that returned to show that nothing and no one could stop you—and that he wouldn't hesitate for a single moment to burn the whole world down before losing you again.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
A time jump of several months places us at an elegant, secluded private estate on the outskirts of the city. The contrast with the dark atmosphere of The Subsoil is total: today, natural light pours through large windows, and the air smells of fresh flowers and champagne.
In one of the main suites, Hollis gets ready accompanied by his most loyal men. He adjusts his tailored suit, looking in the mirror with that new, strong, imposing presence, but with an obvious impatience in his eyes. He can't wait to have you in front of him.
Meanwhile, in the bridal suite across the hall, the atmosphere is much more intimate and quiet.
You look at yourself in the full-length mirror. The white dress fits your figure with flawless elegance, highlighting your curves and the confidence you've reclaimed. Your hair and makeup are done; you look stunning, like the true queen you are.
However, being left alone in the huge room, a small knot of nostalgia tightens in your chest.
You look at the empty chairs around the coffee table, the untouched glasses of champagne, and the bouquet of flowers on the table. It's a beautiful moment, but the reality of your past hits you softly: there are no bridesmaids laughing with you, no childhood friends taking photos or fixing your veil. Life in the shadows and two years of isolation deprived you of that. It's a bittersweet silence that draws a restrained sigh from you as your hands tremble slightly while adjusting the fabric of your dress.
A soft knock on the door breaks the silence.
"Can I come in?" a familiar voice asks.
You turn to see Nate poking his head in. He wears an immaculate suit, neatly combed hair, and an unusually serious, touched expression upon seeing you.
"Please, come in," you say, trying to flash a quick smile to hide the loneliness of the moment.
Nate walked into the room and stopped a couple of feet away, looking you up and down with genuine respect. He slowly shook his head, impressed.
"You look incredible, Y/n... Seriously. Hollis is going to lose his mind the second he sees you walking toward him."
"Thank you, Nate," you murmur, adjusting the bouquet in your hands.
Nate looked around, taking in the empty room and the silence that had surrounded you a second ago. His expression softened, and he took another step toward you, his eyes filled with sincere remorse.
"Listen... I wanted to tell you something before all this starts," he began, scratching the back of his neck with a bit of bashfulness. "I wanted to apologize. For all the time I left you alone during those two years. I know Hollis asked me to stay away so I wouldn't put you at risk, but... I should have found a way to be there for you. To be there when you had nobody and thought he was dead. I'm so sorry I left you to carry that hell all by yourself."
Your eyes welled up at the sincerity in his voice. All the resentment or loneliness you had felt dissolved instantly. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his arm.
"It's no problem, Nate. Truly, don't worry about it," you answered him with a warm, frank smile. "You did what you had to do to keep us all safe. You're here today, and that's the only thing that matters."
Nate sighed with relief and smiled at you with brotherly affection. He straightened his collar, ready to leave.
"Well, I'll go make sure Hollis doesn't tear down the entrance out of desperation from not seeing you yet..."
"Nate, wait," you stopped him gently.
He turned around, curious. You took a deep breath, feeling the knot in your throat transform into pure emotion.
"I don't have anyone else here... and I wouldn't want to walk down that aisle alone," you looked into his eyes with vulnerability. "Would you do me the honor of walking me down the aisle?"
Nate froze for a second, completely disarmed by your request. A glimmer of genuine emotion flashed in his eyes, and he offered you his bent arm with a massive smile.
"It would be a damn honor, my queen. Let's go hand that idiot Hollis his present."
The double glass doors swung wide open, and the soft music of the violin began to resonate in the outdoor garden.
The venue was decorated with white flowers and warm lights that contrasted with the presence of all the guests: men in dark suits, family bodyguards, and the most loyal underworld allies who had put away their weapons today to witness history.
Holding Nate's arm, you took your first step onto the runner. Your white dress flowed with the cool afternoon breeze, and as you looked up, all the noise of the world faded away once more.
At the end of the altar stood Hollis.
He looked monumental, flawless in a custom black tuxedo that emphasized his stronger, more defined build. His hair fell in messy waves over his forehead, but his fierce eyes held no trace of coldness. The moment his gaze landed on you, the rigid, dominant posture of the city's most dangerous criminal crumbled completely.
He opened his mouth just a fraction, unable to articulate a word. His lips trembled slightly. He ran a hand over his face, trying to contain the surge of emotions crashing over him, but it was useless: a shimmer of genuine, warm, overflowing tears appeared in his dark eyes as he watched you move toward him.
He looked so vulnerable, so deeply in love and moved by how beautiful you were, that the ruthless lord he was today struggled to stay standing.
Nate guided you to the front, looked at you one last time with an affectionate wink, and handed your hand to Hollis.
"Take care of her, idiot," Nate whispered under his breath.
Hollis didn't even hear Nate. He took your hand with an almost imperceptible tremble in his long fingers, pulling you toward him as if you were the only miracle he had ever witnessed in his life. He looked into your eyes, and a single tear rolled down his cheek, washing away the last remnant of the darkness that had separated you.
"You look breathtaking, darling..." he whispered to you, his voice cracking, choked with a knot of pure happiness. "You look like a dream I never want to wake up from."
The justice of the peace began to speak, reciting the vows and traditional words about commitment and loyalty. However, to the two of you, protocol meant nothing; the real promises had already been made in the middle of gun battles, in the blood of the warehouse, and on the floor of that room where you found each other again.
"Hollis... Do you take Y/n to be your wife, to love and protect her in the shadows and in the light?"
"I do," he said without hesitating for a single millisecond, his voice deep, firm, and devoted, echoing throughout the garden.
"And you, Y/n... Do you take Hollis to be your husband?"
"I do," you answered with a radiant smile, feeling for the first time in two years that your heart was completely at peace.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Hollis didn't wait another second. He wrapped both arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest in an eager embrace, lifting you slightly off the ground as he captured your lips in a passionate, deep kiss filled with overwhelming joy. It was the final seal that the tragedy was over.
The venue exploded into wild cheers and applause.
Nate was the first to shout and whistle loudly, followed by the loyal men who cheered enthusiastically, clinking their crystal glasses. White roses flew through the air, falling over you both as Hollis broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with a huge smile—one of those smiles you thought you'd never see again.
"No more ghosts, my queen," he whispered in your ear amid the roar of the celebration, sliding the new wedding band onto your finger next to the one he had stolen from you years ago. "Now the whole city is ours."
The private coastline was immersed in a warm, quiet twilight. Unlike the metallic noise and gunpowder scent of the city, here there was only the constant murmur of waves gently crashing against the sand and the sea breeze filtering through the open villa windows.
You stood on the wooden terrace, wrapped only in a light silk robe that floated in the breeze. In your hand, you held a glass of champagne, watching the full moon's reflection on the dark ocean water. For the first time in two years—for the first time in a long time—there was no paranoia. No glares to dodge, no shadows to mistrust. There was only absolute, golden peace.
Firm, bare footsteps echoed behind you.
Before you could turn, a pair of warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back against a solid chest. Hollis buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing a slow, deep kiss onto your skin that drew an involuntary sigh from you. His breathing was steady, free of the dangerous rush he used to carry everywhere.
His hair, slightly damp from the sea, brushed your cheek. He slid one of his hands upward, resting his long fingers over yours.
"I still find it hard to believe," Hollis murmured in that low, raspy voice, pressing his cheek to yours as you both looked out at the horizon. "Two years thinking this skin didn't exist, that this voice was just an echo in my head... and now you're here. With my last name, in my life, forever."
You smiled, tilting your head back to look at him sideways.
"You took too long to bring me to the sea, sir," you responded in a playful tone, stroking the hard line of his jaw.
Hollis let out a soft laugh—that low chuckle only you had the privilege of hearing. He gently took the glass from your hand to set it on the side table, and in a quick, fluid motion, turned you around to face him.
His dark eyes, usually fierce and untamable to the world, looked at you with an almost religious devotion. He cupped your chin with the gentleness of someone holding the most fragile, valuable treasure on the planet.
"I'd give you the entire ocean if you asked me, beautiful," he said, and there wasn't a single trace of mockery on his face; it was an absolute promise. "The city, the empire, the shadows... none of it is worth a single tear you shed for me. From now on, the whole world works so you never have to be cold again."
His hands wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the ground; your legs immediately wrapped around his hips. His lips captured yours in a warm, slow, deeply intimate kiss. There was no rush of a firefight, no hiding spots or running away. It was the calm after the perfect storm.
"You are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen, Y/n," Hollis whispered against your lips, while the taste of salt air and desire blended into a slow, deep kiss. Your hands traced his still-damp torso, feeling the contrast of his cool skin against the heat emanating from your own body beneath the silk robe. With careful steps, he carried you inside the room until reaching the bed. Falling onto the cool sheets, the brush of his damp skin against yours felt like a controlled fire.
Your eyes met, filled with an eternal promise and a deep, tender desire. "I love you so much," he whispered, beginning to untie the sash at your waist with exquisite slowness.
"And I love you... it will always be you," you answered, your voice thick with tenderness, reaching out your hands to help him shed his undergarments, letting your fingers stroke his skin with a new delicacy.
Before, your encounters were storms of wild, unrestrained passion, but tonight was a whisper, a dance of skin against skin seeking the deepest connection. Your hands roamed his shoulders and chest, tracing invisible maps with slow, almost electric kisses. "Hollis, I want to feel every part of you... no rushing, there's no rush anymore," you whispered against his ear as he leaned over you, wrapping you in an embrace that felt like coming home. His caresses were now soft, exploratory, as if rediscovering the treasure he had always held.
Hollis positioned himself between your legs with an almost religious reverence, seeking your eyes to confirm that this gentle pace was what your soul needed. "You're my wife now, Y/n... my partner in life," he whispered against your ear, his warm breath sending waves of pleasure down your spine as he began to enter you with excruciating, delicious slowness.
There was no urgency, only a perfect synchrony of bodies melting into one. His movements were rhythmic, deep, and filled with a tenderness that made you weep from pure emotion. "Feel how I belong to you," he murmured, kissing the corner of your lips while his hands caressed your breasts with extreme softness. You felt whole, wrapped in a warmth that didn't burn, but comforted you, as the sound of the ocean became the soundtrack to your most intimate surrender.
You arched slightly beneath his weight, letting out a soft groan that got lost in his kisses. The feeling of his body filling you with such delicacy was intoxicating; it was an intimacy transcending the physical, a fusion of souls that only true love allows. "Hollis... please don't stop," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer to you.
He responded by slightly increasing the depth of his thrusts, maintaining that hypnotic, sweet rhythm. His fingers intertwined with yours, pressing them against the pillow while his eyes, clouded with desire and devotion, never strayed from yours. "I'll always have you, Y/n... always," he promised, as pleasure began to bloom in your belly like a rising, warm tide.
The pleasure reached its peak in a wave of warm sensations that shook you completely, leaving you breathless as you clung to him. Hollis exhaled a name—yours—in a sigh of absolute surrender just as your bodies collapsed in a final dance of sweet, rhythmic spasms.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by your heavy breathing and the distant murmur of the ocean. He collapsed beside you, wrapping you in a protective embrace, burying his face in your neck as sweat cooled softly on your skin.
"I love you more than my own life," Hollis whispered, kissing your forehead with infinite calm.
You wrapped yourself in his arms, finally feeling complete, as sleep overtook you both in the middle of that haven of love and peace.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The sun was just beginning to peek over the coast's horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet over the calm ocean.
Hollis stood silently by the villa’s large window, wearing only a pair of loose black trousers. In his hand, he held an untouched glass of whiskey. In the early morning dimness, the scars across his back and chest were clearly visible, but the relentless tension he used to carry in his shoulders had completely vanished.
You approached slowly, making no sound, barefoot against the cool wooden floor. You slid your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his warm back.
Hollis didn't startle; he simply let out a deep sigh, relaxing the moment he felt your touch. He set the glass down on the coffee table and covered your hands with his own, intertwining his fingers with yours so that both of your wedding bands glinted under the first light of day.
"Couldn't sleep?" you murmured softly.
"I was just looking at the sea," he answered in that low, raspy voice of his, turning slowly within your embrace until you were face-to-face. "For two years, I woke up in the dark. Today I woke up, looked at you beside me... and for the first time in my life, the silence didn't scare me."
You looked into his eyes. There was no trace left of the ghost obsessed with revenge, nor of the ruthless criminal who tore his enemies apart in The Subsoil. There was only the man who loved you with an almost religious devotion.
You raised a hand to his face, tracing the scar on his cheekbone with your thumb.
"It's over, Hollis. It's really over."
He smiled—a genuine, subtle smile filled with a peace neither of you ever thought possible. He leaned his forehead against yours, breathing the same air as you.
"We built an empire on top of ashes, beautiful," he whispered, sliding his hands down to your hips to pull you flush against him. "But if all of this burns down again tomorrow... I don't care. Because the only queen I need is right here with me."
"If one runs, we both run," you murmured, recalling that old promise that once felt like a curse, but was now your greatest strength.
Hollis let out a low laugh against your lips.
"We're not running ever again, my love. Now the city is the one running from us."
He kissed you slowly—a sweet, deep, and steady kiss that permanently sealed the end of the nightmare. Outside, the sun fully rose, illuminating the open sea and washing away every remaining shadow of the past. You were broken, yes, and scarred forever... but you were together, and invincible once more.
Tags: Violence and criminal activity, dark romance, jealousy-fueled sex.
Netx part.
Fem!reader × Criminal Hollis.
Legendary Lovers.
The atmosphere in the subsoil always smells like a heavy mix of expensive tobacco, cheap alcohol, and poorly cleaned gunpowder. It is the type of bar where half the patrons have a price on their heads and the other half are looking for a way to collect it. But tonight, no one dares to look too closely.
Because the two of you are here.
You are in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, moving to the slow, heavy rhythm of the music blaring from the worn-out speakers. You don't care about the crowd parting in your path, clearing space for you as if you were royalty in a ruined palace. You are wearing that dress Hollis helped you pick out, and the ring he stole for you gleams under the pink and blue neon lights every time you raise your hands. You are dancing alone, but your eyes never leave the back table. The VIP table.
That is where he is.
Hollis sits with a calmness that borders on an insult, legs crossed and a feline smirk on his face while a local dealer, twice his size, breaks into a cold sweat trying to negotiate the terms of a weapons shipment. On either side, his most loyal men watch in silence, but they aren't even necessary. Everyone knows who Hollis is, and everyone knows who you are.
Three years. For three damn years, the federal police, rival gangs, and half the underworld have been trying to catch you. Three years in which you have burned bridges, bypassed barricades, and escaped shootouts without a single major scratch. To the rest of the city, you are an urban myth, a living legend of criminals with supernatural luck. To you, luck only has one name: Hollis.
The dealer makes the mistake of raising his voice slightly, slamming the table. Instantly, the music seems to cut out in your head. You stop dead in the middle of the dance floor. Your eyes narrow, and your hand instinctively drops to the side of your thigh, where the cold metal of your concealed weapon gives you a warm welcome.
But before you take a step, Hollis raises a hand. He doesn't look at the man. He looks at you.
Through the tobacco smoke and neon light, his eyes lock onto yours. The cold, murderous gaze he was directing at the dealer dissolves in a fraction of a second, replaced by that private, genuine warmth that only you know. He gives you a faint, almost imperceptible half-smirk and nods just once. Everything is under control, gorgeous. Keep dancing.
The air returns to your lungs. You relax, return the smile with a hint of mockery, and keep moving, knowing that as long as you are together in that room, you are fucking untouchable.
Hollis looks back at the dealer, but his tone of voice has dropped three octaves, becoming dangerously soft.
"Let's make this quick, pal," Hollis says, leaning his elbows on the table and tilting in toward the man. "My girl is getting bored on the dance floor, and the last time she got bored, we had to burn down an entire police station to keep her entertained. And trust me... I don't feel like wasting gas today."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The roar of the car engine cuts through the night like a blade.
You are sunk into the passenger seat, your back pressed against the black leather and your lungs still exhaling the pure adrenaline you just stole from the bar. The city flashes past the window, turned into a blur of distorted streetlight beams. Behind, far behind, are the screams, the echo of the gunshots, and the body of that miserable fool who thought he could raise his voice to Hollis in front of you.
You look to your left. Hollis has both hands firmly on the wheel, weaving through the traffic of the main avenue with surgical precision. His jaw is clenched and a tiny speck of fresh blood splatters his left cheek, but there is no fear in his eyes. Only fire. The guy tried to play smart at the VIP table, Hollis did what he had to do, and now the night is completely theirs.
Suddenly, a clean, wild laugh escapes your lips. You can't help it. It is the euphoria of knowing that you won again, that the world tried to bite you and you ripped its teeth out first.
Hollis glances at you for a second. Hearing your laughter, the tension in his face breaks completely. A huge smile of pure complicity forms on his lips, and he starts laughing too. It is that shared laugh that only the two of you understand, the laugh of two kids who just pulled a massive prank and know nobody is going to catch them.
"I told you, gorgeous," he says, his voice a bit raspy from the exertion and adrenaline. "I told you it wasn't worth wasting gas on that idiot. One bullet did the trick."
"You went too fast, you cut off my music," you complain playfully, your eyes shining with pure amusement.
You unbuckle your seatbelt, ignoring the danger of the speed, and slide across the seat until you are dangerously close to him. You lean against his side, invading his space with total freedom, because you know your presence never distracts him; on the contrary, it makes him feel invincible.
You drape a hand over his shoulder, feeling the tight muscles of his back beneath his jacket, and let your head rest in the nook of his shoulder. Hollis doesn't pull away; he drops one of his hands from the steering wheel for a second to squeeze your thigh affectionately before taking back control of the car.
You begin to leave a line of slow, soft kisses on his neck, right where his pulse is racing a mile a minute. You feel the heat of his skin, the smell of gunpowder, and his expensive cologne. With every kiss, Hollis lets out a low sigh, a mix of a laugh and a shudder.
"Hey... you're going to make us crash," he murmurs in a teasing tone, though he makes no attempt to push you away. On the contrary, he tilts his head back slightly to give you more room, blindly trusting his reflexes and his luck.
"If we crash, we crash together," you answer against his skin, right before gently biting his earlobe.
He laughs again, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The car flies down the dark highway, leaving the chaos behind. You have each other, you have a bag of loot in the back, and the whole fucking night ahead of you. You are young, you are in love, and damn it, the whole world is way too small for you.
The car brakes in the dark alley behind the abandoned warehouse. The engine dies, and finally, the silence of the night wraps around you. Hollis gets out first, alert, his hand inside his jacket, making sure the shadows of the place are just that: shadows. When he gives you the signal, you step out of the car carrying the bag with the night's loot.
You walk up the creaking metal stairs to the top-floor security door. Hollis steps forward and, out of pure habit ingrained in his body, curls his knuckles and knocks on the metal surface.
Knock, knock.
Two sharp hits. Your code. A tired but warm smile appears on your face upon hearing it; it means the danger stays outside and you are finally home.
Crossing the threshold, the atmosphere changes completely. The hideout isn't a cold or neglected place. You have taken care of transforming it into your own personal sanctuary: soft sheets, warm lights, and small pastel pink accents that soften the gray concrete walls, creating a sweet oasis in the middle of all their violent world.
You leave the bag on the table without looking at it; the money doesn't matter at all right now. You turn around, and Hollis has already taken off his jacket. He looks tired, but the moment your eyes lock with his, he sighs and opens his arms.
You don't need him to tell you twice. You slam into his chest, and his arms wrap around you instantly, squeezing you against him as if he feared you might vanish. Hollis buries his face in your hair, breathing in your scent, while your hands slide up to his neck, tangling in his hair. You stay like that for a few seconds, in absolute silence, letting your heartbeats synchronize and the adrenaline fully evaporate.
When he pulls back a little, Hollis takes your face in both hands. His palms are warm, his fingers brushing your cheeks with a gentleness that no one in the subsoil would believe capable of coming from the man who pulled a trigger half an hour ago.
"Let me look at you," he murmurs softly, scanning your face with genuine concern. "Are you okay? Did you get scared at the bar?"
"I'm perfect, Hollis. I told you, I'm invincible with you," you answer, giving him a half-sweet, half-mischievous smile.
He smirks, relieved, and presses his forehead against yours.
"Don't joke about that. You are the only thing that matters keeping safe in this life."
Hollis lowers his hands to your shoulders and carefully slides down the straps of your dress, helping you shed the uncomfortable party clothes to change into something softer. There is no rush; it is pure protective instinct. He brings a small, damp towel and, with infinite patience, cleans the tiny drop of someone else's blood that splattered your cheek during the chaos, kissing the clean spot right after.
You end up tangled together in bed, in the middle of the soft blankets. You are resting on his chest, and he has one arm around you, using his other hand to distractedly trace the edges of the ring on your finger. Your fingers entwine, and the jewel glints under the dim light of the floor lamp.
"If things ever get ugly..." you start to say, breaking the silence with a passing thought.
Hollis interrupts you, turning slightly to look you dead in the eyes. His gaze is serious, solemn, filled with absolute devotion.
"If one runs, we both run," he says, repeating the vow that holds their world together. "Always, gorgeous. I promise you."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The new bar is a cauldron of smoke, flashing neon lights, and music that thumps right in your chest. In the middle of the dance floor, the atmosphere is thick and sweaty, but for you, as always, the world narrows down to a single fixed point at the back of the place: the silhouette of Hollis in the shadows of a booth, glass in hand, his gaze locked onto you like a hawk.
The new guy has no idea what he just walked into. He only saw your beautiful face on the dance floor and assumed the night was won. He approaches brazenly, closing the distance until his chest presses against your back, swaying to the rhythm of the music with a stupid confidence. His hands search for your waist, bold, claiming a space that does not belong to him.
Anyone else would have reacted with a punch or a cold warning, but you don't move. You don't pull away.
Instead, you let the stranger get a little closer, arching your back subtly while keeping your eyes fixed on the darkness at the back. You feel a rush of adrenaline surge down your spine, a scorching heat that has nothing to do with the man touching you, but with the reaction you are provoking from across the room.
From his table, Hollis's posture shifts. He is no longer relaxed. His jaw tightens so hard that the muscle twitches, and the knuckles wrapping around his glass turn completely white. The fury in his eyes is palpable, a dark, possessive fire that promises violence.
You lose your breath at the intensity of that gaze. Seeing him lose control like that, knowing you unleash the demon with just a bit of provocation, sparks an addictive adrenaline that burns you from the inside. You know the guy behind you is playing with fire, and Hollis is just a second away from standing up and reminding the whole bar who you belong to.
Hollis can't take it anymore.
You saw how he set his glass down on the table with a sharp thud, never taking his eyes off you for even a millisecond. He stands up with that dangerous elegance that defines him, pulling back the chair soundlessly, like a predator that has already locked onto its prey. The tension in the air becomes so thick you can almost taste it.
The guy behind you, completely oblivious to the social suicide he is about to commit, whispers something in your ear with an arrogant smirk. He feels like he already has you. His hands slip a little lower down your hips, and just when you are about to say something, the fun is cut short instantly.
A gloved, firm hand slams against the stranger's shoulder, spinning him around with a brutal force that sends him stumbling.
"You're in my space," Hollis's voice says. It is low, calm, but it carries that switchblade edge that makes anyone's blood run cold.
The man blinks, trying to process the shift in environment, but before he can articulate a single word of complaint, Hollis has already stepped forward, completely invading his personal space. There are no shouts, no unnecessary scene; just the physical presence of Hollis, which seems to swallow all the light in the room and eclipse the new guy.
Hollis locks him in a glare so heavily loaded with violent promises that the guy instinctively takes a step back, losing all his bravery in a second. He looks at Hollis, looks at you, and finally understands the silent message hanging in the air: leave if you want to keep breathing. Without a word, the stranger turns around and loses himself in the crowd on the dance floor, disappearing as fast as he arrived.
Then, Hollis turns to you.
The anger and jealousy are still throbbing in his dark eyes, but now they are directed entirely at you. He takes a step forward, cornering you against the very spot where you were dancing a moment ago, forcing you to look up to hold his gaze. He catches your waist with a possessive grip, his fingers digging into your skin with a silent demand that steals your breath.
"You like playing with fire, don't you?" he whispered in your ear, his warm breath brushing your neck while his lips barely graze your skin, making you shiver. "But remember who you get burned by."
The thick air of the bar is left behind as Hollis drags you forcefully toward the dark, damp alley. The music thumps like a distant echo, but the only thing you hear is your own racing breath and his low growl. He shoves you against the brick wall, trapping you between his firm body and the cold stone. His eyes burn with a blind fury, a mix of desire and a territorial rage that sends goosebumps across your skin. Hollis grips your jaw firmly, forcing you to look right at him, while his other hand drops roughly to your waist, squeezing your flesh as if he wanted to leave a permanent mark.
"Did you have fun, Y/n? Did you like feeling his hands on you while I watched you from afar?" His voice isn't warm; it is heavily cold, and hearing him like this only makes your legs shake with anticipation. "Don't play like that again. You're mine, and I'm going to remind you of that the only way you understand."
Without giving you time to reply, Hollis grabs your arm with relentless force, making you stride along toward the car parked in the shadows. The sound of your heels against the pavement seems to beat out the rhythm of your own anxiety. Upon arriving, he opens the back seat door with a sharp jerk and throws you into the seat, immediately leaning over you to trap you.
"You're not going to rest tonight, Y/n. I'm going to punish every move you made in front of that idiot."
You feel a shiver run down your spine; Hollis's rage excites you as much as it scares you, and a part of you wants him to lose control completely. "Do it then, Hollis. Show me that nobody else can touch me like you," you challenged him, your voice cracking with adrenaline. You could feel your chest rising and falling frantically; you could almost swear the pounding of your heart was echoing against your ribs.
He didn't waste a second. He moved over you in the narrow seat, his heavy body crushing yours against the cold leather. His hands, rough and urgent, tore the fabric of your clothes with a violence that made you let out a sharp whimper.
"You're going to beg me to stop, but I won't until your body only knows how to utter my name." He buried his face in your neck to bite the sensitive skin, claiming his territory with an animal urgency.
The metallic clatter of the belt being ripped away echoed in the shadows, a sound of pure impatience. You could barely distinguish his features in the dark, but his intention was crystal clear. He positioned himself between your thighs, a massive and dominant presence, and without a second of hesitation, he claimed you. A careless thrust that forced you to arch your back as you felt his length slide in, filling you so absolutely that you could barely remember how to breathe.
You felt his thickness stretching your walls to the limit, an invasion so deep and heavy it left you breathless, while the whole car began to shake violently under the frenzied, uncontrolled rhythm of his thrusts. "You're my bitch, you get that? Only my bitch," he spat in your ear, enjoying the way your body trembled at the magnitude of his member that seemed to have no end, marking every inch of your inside with a force almost painful that made you lose your sense of reality.
Your eyes blurred with hot tears that began to roll down your cheeks, not from pain, but from a sensory overload that overwhelmed you. You sobbed desperately, digging your nails into his back, knowing that would directly leave marks on him for a long time. "Hollis.... please..."
"Yeah, cry... you need to understand that you don't play around with me like that," his voice now was a rough vibration that dug into your ears, but crying only fueled his own pleasure. His hands moved to your breasts, squeezing them lightly before positioning his thumbs over your nipples and starting to massage them while maintaining that rhythm that made the car rock.
The heat inside the car became suffocating; the windows had quickly fogged up from the thick atmosphere of sweat and desire. You feel the lack of oxygen, and the pleasure is so intense that your mind begins to blur, bringing you to the brink of passing out while he claims you over and over again.
Hollis's rhythm became erratic and clumsy, a dance of pure collision that made the vehicle's metal creak. Suddenly, he leans down and captures your mouth with a ravenous urgency, driving his tongue into yours with an invasive depth. You could taste the intoxicating flavor of expensive whiskey and the bitter trace of tobacco wrapping around you, a taste that drives you crazy and steals your last breath.
"Don't you dare close your eyes..." he ordered between the wet, desperate kisses.
The pleasure is too much, a jolt that hits you without warning. Your body loses control and you begin to experience involuntary spasms, your inner walls tightening around him as if they never wanted him to leave. You are on the edge of the abyss, vibrating under his weight while the world fades into pure ecstasy.
Your eyes lock onto his, defiant and clouded by euphoria, as the orgasm shakes you with a violence that leaves you speechless, leaving only heavy gasps.
Hollis, still with ragged breath and eyes bloodshot with desire, didn't stop immediately. He watched you with a fierce possessiveness while he kept thrusting with heavy, final strokes, seeking his own climax. After one last groan of satisfaction, he collapsed over you, letting his heat envelop you as the car regained its calm after the storm. Your thighs could only tremble at the sensation he left behind after pulling out of you. You were barely beginning to stabilize your ragged breathing when you heard his voice again. "I love you, but this time, I didn't like how you played," he murmured with his heavy, warm breath against your ear.
"I'm sorry... but you know, I only love you, and I belong to you. Forever," you whispered against his ear, remembering the promise you had made to always belong to each other.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
There are no wide warehouses left to dance in, no long nights to lose control. Now life is reduced to the back seat of the car, to transient motels smelling of humidity, and to the constant paranoia of checking the rearview mirror. You don't stay in the same place for even two days straight. You start to notice the toll: the lack of sleep in the dark circles under the crew's eyes, the guns that are never left unloaded on the table, and that deathly silence that settles in every time you walk into a room.
Nobody tells you anything. You ask and they answer with evasions, with forced smiles meant to convince you that everything is under control. But you know them too well.
The truth explodes in your face one dawn, in a semi-abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere.
You get up soundlessly, looking for a glass of water, when you hear the murmur of low voices coming from the kitchen. You press yourself against the wall, holding your breath, and look through the crack of the door.
There are Hollis and his two most loyal men, barely lit by the flickering light of an old lamp. On the table there is no loot, but maps full of red crossings and police frequencies static-ing on a portable radio.
"The north is completely blocked," one of the men says, his voice broken with exhaustion. "Yesterday three patrols passed close to the perimeter. They're breathing down our necks, Hollis. We're out of safe hideouts."
"The police already have everyone's faces, but the two of theirs are on the front page," the other chimes in, pointing to a bundle of papers. "If they catch us with them..."
"Shut up," Hollis cuts him off. His voice is incredibly low, but it carries a firmness that turns your blood to ice. His back is to you, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands lean on the table, bearing a massive weight. "I know perfectly well what position we're in."
"Hollis, we have to be realistic. Our luck has run out. The next move could be the last. We have to tell her, she needs to know that—"
"I said no," Hollis sentenced, and this time he turns in profile. His face reflects something you've never seen in him before. There is no trace of the confident man who laughed at the sirens. There is a silent acceptance, a tragic maturity in his eyes. "She still believes we'll get out of this. And as long as I breathe, she's going to keep believing it. Don't strip away her faith. Ready the weapons for tomorrow. We're going to play our last card."
Your heart does a flip in your chest. The air escapes your lungs as you take a step back into the dark, your back pressed against the cold wall. For the first time, the invincibility you believed in so much begins to crack.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The thunder of gunshots and the screech of tires still echo in your head as the car skids inside the last warehouse. The space is massive, cold, and dusty, barely lit by the beams of light filtering through the broken roof. At the back, covered by an old tarp, the second vehicle is glimpsed: their last, desperate escape route.
The engine of the car they arrived in agonizes with thick smoke. Hollis is the first to get out, his movements fast but strangely precise. His face is smeared with soot and blood, but his eyes, when they land on you, are completely clear of fear. There is only an unyielding resolution in them.
You get out stumbling, your hands shaking and your heart hammering against your ribs at a frantic pace. The adrenaline isn't fun anymore; now it burns, it tastes like pure panic.
"We have to move the tarp!" you exclaim, your voice breaking with urgency as you try to run toward the other car. "If we go out through the back, we can lose them on the highway. Hollis, move, there's no time!"
But he doesn't move toward the car. He moves toward you.
He catches you by the shoulders with a firm grip, forcing you to halt your steps. The cold of the warehouse disappears before the warmth of his hands, but the way he looks at you freezes your blood. There is no rush in his eyes, only a devastating calm.
"Listen to me," he tells you, and his voice sounds so soft it contrasts violently with the sirens already heard in the distance, closing in on the perimeter. "Listen to me closely. This whole life... was worth it because you were in it."
The ground seems to vanish beneath your feet. The phrase hits you like a physical impact.
"No. No, don't say that," you protest, panic turning into blind helplessness. You try to wrench yourself from his grip, pushing him toward the vehicle. "Let's go. We said we'd run together. That's the promise, Hollis! If one runs, we both run!"
"We can't both get out," he answers. His hand goes up to your cheek, a quick touch, almost imperceptible, but so loaded with a desperate adoration it breaks your soul. "There's no luck left for both of us."
"I'm not leaving you!" you scream at him, tears blurring your vision as you claw at his jacket with clenched fists, refusing to let go. The helplessness chokes you; you're capable of facing any army, but not the idea of a world where he isn't there. "We go together or we stay together! Hollis, please!"
Hollis doesn't answer. He just looks at you for one more second, as if he wanted to engrave every line of your face under the dying light of the warehouse. It is a silent goodbye, a farewell he doesn't want to voice.
Then, he takes a step back and makes a single, firm nod toward the darkness behind you.
Before you can react, two pairs of robust arms pin you from behind. They are his most loyal men, the same ones who have shared loot and scars with you. Their grips are firm, unyielding.
"No! Let me go! Let me go with him!" you begin to struggle with all your might, kicking and striking backward. The desperation overflows you, turning into tearing screams that bounce off the sheet-metal walls of the warehouse. You curse them, you order them to let you go, but they don't give in.
You look at the men's faces and see the pain in their expressions; they don't want to do it either, their eyes are fixed on Hollis, waiting in vain for him to change his mind, to give them a different order. But Hollis remains steady, turning his back on the external danger to keep his eyes set solely on you.
They drag you toward the hidden car while your feet barely touch the ground. The distance between Hollis and you begins to widen. You see him standing in the middle of the warehouse, holding his gun, ready to take what's coming and win every second you need to flee.
They keep dragging you, forcing you into the back seat of the other car. Through the dirty glass, you see him for the last time. He's no longer looking at the red and blue lights starting to illuminate the entrance. He's looking only at you. There is no arrogant smirk, there is no fear. His lips move in an inaudible whisper that the roar from outside won't let you hear, but that you understand perfectly:
"Live."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Time doesn't heal; it only wears away. Almost two years have passed since the thunder of gunshots in that warehouse became the last sound linking your old existence to the earth. You don't know if Hollis died that night or if he's locked up in some maximum-security prison; the volley of bullets you heard while the car accelerated into the dark is the only answer the past left you.
Now you answer to a name that doesn't belong to you. Your reflection in the mirror shows hair of another color, a muted style of dress, and a submissive posture, specifically designed to dissolve you into the crowd. You have buried the woman you used to be.
You live in a gray city, in a secluded apartment where the silence is almost a condemnation. But the past is a persistent predator. Every time a siren wails far off on the avenue, your body reacts before your mind: your muscles tighten, your breath catches, and panic instantly drags you back to the warehouse, to the smoke, to his gaze. The nightmares give you no truce; you wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, desperately reaching for a warmth that is no longer there, feeling the lacerating emptiness in your chest.
The only real thing, the only thing tying you to the truth of what you were, is the ring he stole for you. You don't wear it, but you keep it like a cursed treasure at the bottom of a drawer, hidden among your clothes. Sometimes you hold it against your chest, closing your eyes, trying to remember the touch of the metal when your hands entwined with his.
One rainy night, while the usual paranoia keeps you awake staring at the shadows on the ceiling, a sound breaks the monotony of the apartment.
Knock. Knock.
Two sharp hits. Firm.
You freeze in the middle of the bed. Your heart gives a jolt so violent it hurts your chest. It's the code. His code. Two knocks meant "it's me." For two years, no one has knocked on your door that way. Panic and a shred of an irrational, painful hope pull you to your feet. You approach the door with trembling steps, holding your breath, ready to encounter a ghost.
You fling the door open.
The air escapes your lungs. It's not him. In the hallway lit by a flickering bulb, drenched by the rain and with a face marked by the exhaustion of those who live on the run, stands Nate. One of Hollis's most faithful men. The very one who dragged you to the car that night while you screamed until your throat tore.
You step aside instinctively, staring at him with wide eyes. Nate walks in without a word, dripping water onto the wooden floor, and closes the door behind him. The silence between you is thick, heavy with two years of unanswered questions. You tremble, unable to articulate a word, fearing he has come to confirm the worst of your nightmares.
Nate takes off his wet cap, looks you straight in the eyes with a mix of respect and restrained relief, and utters the two words that tear down your whole world of isolation:
You don’t know his last name. You don’t know if he has siblings, or what he does when it isn't three in the morning. You only know that days ago you were bored, leaning against the wall of a house where people pretended to be adults, and now you’re crammed inside a supermarket cart while he runs behind, pushing you at full speed toward the concrete blocks at the far end.
"Hollis, stop!" you scream at him, but it doesn't come out out of fear; it comes out as a laugh that scrapes your throat from the cold air.
He didn't stop. He leaps onto the back bar of the cart right before you hit the edge. The impact sends you both flying over the untamed grass. You hit your elbow, you rip your tights, and the first thing you do is look up at the sky and laugh until your ribs hurt.
Hollis drops down next to you. He smells like sweat, cheap cologne, and the cold coffee he bought at the gas station two hours ago. His lips are chapped from the cold, but he’s smiling—a lopsided, dangerous, blind smile.
There is no "Are you okay?". There is no "I'm sorry."
Out of nowhere, he grabs the back of your neck. His fingers are freezing against your hot skin. He pulls you into him and kisses you. It’s not a tender kiss; there are no promises in it. It’s a clash of teeth, a bitter taste of energy drink and pure adrenaline. It’s a kiss that says we are alive here and now, and nothing else matters. You kiss him back with the same force, clawing at the oversized hoodie he’s wearing, sinking into the disaster because the disaster feels so damn good.
He breaks away suddenly, leaving you breathless and with your lips burning. He pulls a disposable camera from his pocket, the plastic crinkling. He doesn’t even warn you.
Flash.
The light blinds you for a second. When the photo develops, all that will be left is a blurry smudge of your laughing face and the green neon of the supermarket sign behind you.
"Let's go," he says, jumping to his feet and offering you his hand—not to help you up, but to drag you along.
You don’t ask where. You never do. You wipe the dirt off your hands, get into the car, and let the night swallow you again.
The speedometer marks a speed you shouldn’t be looking at, but you don’t care. The yellow glow of the streetlights passes like flashing lines over your face, a constant rush stabbing at your eyes. The music is so damn loud that the distortion of the bass hits you directly in the chest, forcing you to breathe to the rhythm of the song.
Hollis has one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, cutting through the cold early morning air. His profile lights up every three seconds from the neons of closed gas stations. He looks so damn calm going over one hundred and forty kilometers per hour on a secondary avenue.
You shout something to him that even you don’t understand over the noise of the speakers. He doesn’t hear you; he just turns his head, looks at you sideways with those caffeine-shot eyes, and gives you that lopsided smile you already know by heart.
Then, the blue and red burst onto the windshield.
The reflection cuts through the darkness all at once. Behind you, about two hundred meters back, a patrol car turns on its sirens. The sharp, hysterical sound tries to fight its way through the music blasting inside the car. Any normal person would feel their stomach drop to the floor. For you, an electric charge shoots up your spine.
You look at Hollis. His eyes are shining. His fingers tighten around the wheel.
"What?" he shouts to you over the noise, amused, defiant. "Should we pull over?"
"No way!" you scream back.
He lets out a clean, wild laugh and slams his foot on the accelerator. The car gives a violent jerk forward, the tires screech against the cold asphalt, and your back slams against the worn seat.
The patrol car gets left behind on the first sharp turn Hollis takes without braking, drifting and going up onto the curb a bit. You’re gripping the door handle, adrenaline burns your throat, and you find yourself laughing out loud, infected by his madness. It’s a hysterical, free laugh. You look through the rearview mirror at the red and blue lights fading away, getting lost in the labyrinth of empty streets Hollis knows like the back of his hand.
He turns off the car's headlights all at once, plunging you both into absolute darkness as he turns down a narrow alley between two abandoned factories. He slams on the brakes. The engine shudders and dies.
Only the echo of your heavy breathing and the ringing in your ears remain. The patrol car passes right by the main avenue, the sirens fading into the distance.
In the dim light of the car, Hollis turns toward you. He’s panting, his hair messed up over his forehead and a wild spark in his gaze. There’s no fear of punishment, no logic. He leans into you, grabs the back of your neck roughly, and pulls you close. His lips find yours in the dark—a clumsy, fast kiss that tastes like the victory of having outsmarted the world one more time.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Everything started out of pure boredom and the urge to not go home. They met one night when the world felt too slow for the both of them. They’ve been stuck in a restless loop for two weeks. Their days have no schedules: they are measured in the hum of engines, the smell of spray paint on metal fences, and the empty energy drink cans piling up in the back seats of the car. They live at night because that’s when nobody asks them for explanations. For you two, being together isn't about talking about the future or how broken you are; it’s about inventing one dangerous plan after another just to see how far you can get before the real world catches you.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The cold concrete digs into your knees as you climb the last flight of the fire escape. Hollis’s backpack, loaded with a couple of spray cans they didn’t use this time, thumps against his back every time he reaches his arm out to make sure you don't trip in the dark.
It’s no longer the violent adrenaline of patrol cars. It’s a different, denser kind of pulse coursing through your body as Hollis pushes open the heavy metal door that leads to the roof of the abandoned building.
The five a.m. wind forces you to shrink inside his enormous hoodie, which smells like a mix of tobacco, gasoline, and whatever cheap detergent he uses. Hollis walks straight toward the edge, hands shoved in his pockets, stepping on broken glass and debris as if he were walking across the carpet of his own house.
"Come here," he says.
His voice no longer competes with the music at maximum volume. You walk over and sit next to him, letting your legs dangle into the empty space, seven stories above a city that is beginning to tint a grayish blue.
Hollis pulls the coffee thermos from his pocket and passes it to you. The hot metal brings life back to your hands. You take a sip, feeling the bitterness burning your tongue, and hand it back. As he takes it, his fingers brush yours. He doesn't pull away. He leaves his heavy hand over yours against the cold concrete.
"Sometimes I think..." he starts, looking toward the avenue lights that are beginning to turn off one by one, "that if we stay still for too long, we’re going to fade away. Like we only exist when we move fast."
You look at him sideways. It’s the first time he doesn’t have that cynical, lopsided smile on his lips. He looks tired, real, disarmed under the pale light of the sky.
"We’re not going to fade away, Hollis," you tell him, and your own voice sounds strange to you in the silence of the early morning. "We’re just breathing."
He lets out a huff that tries to sound like a laugh, but doesn't quite manage it. He squeezes your fingers a little tighter.
"I don't know how to do this," he confesses, without taking his eyes off the horizon. "Being like this. Without anything burning down around us."
"Me neither," you admit, feeling a strange weight in your chest, a pressure that has nothing to do with the height. "But you don't have to run away today. There’s no one chasing us."
Hollis turns to look at you. His dark eyes, locked onto yours, hold an intensity that burns you more than any police chase. For a second, it looks like he’s going to say something else, something dangerous that would change the rules of the game.
Then, a low hum begins to vibrate in the air, breaking the tension.
Hollis raises his head and you follow his gaze. A passenger plane passes right above the rooftop, so low you can see the flashing lights of the wings cutting through the low clouds. The roar of the engine echoes in your chest cavity, a clean rush of adrenaline wrapping around the both of you.
He doesn't break the grip on your hand. On the contrary, he leans over and rests his forehead against your shoulder while the noise of the plane fades into the distance. You stay still, caressing his messy hair with your free hand, realizing that this silence, this calm where you can finally see each other's faces, is a thousand times more dangerous than jumping fences at midnight.
Because now, if this breaks, it really is going to hurt.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The windshield wipers are going at full speed, but they can barely handle the storm pouring down over the car. The music is turned off. For the first time in months, the silence isn't comfortable; it’s dense, suffocating, and cuts like broken glass.
It all started over a stupidity. A simple question about what you were going to do next weekend, or maybe it was the fact that there was no money left for gas and you suggested, for the first time, going to your house to rest. The word "home" or the word "tomorrow" must have set off an alarm in Hollis’s head, because his jaw clenched suddenly.
"If you want to get out, get out," he says, his voice cold, eyes fixed on the blurry road.
"What are you talking about, Hollis? I just said it's fine if we don't do anything today. You don't have to get like this."
"Like what?" he lets out a dry laugh, completely devoid of humor. "You’re the one who’s bored. Every time things calm down for a second, it looks like you’re searching for an exit. If you’re going to get tired of this, just do it already."
The attack catches you so off guard that your chest stings. You had never yelled at each other. The chaos had always been outside, against the rest of the world, never between you two.
"I’m not searching for any exit!" you scream at him, your voice sounding broken from frustration. "I’m scared, Hollis! I’m scared because for once I actually care about something and you act like tomorrow you could just disappear and you wouldn't give a single shit."
Hollis slams on the brakes on the shoulder of the dark road. The car swerves and the engine is left shuddering. You turn toward him, expecting him to yell back, to look at you with that fury he uses to jump fences.
But there is no fury. There is panic in his eyes. A primal, blind fear of someone who doesn't know what to do with a person who actually loves him.
Without saying a single word, Hollis opens the driver’s door. The cold wind and rain rush in all at once, soaking the seat.
"Where are you going? Hollis!" you scream at him.
He doesn't answer. He slams the door hard enough to make the glass vibrate and walks off into the darkness of the road, disappearing under the curtain of water within seconds.
You are left alone in the passenger seat, with the engine running and a broken heater. You wrap your arms around yourself, tucking your hands inside his enormous hoodie that still smells like him. And suddenly, you feel a strange, horrible sensation in your stomach. It’s not the clean adrenaline of the chases, nor the vertigo of the rooftop. It’s a cold emptiness, a heavy knot warning you that the freefall is over.
Hollis just ran away—again—. And the worst part is you don't know if he’s coming back this time.
You stay staring at the windshield for what feels like hours, waiting to see his silhouette return through the curtain of water. But the minutes pass and all that’s left is the rhythmic noise of the wipers and the shudder of the old engine.
Reality hits you all at once, cold and heavy. You don't know how to drive this piece of shit car. And even if you did, the keys are stuck in the ignition, but Hollis took the keychain with the only key that opens the gas tank, which, by the way, is right on the edge of the red line.
You end up doing what you swore you’d never do: pulling out your phone to call for help from the real world.
You call a taxi with trembling hands. When the car arrives, the driver looks at you sideways through the rearview mirror; you’re soaked, your mascara is smeared, and you’re wearing a hoodie three sizes too big. You don't say a word the entire ride. You pay with the last crumpled bills left in your pockets and walk into your house at 4:30 in the morning, trying not to make noise as you close the door.
Your room feels strange. Too clean, too quiet, too still. You take off your wet sneakers and get into bed with Hollis’s hoodie still on, because it’s the only thing keeping you from freezing from the inside out.
Three days pass.
Three days where the withdrawal from the chaos eats away at your stomach. You check your phone screen every five minutes. Nothing. Not a text, not a missed call. You check Hollis’s social media, but he’s not the type to post his life. You spend your afternoons listening to music with your headphones turned all the way up, trying to replicate the hum of the car, but all you get is a headache. You realize that the dangerous part wasn't the car going at full speed; the dangerous part was him being right beside you. But even so, you had only left him one message on the first night you heard nothing from him. Hoping he would reply.
You: I just want you to know, I think you're the sweetest guy in the world. And I don't want you to be gone for a long time, I love you very much.
On the fourth day, when you’re already convinced that everything is over and that you were just another stop on his self-destructive trip, your phone vibrates.
It’s 3:48 a.m.
A single message on the screen:
Hollis: Come downstairs.
You freeze. Your heart takes a violent leap, mixing anger with the purest relief you’ve felt in your life. You look out your bedroom window. There’s his car, parked under the flickering streetlight. The engine is off and the headlights are too, but you can catch the cigarette smoke coming out of the driver’s window.
You don't put your sneakers on fast. This time it takes you time to find your keys, close the door, and walk down the stairs. Every step feels heavy, as if you were dragging your feet through mud. The anger has been ripening in your stomach for four days and you’re not going to let the hum of his engine shut it up so easily.
When you open the door, the early morning air hits you. You walk toward the car. Hollis is leaning against the wheel, the window rolled down, watching you approach. He expects you to open the passenger door, get in, and let the "Let's go" restart the loop.
But you don't get in.
You stand right by his window, arms crossed over your chest, forcing him to raise his head and look you in the eyes under the dirty light of the streetlamp.
"Why did you do that?" you let out. Your voice doesn't shake; it sounds firm, tired.
Hollis blinks, caught off guard by the change in the script. He tries that usual lopsided smile, but it comes out twisted, broken.
"Get in," he says, nodding toward the empty seat. "There’s a building downtown that—"
"No, Hollis. I’m not getting in," you cut him off completely. "Why did you run off in the rain? And don't give me that shit about the gas or the argument. You’ve done it before."
Hollis shifts his gaze toward the car dashboard, pressing his fingers against the leather of the steering wheel. He’s right. In the last few months, there were three nights when he simply didn't show up. Nights when he turned off his phone and left you floating in nothingness, forcing you to pretend you didn't care to keep up with the rhythm of the game. You only did it once, an afternoon when you needed to breathe, and he almost burned your phone down with calls because he couldn't stand losing control.
"You always do it when we get too close to something real," you continue, taking a step closer to the car. "But this time was different. You ran off because I told you the truth. Because I told you I’m scared of you disappearing."
The silence that falls between you two is worse than the storm from the other day. Hollis crushes the cigarette against the car ashtray with too much force. You can see his jaw clenching, how panic crosses his gaze again before transforming into that coldness he uses to protect himself.
"And what did you want me to do?" he finally answers you, turning toward you, his eyes bloodshot and his voice hoarse. "You said you’re scared of me leaving. Do you know how fucked up that sounds to me? Nobody has ever been scared of losing me, because nobody has ever given a single shit whether I’m around or not."
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, falling apart right in front of you on the sidewalk of your own house.
"When you said it... I felt like the car was going to crash. I felt like if I stayed standing there, you were going to realize how broken I am and you were going to leave first. So I ran. It’s the only thing I know how to do when things get serious. I run before they destroy me."
You look at his face, his dark circles, the oversized hoodie you’re wearing that belongs to him.
The silence you let fall is too dense. Hollis doesn't know what to do with the emptiness, and the panic in his eyes transforms in seconds into a violent desperation.
"No," he says, his voice cracking. "We are not going to stay here standing around, get in. We are going to fix this like we always do."
You get in by instinct. Before you can even react, Hollis puts the key in, starts the engine, and slams it into first gear. The car gives a wild jerk. You stay pinned to the passenger seat while he buries his foot on the gas pedal, tearing away from the curb of your house at an absurd speed. The wheels screech, burning rubber on the empty street.
Hollis reaches his hand out clumsily and turns on the radio. He cranks the volume to the max. The distorted music blasts through the doors again, the neon signs flash across his face like bursts once more, but this time everything is wrong. The rhythm is frantic, but there is no magic. The speed no longer feels like freedom; it feels like a truck with no brakes heading straight for a wall.
He drives with both hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white, jaw rigid. He is desperately searching for the high of the first night, trying to force the adrenaline so he doesn't have to listen to what you just said to him.
You watch the speedometer climb. One hundred and twenty, one hundred and forty. The city lights are a blurry smear through the windshield.
"Hollis, stop!" you scream at him over the noise of the speakers.
He ignores you. He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed, blind, bloodshot.
"Hollis, please, stop the car!" You put your hand on his arm, feeling his muscles tense like piano wires. He’s shaking. "You don't have to run away from me!"
You turn the radio knob yourself, killing the music instantly. The silence falls like an anvil inside the car again, broken only by the deafening roar of the engine pushed to its limit.
"Don't go!" you scream at him, and this time your voice breaks completely, tears pouring from your eyes. "Hollis, don't go! Please. Stay with me. I really... I really love you so much. I’m not going anywhere, I promise you, but please stop the car."
The words I love you echo in the enclosed space of the car, heavy, real, stripping everything bare.
It’s as if you had struck him directly in the chest. Hollis blinks, the rigidity of his body crumbles in a second, and with a clumsy, rushed motion, he slams on the brakes and yanks the wheel toward the shoulder of the deserted road.
The car drifts into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust, and comes to a dead stop with a violent jolt.
Hollis turns off the engine. He lets go of the wheel and lets his hands drop onto his thighs. He stays motionless for a second, staring at the dark horizon through the glass.
And then, he breaks.
A choked sob rips from the deepest part of his chest. Hollis hides his face in his hands and begins to cry in a raw, desperate way, like a child who has been lost for a very long time and finally finds the way home. His shoulders heave violently, the crying scrapes his throat, and all the noise, all the speed, and all the chaos of the past months dissolve into his tears. "I love you so much, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely a thread amidst his sobs.
You reach across his seat, wrapping your arms around him over his enormous hoodie. He doesn't try to pull away this time. He collapses toward you, resting his head against your chest, crying with his soul exposed while you hold him tight in the darkness of the roadside.
The car is no longer moving. The fantasy of the chaos is over, and beneath all the smoke, they finally found each other.
Tags: Toxic relationships and psychological manipulation, Minor physical violence, Dissociation and paranoia, indirect mention of homicide.
Stalker Fem!reader × Stalker Hollis.
OBSESSION
Why Don't You Love Me?
Hollis’s silence lasted exactly two more days. Two days in which the tick-tock of the hallway clock turned into pure torture, and your photo collection began to feel like a reminder of your own stupidity. But on Thursday evening, just as the sun began to slip away and your foster parents’ large house sank into its usual coldness, your phone vibrated on the nightstand.
A single text message. A number you already knew by heart.
Hollis: Meet me at eight at the Diner on 4th Street. Don't miss it.
There was no "hello," no apology, no explanation. Just an order. Your pride screamed at you to ignore it, to make him wait the way he had made you wait. But the paranoia twisting your stomach was stronger. You needed to see his eyes. You needed to know if you were safe.
When you stepped into the place, the smell of grease and cheap coffee turned your stomach. It was a decadent joint, lit by a flickering neon sign that cast bizarre shadows across the worn-out walls. A perfect spot to pass unnoticed. Hollis was already there, sitting at one of the booths in the back, wearing a dark jacket. Upon seeing you enter, he showed no surprise; he simply followed you with his gaze as you slid into the seat across from him.
"You're on time," he said, his voice strangely calm, almost soft.
"I don't like wasting time, Hollis," you shot back immediately, locking your eyes onto his and forcing your best smile of superiority. "You vanished for days. I thought you got scared because of the police."
You expected a reaction. Panic, annoyance, a look of complicity. But Hollis only widened his cynical smirk—the one that set your blood on fire while simultaneously freezing your thoughts. The waiter approached, left two glasses of water, and took the food order as if it were any ordinary day.
For the next twenty minutes, the scene became absurdly surreal. Hollis began to talk about the progress of the school project, debating the bibliographic sources and the remaining topics to be turned in with a terrifying normalness. He spoke fluently, laughed lightly when he mentioned the teacher, and even poured you some water with impeccable courtesy.
The tension at the table was so thick you could barely breathe. In your mind, the gears turned at top speed, trying to process the void. Why is he acting like this? Has he already forgotten what happened on the third floor? Did he forget that we left July bleeding out in the dark? The hypocrisy of his normalcy made you sick. You wanted to scream at him, to force him to admit the secret that bound you together, but your facade couldn't break. You had to prove you were smarter than him.
"It’s a shame about July, don't you think?" you blurted out suddenly, interrupting him mid-sentence about the project. Your voice sounded sharp, a direct challenge. "The whole school is still shaken up."
Hollis stopped. He laid his utensils on the plate without making the slightest sound. The neon light flickered over his face, making his dark eyes look like two empty wells. The artificial warmth he had displayed a second ago vanished. His face became unreadable.
He didn't say anything for several seconds. He simply watched you. Seconds stretched uncomfortably between you, long enough to make you wonder if you had made a mistake by mentioning July at all.
Slowly, Hollis stretched his hand across the table. His long fingers wrapped around your wrist. At first, it was a soft touch, but little by little he began to squeeze, applying a constant pressure that bordered on physical pain, pinning you completely against the wood.
"I love it when you get nervous, Y/n," he whispered in a low, tense thread of a voice, leaning in toward you so no one else in the diner could hear. His pupils were so dilated you could barely see the color of his eyes. "It makes me wonder if you’d be capable of ratting me out to that officer... or if I’ll have to make sure myself that you never do."
A freezing shiver ran down your spine. You wanted to yank your arm back to break free, but his grip was iron—a physical warning that you were not in control of the situation. His words were not a compliment; they weren't a sign of love or some twisted devotion. It was a direct threat. Your mind, the one that always believed it was three steps ahead, went entirely blank.
Hollis held your gaze for one more second, savoring the panic you tried to hide behind your wide-open eyes. Then, with the same slowness, he let you go. His cynical smile returned to his face as if nothing had happened, and he took a sip from his glass of water.
"Ask for the check, it's getting late," he said, returning to his monotonous, normal tone.
The taxi ride home was a total dissociation. You watched the city lights pass by in a blur through the window, but this time you didn't feel free, nor did you feel powerful, nor the queen of the board. You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing the red mark his fingers had left on your wrist.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The entire school smelled like a stale mixture of floor wax and wilting flowers. In the main lobby, July’s portrait was surrounded by white candles, but you could barely process the scene. That morning, seeing your hands shake uncontrollably in front of the bathroom mirror, you had made a desperate decision: you opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the bottle of pills your psychologist had prescribed months ago. You had stopped taking them because you hated the loss of control, but today it was necessary. You needed to numb your mind before slipping into absolute madness.
By lunchtime, the medication had already claimed your body.
You were sitting at one of the cafeteria tables, but you weren't truly there. You were dissociating completely. You felt your limbs grow heavy, as if you were submerged in cold water, and the bustle of the students around you turned into a distant, distorted hum. Your gaze was completely lost on a fixed point on the wall, trapped in that chemical fog that froze your thoughts but failed to turn off your paranoia. You felt like a ghost floating outside of your own body.
You didn't hear the footsteps, nor the clatter of the tray being placed on the wood.
Suddenly, a small, sharp tap to the side of your head made you flinch, snapping you back to consciousness instantly.
"Your eyes are going to drill right through that wall if you keep staring like that," a voice next to you said.
You blinked, breaking out of the trance, and found yourself looking at Hollis. He had sat down right next to you, far too close, carrying that unshakeable calm he always maintained. Seeing your bewildered expression, he didn't smirk with malice, nor did he show the coldness from the diner. He simply took an apple from his tray and began peeling it with a small pocket knife, as if sitting down to eat lunch with you were the most natural thing in the world.
For the next ten minutes, an absurdly strange atmosphere settled between the two of you. There were no threats, no mind games, no mentions of the third floor or the police. Hollis began talking about the corrections the literature teacher had made on the project draft, debating the authors with an impeccable fluency. And you, carried away by the artificial lightness of the pill, answered him. You exchanged opinions, you genuinely laughed at a sarcastic comment he made about the principal, and for a brief moment, you acted like two normal students.
It was a twisted kind of normalcy. You were suspended in an invisible truce, acting like ordinary friends while sharing the secret of a corpse. The contrast was so dense it made your skin crawl, but your facade didn't break; the chemistry in your blood kept you afloat, allowing you to enjoy this brief, dangerous oasis before the chessboard caught fire again.
The cafeteria oasis evaporated the moment night fell. You had stayed in the library late, trying to make progress on the school project just to keep your mind occupied and prevent the chemical fog of the pills from turning into a crash of anxiety. The campus lights were already lit when your phone vibrated against the wooden table.
Hollis: I'm in the back parking lot. Come now.
You felt your legs tensing as you walked toward the exit, crossing the half-empty parking lot. His car was parked all the way in the back, under a flickering streetlight. As you opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, a thick, slightly stale smell of cigarette smoke hit you all at once, turning your stomach. Immediately, you felt lightheaded, an uncomfortable dizziness that forced you to lean back heavily against the headrest.
Hollis didn't wait for you to say anything. He started the engine, but didn't drive. He kept his hands fixed on the steering wheel, his eyes locked onto the fogged-up windshield.
"I saw a detective at school today," he let out suddenly, his voice strangely low, stripped of any warmth. "He came out of the principal's office."
You felt your heart skip a beat, but you forced your muscles to relax. "Big deal. The police are just doing their stupid job," you replied, forcing a bored tone, trying to cling to your facade of superiority. "We have nothing to worry about, Hollis."
"He wasn't alone," he interrupted, and this time he turned those dark, empty eyes toward you. "I caught a glimpse of a girl walking out right behind him. The same girl who was telling everyone last week that the two of us were the closest ones to July."
A sudden void struck your stomach. The dizziness from the smoke seemed to intensify, but your pride refused to yield. "It doesn't matter what that idiot says. They don't have proof of anything. We're smarter than them, remember?"
"We?" Hollis repeated, and a cynical, almost imperceptible smirk appeared at the corner of his lips. "You didn't go to school on Friday, Y/n. Don't come talking to me about intelligence when you're the one acting weird and looking like you're right on the verge of a breakdown."
"Shut up," you snapped, feeling a wave of heat rush up your neck. The rage began to boil over, shattering your composure. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know," he countered, leaning in slightly toward you, enjoying the subtle argument that was brewing out of nowhere, purely for the pleasure of puncturing your ego. "I know you're terrified. I know you think you're the mastermind of a crime that I accidentally committed, all to defend you. Just because your pride was too strong and you wouldn't admit that you liked me, you were just a proud idiot. And you still are now."
The insult to your intellect and your identity was too much. You didn't think. You didn't calculate.
You felt the direct impulse snap through your muscles, and before your mind could even process the action, your right hand swung through the air with blind violence, striking Hollis hard across the cheek.
The sound of the slap echoed with a sharp crack inside the enclosed space of the car.
The force of the blow turned his face slightly. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, almost solid. You felt your fingers tingling and your ragged breath hitting the dashboard. Hollis sat frozen, his cheek starting to flush red under the light of the lamppost. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to you. He wasn't angry; his eyes were wide open, locked onto you with a dangerous intensity—a look that screamed you had just crossed a line from which there was no return.
The silence exploded. Hollis didn't slap you back; instead, his fingers clamped into your hair with brutal force, yanking you forward.
You felt the sharp pain in your scalp as your body reacted out of pure survival instinct. You threw a clumsy punch that landed against his shoulder, trying to break away, but the tight space of the car worked against you. Hollis used his weight to trap you against the passenger door, pinning your legs. In a swift, cold movement, his free hand went straight to your neck, squeezing with an iron grip that cut off your air instantly.
You felt your throat collapse and an unbearable pressure rushing up toward your eyes. Your nails dug into his wrists, tearing at the fabric of his jacket as you desperately searched for a weak spot. Your fingers fumbled blindly across the center console, brushing against the small pocket knife he had used to peel the apple in the cafeteria. Your hand gripped it tight. You were a single second away from plunging it into the side of his neck when, suddenly, the pressure on your throat vanished.
Hollis let go of you so fast your head hit the window glass. You drew breath again with a painful gasp, the knife still hidden inside your clenched fist.
"Down," Hollis whispered, his breathing slightly shallow but his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
Through the windshield blurred by rain and condensation, you made out a tall silhouette walking at a slow pace through the empty parking lot. The detective. He had noticed the violent scuffle and the rocking of the car from afar, and now he was advancing straight toward you with a flashlight in hand.
Before you could process the danger or use the weapon in your hand, Hollis leaned over you again. But this time there were no blows. His lips slammed against yours with desperate violence, forcing a chaotic kiss. He gripped your face tightly, forcing you to play along just as the beam of the detective’s flashlight hit the passenger window, illuminating the inside of the vehicle.
Hollis pulled away slowly, pretending to be breathless from the situation, and looked toward the window with annoyance. You stayed frozen, feeling your heartbeat thumping in your ears, hiding the knife under your thigh against the seat.
The detective tapped the glass twice with the metal of his flashlight. Hollis rolled the window down a couple of inches, letting in the cold night air.
"Good evening," the detective said, sweeping the inside of the car with the light, lingering a few seconds too long on your reddened neck and your disheveled hair. "Everything alright in here? Looked like quite a bit of movement from the building."
"Good evening, officer," Hollis replied, using that polite, slightly embarrassed tone any student would use when caught with his girlfriend. "Sorry about that. We were just... having a couples' argument. Got a little out of hand."
The detective narrowed his eyes, keeping the flashlight trained on your face. "The young lady doesn't look very comfortable. Your name?"
You felt your throat burning, but you knew that if you spoke too much, you would ruin everything. Your narcissism resisted crying out for help; you weren't about to let the police see you as a helpless victim.
"Y/n," you answered with an strangely steady voice, straightening your clothes. "And he's right. It was just a stupid argument. We were just heading home."
The man in the suit watched the two of you in silence for what felt like ages. There was something in his look that told you he wasn't buying the story entirely, but having no report or clear proof at that moment, he tucked the flashlight into his coat.
"It's late to be on campus. Move along," he ordered in a dry voice. "And let this be the last time I see you making a scene around here."
Hollis nodded, rolled the window up all the way, and put the car in gear, driving out of the parking lot without rushing. As soon as they turned the corner and the school was left behind, silence flooded the vehicle once more. You glanced sideways at your hand; you were still holding the knife under your leg.
Hollis drove in absolute silence away from the campus, turning down dark streets as the rain beat heavily against the windshield. You felt the sharp pain in your neck where his fingers had squeezed you and the cold sweat tracing down your back. Your hand remained steady over the knife hidden under your thigh.
Suddenly, without taking his eyes off the road, Hollis let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and stretched it out toward you, palm up.
"Give me back the knife, Y/n," he said in a flat, icy tone.
You felt your arms trembling against your side. A cold shiver ran down your spine as you realized he had always known you had it. Your pride screamed at you to refuse, to threaten him, but the physical exhaustion and the effect of the pills were taking their toll. With a slow movement, you pulled out the blade and let it drop onto his palm. Hollis snapped it shut and tucked it into his jacket.
"You were a second away from ruining everything over your stupid pride," he hissed, slamming the brakes abruptly next to a deserted sidewalk near a poorly lit alley. "The detective didn't believe a word we said. Now get out."
"What?" you gasped, locking your eyes onto his with rage. "You can't leave me here."
"I said get out."
The tension flared up again in the enclosed space. You refused to move, and in the blink of an eye, Hollis leaned over you with violence, shoving you against the door while reaching across to pop the handle from your side. You felt your hands pushing against his chest with force, throwing a wild slap that he evaded with a quick twist. You wrestled for a few seconds, your ragged breath catching against his neck, until he managed to throw the door completely open and pushed you out onto the wet pavement.
You fell onto your back against the cold ground, feeling the water soak through your clothes instantly. You scrambled to your feet quickly, burning with humiliation, ready to scream at him. But before you could react, Hollis leaned across the passenger window.
His face no longer held that cynical smirk. He looked at you with a strange, almost unsettling seriousness, locking his dark eyes into yours.
"I love you, Y/n," he dropped in a thread of a voice, soft and cutting all at once.
And without giving you time to process a single thing, he slammed the gas pedal to the floor, letting the tires screech against the wet asphalt as his car vanished into the shadows of the avenue.
You stood there, stranded in the middle of the dark street under the relentless rain. Your arms shook uncontrollably at your sides. I love you? Those words felt like a direct blow to your brain. Your mind, so used to dissecting every motive, collapsed completely. Was it a cruel mockery designed to disarm you? A genuine declaration from his sick mind? Or a way to ensure you wouldn't talk? You didn't know what was real and what was part of the madness closing in around you.
You didn't have time to keep thinking. Within a few minutes, two headlights cut through the darkness behind you.
A dark sedan rolled forward slowly and pulled up right next to you. The driver's window rolled down, revealing the serious face of Detective Miller. He hadn't believed a thing back at the parking lot; he had been tailing you from a distance ever since you left campus, waiting for the exact moment the facade would crack. And seeing you dumped there was the proof he needed.
"Get in the car, Y/n," the detective ordered in a firm voice, not using his flashlight this time, but looking at you with a mixture of pity and clinical suspicion. "Your boyfriend left a pretty nasty mark on your neck. And I highly doubt this is just a 'couples' argument.'"
You felt the water dripping down your face, mixing with your frustration. Your narcissism contorted at the thought of getting into a cop's car like a helpless victim, but you knew that if you refused in the middle of a storm, he would suspect you even more. You opened the back door and slid onto the seat, shivering from the cold.
Detective Miller started the car without haste, watching you through the rearview mirror.
"I know who you are," he spoke suddenly as he drove through the empty streets. "I've been going through the school records and the students' statements. Interestingly, your name and Hollis's always seem to pop up whenever I ask about July. And now I find you abandoned on the street by the guy who ten minutes ago was kissing you so I wouldn't ask questions."
You remained in silence, clenching your freezing hands over your knees, forcing your face to stay expressionless.
"Get some rest tonight." Miller continued, turning onto the main avenue. "Tomorrow I will ask you a few questions again."
The car came to a stop in front of your foster parents' large, empty house. The detective didn't turn off the engine; he simply turned around to look at you squarely. All you did was get out of the car and close the door behind you; as you walked toward your house, you kept wondering if Hollis was actually right. And it had all been your fault, right from the start.
After realizing the manipulation Gunner had over you, you began to take steps to gradually distance yourself from him. You forced yourself to follow three simple rules; you believed it wouldn't work because it hurt to have to use them against him, but it was necessary to move forward.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The phone on your nightstand vibrated for the fourth time in the early hours of the morning. His name flashed on the screen, illuminating the dark walls. You covered your face with your pillow, grit your teeth as the insistent melody tried to break your resolve. You knew exactly what that 3:00 AM call meant: Gunner was alone, probably with broken knuckles again, looking for his lifesaver. But this time you kept your hands still under the sheets. You didn't answer.
Two days later, you heard the familiar knocks on your window pane. When you pulled back the curtain, you saw him down there, his leather jacket soaked by the rain and that helpless look that used to disarm you in a second. He begged you with his eyes to open up. Your entire body screamed at you to give in, to let him in to dry him off and heal him. Instead, you closed the curtain tightly and turned your back to the window. You sat on the floor, hugging your knees, repeating to yourself that if you opened that window, the cycle of manipulation would start all over again.
Now the last rule, which was the hardest; no longer treating him like your friend. Because Gunner wasn't just your toxic boyfriend; he was the boy you had grown up with. When you saw him in the school hallways and he looked at you with sad eyes, trying to approach you "just to talk like the old friends they were," you had to remind yourself that there was no such thing as a friendship with him. If you gave in an inch, you would end up trapped in his web again, waking up the next day in the same bittersweet hell.
You forced yourself to write those three damn rules in your phone notes, reading them like a mantra every morning so you wouldn't fall into his victim traps. You were rebuilding yourself piece by piece, staying afloat on pure willpower.
Until Gunner, used to you always ending up giving in, committed the ultimate mistake that broke the last thread tying you to him.
The ultimate mistake was not subtle, nor did it happen in the shadows where Gunner used to hide his secrets. It happened in plain sight, in the school parking lot, in front of everyone.
You had left the library late, with the three rules repeating in your mind like a dull echo. When you reached the car area, you saw the usual group gathered near Gunner's car. But the atmosphere wasn't the usual; there was an uncomfortable silence, the kind that forms when people see an accident and can't look away.
When you got close enough, you understood everything.
Gunner was leaning against the hood of his car—the same hood where months ago he had sworn to you that he didn't know how to live without loving you. But this time, his hands weren't on your waist. He had a girl pinned against the metal, his fingers tangled in her hair as he kissed her with a desperate, almost violent intensity. It wasn't an innocent kiss, it wasn't a one-second mistake. It was an absolute betrayal, executed with the same shamelessness with which he always made his disasters.
The world seemed to lose its sound for a moment. You stood frozen a few meters away, books pressed against your chest.
It was a guy from the group who cleared his throat, alerting Gunner. He pulled away from the girl suddenly, turning his head. When his eyes locked onto yours, total panic erased the smugness from his face. Even he, with all his ability to justify the unjustifiable, knew in that millisecond that he had crossed a line from which there is no turning back. He knew it was fucking wrong.
"Y/n..." he let out, taking a step toward you, leaving her behind as if she didn't matter.
Your friends quickly approached, standing by your side, but you stopped them with your hand.
Gunner tried to use his old tactic. His eyes began to fill with tears with that alarming speed you already knew by heart, and he reached his hands out toward you, trembling.
"Baby, please let me explain... I was drunk, I didn't want to, she approached me and you were so distant... I felt alone, Y/n, you were driving me crazy by not answering me," he began to say, his voice broken, trying to turn himself into the victim once again. He even threatened you with his eyes, looking for the fear switch inside you. "If you leave me over this, I swear I'll die, Y/n. I'm not responsible for myself today, I'm going to take off in the car and..."
"Do it," you interrupted him.
Your voice sounded clean, firm, without a single crack. Gunner froze mid-sob, his mouth open, looking at you as if he didn't recognize the person in front of him.
You looked at his knuckles, you looked at his tears, you looked at the car. And for the first time in your life, the weight in your chest didn't appear. The chain had broken.
"Do whatever you want, Gunner. Crash, fight, cry. It's no longer my problem," you said, turning around. "Good luck picking up your own pieces."
You walked toward the parking lot exit without looking back even once.
You were out. And this time, you believed it would be forever.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
Three years are an eternity on the internet, but just enough time for the roles to reverse completely.
Now the world knew him as Nettspend. His stage name was on the lineups of the biggest festivals, his music played in TikTok trends, and that same self-destructive attitude you used to have to heal in secret was now sold as an "underground rockstar aesthetic." For your part, you had channeled all that old pain into rebuilding yourself. You left the tears and the school hallways behind to become a highly sought-after influencer; your face was in fashion campaigns, and your Instagram feed screamed success and absolute indifference.
The reunion was inevitable in the world of fame, and it happened in the VIP area of an exclusive party after an awards show. The place was packed with neon lights, loud music, and cameras. You were reclining on one of the private couches, laughing with your best friend while holding a drink, when the crowd parted.
There he was. Nettspend. He wore his usual chains, his hair messy, and that intense gaze that used to freeze your blood. But you weren't seventeen anymore.
When his eyes locked onto yours, Gunner's air of superiority crumbled in a second. He left his entourage behind and walked straight toward your table, ignoring the flashes.
"Y/n..." he said, and his voice had that same desperate urgency as always, though now he tried to camouflage it with his new famous rapper vibe. "Damn, you look... I can't believe you're here. I've been trying to write to you. I've changed, you know? All this music stuff, I did it thinking of you. I miss you."
You looked down on him, holding your glass with a calmness that seemed to completely throw him off. You gave him a sly, slow smile, loaded with a silent mockery that made him look small despite his millions of listeners.
"Excuse me? Do we know each other?" you let out, raising an eyebrow in total disdain.
"Come on, don't do this," he begged, taking a step forward, instinctively trying to touch your arm, but you took a subtle step back, keeping him at bay. "I know I made mistakes in the past, but things are different now. We can start over. I need you with me, Y/n. Without you, none of this is worth anything."
The old victimhood trap. The same beautiful crybaby as always, just in designer clothes. But this time, the trick didn't work. You were about to turn around and leave him with the words in his mouth.
However, just as you were about to walk away, your friend gently took your arm and leaned into your ear, a spark of pure malice in her eyes.
"Hey... don't leave so fast," she whispered, glancing sideways at Gunner, who was waiting for your answer with a tense face and eyes bright with anxiety. "Look at how he's looking at you. He's eating out of the palm of your hand and he hasn't even realized it. Don't let him go just yet. Lead him on. Make him believe he has a chance, use him for your campaigns, and then... destroy him just like he did to you."
You looked at your friend and then turned your gaze back to Gunner, who was watching you like a dog waiting for a crumb of attention. The warmth of the past was dead, but in its place, a new, cold feeling ignited in your chest. A perfect, calculating smile appeared on your lips.
"Alright," you said, looking him in the eyes as you took a step toward him, adopting your best posture for the cameras. "Let's talk, Gunner."
The atmosphere at the private after-party was a canvas of low lights, vape smoke, and deep bass vibrating through the walls. Everyone in that room was trying to be somebody, but you already were somebody.
You moved through the place with confidence, wearing the designer dress they had sent you that very morning and holding your glass with disinterest. You knew perfectly well that Gunner's eyes followed you wherever you went. You could feel his gaze fixed on your back, burning your skin, while he completely ignored the producers and models trying to catch his attention.
When you approached the bar, it didn't take him even ten seconds to appear by your side, ordering the same thing you were drinking.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said, leaning an elbow on the bar, trying to adopt that detached rapper pose he sold in his videos. But his eyes, fixed on your lips, betrayed how desperate he was for a single look from you.
You turned slowly, giving him a half-smile that didn't reach your eyes.
"I have a couple of campaigns to promote this week, Gunner, it's my job," you replied in a smooth voice, dragging the words out with an exquisite indifference. "Besides, I heard your new album is trending. Congratulations."
The use of his real name and the very corporate tone threw him off. Gunner took a step closer to you, breaking the distance, desperately seeking that old spark that used to control him.
"Don't call me that here," he whispered, and for a moment, the Nettspend facade dropped, revealing the boy desperate to have you back. "And don't talk to me like I'm a stranger. I know you changed, Y/N. Everyone on the internet is talking about you, you look incredible, but... it's still me. The one who has known you forever."
If this had happened three years ago, your heart would have melted. Today, you only felt a cold rush of power. You remembered your friend's words: use him.
Instead of walking away like last time, you leaned subtly toward him. Your fingers brushed the fabric of his expensive leather jacket as you got close to his ear, letting your perfume wash over him.
"I don't know who you are anymore, Nett," you whispered to him, using his stage name as a sharp game. "But if you want to remind me... my team needs a face for the cover of the new clothing line next month. We could mutually benefit each other. Or is the great rapper of the moment too busy?"
Gunner caught his breath. His pupils dilated instantly at having you so close, completely trapped in your net. He saw the opportunity to re-enter your life and took it without a second thought, not realizing he was falling straight into your trap.
"I'll do whatever you want," he replied immediately, with an almost pathetic urgency, catching your hand under the bar. "Set the date. I'll be there."
You slipped out of his grip with total naturalness, took one last sip of your drink, and gave a dazzling smile to the cameras that were starting to point at you. The game had begun, and this time, you held the cards.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The photoshoot for the new clothing line had become the most talked-about event of the week, and you were making sure every second was worth it. The studio was full of photographers, assistants, and blinding lights, but as soon as Gunner walked onto the set, the atmosphere seemed to freeze.
He didn't arrive alone. Behind him, one of his assistants carried a huge arrangement of white orchids and a bag from an exclusive jewelry store that made his intentions clear.
"For you," Gunner said, taking a step forward. He tried to maintain that cold pose in front of the behind-the-scenes cameras, but his eyes shone with the same anxiety as always. "I saw the orchids and thought of you. And the other thing... well, it's just a little something."
You looked at the flowers and the bag with a perfect smile, purely plastic, designed for social media.
"How sweet, Nett. Thank you so much," you said in a clear voice, making sure the crew's microphones caught your corporate thanks. You handed the flowers to your assistant without even smelling them and left the jewelry on a table like it was just another brochure. "The marketing team is going to love the gesture for the campaign content."
Gunner's jaw tightened as he noticed the distance, but he didn't have time to reply because the photographer called them to the set.
That was where the game became blatant.
The theme of the session demanded closeness, and you decided to use every inch to your advantage, pushing the sexual tension to the limit. In the first shot, the photographer asked you to lean against him. You turned slowly, sliding your hands down the chest of his designer jacket until your fingers gently tangled in his chains. You leaned up, staying just millimeters away from his lips.
You could feel Gunner's breath cut short instantly. His hands instinctively went down to your hips, squeezing them with genuine desperation, believing for a second that the distance between the two of you was breaking.
"You're playing with me," he whispered to you in a breath of a voice, his pupils completely dilated, blocking out the noise of the rest of the studio.
You gave him a look loaded with a false promise. You slid a hand up, brushing his jawline with the pads of your fingers, right where you used to heal his wounds. But this time there was no alcohol or pity; only control.
"I'm just doing my job, love," you whispered in his ear, using that last word in a whisper so low and hot that it goosebumped his skin.
Before he could react or try to kiss you, you pulled away with total lightness as soon as the photographer shouted "Cut, excellent shot!". You fixed your hair with absolute calm, turning your back to him to review the photos on the monitor next to the director, leaving him completely turned on, frustrated, and standing in the middle of the set.
Gunner was so blinded by the desire to get you back that he didn't even realize that every caress, every look, and every word in his ear were just part of the script you had written for his downfall. He was falling into the trap with a smile on his face.
An invitation arrived that same night via text message. It wasn't a casual invitation; it was a plea camouflaged as arrogance: "My home studio. Just us. No cameras. Please".
You thought about it while looking at the screen in your hotel suite, swirling your drink. Your friend was right; you had him exactly where you wanted him. Gunner was desperate, swimming in a sea of money and fame but completely empty because he no longer had his lifesaver. You decided to go. But you weren't going to rescue him; you were going to take the reins of the game.
When you arrived at his residence, the place screamed the name Nettspend everywhere: extravagant modern art, platinum records hanging on the walls, and expensive half-finished bottles. But Gunner was waiting for you at the door dressed in a simple black hoodie, looking disarmed the moment he saw you walk in with that imperturbable gaze you had perfected.
"You came," he said, trying to force a smile that froze on his lips when you walked past him without saying hello, letting the scent of your perfume mark the territory.
You walked toward the center of the main living room, taking off your coat with a calculated slowness and leaving it over the back of the sofa. You sat right in the middle of the wide furniture, crossing your legs and resting your arms on the sides.
Gunner stood a few meters away, rubbing his hands nervously against his pants, completely intimidated by your presence. The great Nettspend seemed to have disappeared, leaving only the troubled boy who didn't know what to do so he wouldn't be abandoned.
"Sit down," you said, in a soft but firm voice, pointing to the carpeted floor right in front of you.
He blinked, bewildered for a second.
"On the floor? Y/n, come on, we can sit together on the..."
"Gunner," you interrupted him, lowering the tone of your voice, loading it with an absolute coldness that shut him up instantly. "If you want me to stay, you're going to sit there. You decide."
The fear of you leaving, the same fear he had used to chain you in the past, now played against him. Without protesting a single time, Gunner closed the distance and dropped to his knees on the rug, right at your feet. He looked up, his eyes fixed on yours, completely surrendered, desperately seeking a shred of the warmth you used to give him.
You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on your knees, getting down to his level but maintaining the distance. You ran the tips of your fingers through his hair with a tortuous slowness, making him sigh and close his eyes at your touch.
"Look at me," you commanded him in a whisper.
He opened his eyes immediately. They were bright, full of a pathetic anxiety that gave you a rush of pure satisfaction.
"Tell me what it is you wanted to tell me so badly since you came back," you said, sliding your fingers from his hair to his cheek, subtly brushing the lip where he used to have scars.
Gunner swallowed hard, his breath hitched from the closeness and the sexual tension filling the air. The submission on his face was absolute.
"Forgive me," he whispered, and his voice trembled in a way the cameras would never catch. "I swear I regret every single damn day what I did in the parking lot. Vanessa, the lies... everything. I was stupid. I've been alone this whole time, Y/n. Nobody takes care of me like you do, nobody knows me. Please... tell me what I have to do for you to forgive me. I'll do anything."
Seeing the boy who had manipulated you and threatened to destroy himself now reduced to a begging plea on his knees in front of you was an overdose of power. You gave him a slow smile as you withdrew your hand from his face with total disdain, leaving him missing your touch instantly.
"Good boy," you said, leaning back against the sofa cushions again, looking down on him with a cruel indifference. "Maybe I'll start to believe you. But the road to earning back my trust is going to be very long, Gunner. And you're going to have to do exactly everything I say."
Gunner nodded his head immediately, catching your hands desperately and resting his forehead against your knees in a posture of complete surrender.
After a few seconds Gunner looked up, his eyes reflecting a mixture of guilt and an almost religious devotion. Without waiting for a second order, his trembling hands sought the edge of your clothes; you didn't stop him, you let him lift your dress and pull off your panties with a restrained urgency, as if he feared you might disappear if he didn't touch you soon. His fingers brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.
"I'll do anything, Y/n... just let me show you how much I need you," he whispered with a broken voice, before bringing his face close to your crotch.
You felt his warm breath against your intimacy, an electrifying contrast to the coldness of your gaze. When his tongue finally brushed your clitoris, you let out an involuntary gasp, allowing your head to fall back as pleasure began to claim your control. Gunner began to work with a desperate devotion, his tongue tracing wet and precise circles over your clitoris while his hands firmly gripped your thighs. You felt every movement of his mouth, the suffocating heat and the rhythmic suction that forced you to arch your back against the sofa. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful because of how intense it was, but you maintained that expression of superiority, watching him from above as your breathing became erratic.
"Don't stop, Gunner... that's it, keep going," you ordered in a slightly raspy voice, enjoying the humiliation into which you had plunged him. He responded with a muffled groan, deepening his contact and using his fingers to open you even wider, seeking to please you in every corner of your anatomy.
You slid your fingers through his hair as you felt his body begin to tense up and his breathing grow heavy from his own arousal.
He let out a desperate moan, trying to lift his head to seek your lips, but you stopped him with an imperative gesture, forcing him to remain down there, submerged in your wetness. "No, not yet. You haven't given me reasons to let you touch me... just stay down there and enjoy what I'm allowing you to have," you added, enjoying seeing his self-control crumble while his member throbbed against his pants, anxious for a relief that you decided when—or if—it would ever come.
While you were enjoying the sweet orgasm you were having against his mouth, he stayed right there, kneeling between your legs, his breath ragged and his eyes completely clouded by the pleasure and devotion of being able to taste you again. He rested his chin on your lap, looking up with the supplicant gaze of someone who has just received a blessing and expects the rest. He was completely turned on, desperate to get his end of the bargain, to feel your hands on him the same way he had just surrendered himself.
"Y/n... please," he whispered, his voice broken, extending a trembling hand toward your hip.
Instead of responding with the warmth he so deeply craved, you fixed your clothes with an infuriating calmness. You looked at his disarmed face and, with a deliberate slowness, lifted your foot. You placed the toe of your boot directly onto the center of his chest.
You didn't do it with violence, but with a soft, firm pressure, pushing him back just enough to force him away from your lap and leave him sitting back on his heels on the floor.
"It's late already, Gunner," you said, checking your phone screen as if you were reading the most important email of your life. "My manager just sent me the schedule for tomorrow. I have a meeting with the brand's investors first thing in the morning and I need to rest."
Gunner froze on the rug, looking at you with dilated pupils and his mouth half-open, barely processing the words through the haze of excitement. Physical frustration began to crash against his face in an almost painful grimace.
"What? No, wait... Y/n, you can't leave me like this," he begged, with a pathetic urgency, looking down at his own pants and then up at you. "Damn, you're going to drive me crazy. Please, just a moment. Let me..."
You stood up, dodging his hands with the elegance of someone avoiding a puddle of water in the street. You draped your coat over your shoulders and turned to look down at him one last time.
Seeing the state you were leaving him in—the great Nettspend, the star of the moment, reduced to a hot, frustrated mess on the floor of his own house—a soft, shameless laugh escaped your lips. It was a clean, cold mockery that echoed off the living room walls.
"Oh, poor baby," you let out, arching an eyebrow in wicked amusement as you walked toward the front door. "But look at yourself, Gunner. You're a big boy. You've managed by yourself before while you were lying to me, haven't you? I'm sure you can do it one more time."
You turned around without waiting to hear his reply, letting the sound of your heels fade down the hallway. Behind you, there was only the silence of his enormous house and the certainty that, this time, it was his turn to pick up the broken pieces.
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would u make a pt 2 of that nett fic were she ends up leaving him but like a while later sfter the fame he sees her again and yeah
Of course! I'm actually already writing the second part of this fic. I'm just trying to decide between the two endings I have in mind. But yes, she does end up with him, and after some time, things change a little.
Tags: Friends of lovers, codependency, emotional exhaustion, anguish.
–Next part.
Fem!reader × Gunner.
MY BOY
He ain't a man and sure as hell ain't honest.
You had always held the theory that Gunner was born with clenched fists and a furrowed brow, ready to fight the world before he even knew how to speak.
Your earliest memories with him are stained with dirt on your knees and the smell of rust from the park swings. If someone pushed him, you would stand in front of him, small but fierce, yelling until the other kids backed down. And if some bigger kid tried to mess with you, Gunner didn't yell; he simply threw himself at them with a blind fury that scared everyone except you. You looked out for each other. You were two halves of the same shield against the rest of the world.
For years, you were the only person on the planet who knew his soft side. The Gunner who would rest his head on your shoulder in silence and let you play with his hair when things at his house became unbearable.
𓆩𓆪
The streetlamp lights flickered with an electric buzz that had already become part of the background noise of your lives. Gunner’s beat-up car engine rattled softly as it cooled down under the night sky, but neither of you had any intention of getting off the hood.
You shared a pair of worn-out earphones. The cord hung between you, swaying slightly whenever either of you moved. You sat cross-legged with your back pressed against the windshield, feeling the cold metal of the car through your clothes, while Gunner loosely drummed his fingers on his knees to the beat of the music.
For a moment, everything felt the way it always did. The same boy you had shared scraped knees and whispered secrets with was sitting right next to you. But the atmosphere felt different tonight, charged with a strange tension between the two of you that made the air feel heavier. Every time your shoulders accidentally brushed, a sharp shiver ran down your spine.
Suddenly, the song changed on the player. Gunner stopped moving his fingers. He stayed still for a second and then turned to look at you.
In the dim light, his dark eyes shone with a new intensity, one you had never seen in all the years you had known each other. His brow wasn’t furrowed, and his fists weren’t clenched for a fight. He looked strangely helpless, almost exposed.
"Y/n," he said, and his voice sounded lower than usual, barely competing with the whisper of the music in your ear.
"What's wrong?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, even though your heart had already begun to race in your chest.
Gunner reached out his hand and, with a slowness that didn't match his usual clumsiness, intertwined his fingers with yours. His palm was warm and a bit rough. He looked at your joined hands for a moment before locking his eyes onto yours again.
"I was thinking... that I don't know how to do this anymore," he confessed, letting out a short, nervous laugh that took you by surprise. "I don't remember what it's like to live without loving you. Not like this."
Your heart stopped for a millisecond. You knew exactly what he meant, because you had been carrying that same weight in your chest for months, holding back the urge to cross the invisible line separating you.
"Gunner..." you started to say, but he moved a little closer, closing the distance on the hood of the car until you could feel the heat radiating from him.
"I'm serious. I'm sick of pretending we're just the same old friends," he continued, his gaze dropping for a second to your lips before returning to your eyes with an almost desperate urgency. "You're the only person who matters to me, Y/n. The only one. If you're not here, I have nothing."
When his lips finally found yours, the outside world seemed to turn off completely. It was a slow kiss, clumsy at first from years of restraint, but it quickly filled with a deep sense of relief. It tasted like the night, like youth, and like a silent promise that, from that moment on, it would be the two of you against everything else. In that instant, with his hands cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched, you allowed yourself to believe that everything was going to be okay.
Your friends hugged you excitedly when they found out: "Finally, Y/n. He is crazy about you. You're the only person capable of calming him down. If anyone can make him grow up, it's you." And at first, everything seemed to prove them right.
The first few months were a perfect bubble. You remember whole afternoons driving aimlessly, singing songs at the top of your lungs with the windows down, or him taking you to your favorite fast-food place just because you had a bad day. Gunner looked at you as if you were the only bright thing in his dark world. He made you feel invincible; he made you believe that love truly had the power to change someone.
Until the small details started to ruin the view.
It was a transition so subtle that at first you blamed yourself for being "dramatic." It started with insignificant promises he forgot, calls he never returned, and that strange ability of his to camouflage the truth with a charming smile. Gunner was a pretty liar.
It all began one Friday afternoon at the movie theater. You had been planning the date all week. Gunner was holding the giant bucket of popcorn while you waited in the concession line, laughing at a joke you had told him. But when it was their turn, his attention completely drifted to the girl serving them.
It wasn't obvious, and that was the worst part. It was the way his voice dropped a tone, becoming huskier, more magnetic. It was the smirk he gave her while ordering the drinks, maintaining a steady, deliberate gaze that made the employee instantly blush as she handed him the change. Gunner even took an extra second to thank her, subtly brushing his fingers against hers as he took the cups.
You felt a cold knot in your stomach. You were right next to him, holding his arm, and to him, it felt like you had become invisible for a minute.
You didn't say anything in the hallway, but the tension walked with you. Once inside the theater, with the lights already low and the movie trailers flashing on the giant screen, you turned to him in the dim light.
"What was that out there?" you asked in a whisper, trying to keep your voice steady.
Gunner settled into his seat, turning to you with an expression of absolute confusion that almost looked genuine.
"What's that, beautiful?"
"With the popcorn girl," you snapped, looking him dead in the eye. "You were flirting with her right in front of my face, Gunner."
He let out a soft, low chuckle, as if you had said something cute, and shook his head while placing the drinks in the cup holders. "Flirting? Of course not, babe. I was just being nice," he said, and his voice sounded so damn sincere that for a split second you doubted your own eyes. "Come on, you know I only have eyes for you. Don't be silly."
Before you could argue back, before you could tell him you weren't crazy, Gunner leaned in toward you. He cut the physical distance and, with that innate ability he had to disarm you, gently took you by the back of the neck.
He left a slow, warm kiss on your cheek, right at the edge of your jawline, and then slid his lips down your neck in a soft caress that sent chills down your skin. The scent of his cologne flooded your senses. It was his way of fixing things: numbing your doubts with physical affection, using his charm as an eraser for his mistakes.
"I love you," he whispered in your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin before he went back to his seat and fixed his eyes on the screen, as if nothing had happened.
You froze in your seat as the movie music began to play. The warmth of his lips was still trapped on your skin, but for the first time, it didn't make you feel loved. It made you feel stupid.
You looked at his profile in the darkness of the theater, watching him eat popcorn with total peace of mind, and a bitter truth began to force its way into your mind: Gunner wasn't going to change. He was just learning how to lie better.
𓆩𓆪
The thick, hot air of the party clung to your skin, mixed with the thumping music that made the floor vibrate beneath your feet. Gunner had left you alone for a moment to go to the bathroom, warning you with his eyes not to move from the corner of the bar.
Not even two minutes had passed when a guy from school approached you. The conversation was casual, barely an exchange of words audible over the noise, but the situation changed when he, in an all-too-familiar gesture, reached out his arm and put a hand on your shoulder to lean in and speak into your ear.
You didn't have time to pull away. You didn't have time at all.
A shadow crossed the strobe light and, before you could process it, the guy went flying backward, crashing into a low table. Gunner had thrown himself onto him with animal fury, fists clenched and teeth gritted, landing a clean blow to his jaw. The crash of shattering glasses unleashed screams all around you. Gunner braced himself to strike again, his eyes completely wild.
"Gunner, stop! Enough!" you screamed, getting in the middle and pushing him back by his chest.
It was like flipping a switch. At the touch of your hands, the savage rigidity of his muscles yielded slightly. He looked at you, panting, and the haze of violence in his eyes cleared just enough for him to recognize you. Without waiting for the other guy's friends to react or for security to catch them, you grabbed his hand firmly and dragged him toward the exit, pushing your way through the stunned crowd.
The car ride was a dead silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and your hands gripping the steering wheel with anger. When you finally parked in front of your house, you turned off the engine and flooded the cabin with a suffocating stillness.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped, turning to face him in his seat. The adrenaline from the party had turned into pure frustration. "He was just talking to me. You can't go through life demolishing anyone who comes near me, Gunner! This is sick."
He didn't yell at you. Instead of defending himself or getting angry, he shrank into his seat, pulling his knees up to the dashboard.
"He was touching you," he muttered, and his voice, which ten minutes ago was a threat, now sounded broken, strangely small.
"It was a shoulder, Gunner! A damn shoulder! You embarrass me when you get like this, you scare me," you let out, your voice trembling with anger.
That was when you saw the glint of tears in his eyes. In the dim light of the car, tears began to stream down his cheeks, thick and fast, while his bottom lip trembled. He covered his face with his hands, letting out a muffled sob that filled the space between you.
"I'm sorry, seriously, I'm sorry..." he sobbed, sinking deeper into the seat, looking so helpless it was ridiculous after the scene at the party. "I just can't help it, Y/n. I feel like I'm going to lose you. Everyone wants to take away the only good thing I have. If you leave, I'll die, I swear. I don't know what to do with myself when you're not around."
You stood frozen, your words dying in your throat. You watched him cry with that childlike desperation, and the familiar weight settled back into your chest. He was an ugly crier, but a pretty liar; he was using his tears as a perfect shield so you would forget the blood on his knuckles and end up, once again, holding him to calm him down.
The anger burning in your chest evaporated in a second, replaced by that well-known wave of guilt he knew how to trigger so well. Seeing him like this, so broken and vulnerable in the passenger seat, completely dismantled your defenses.
You let out a long sigh and leaned toward him, closing the distance.
"Hey... look at me," you whispered, running a soft hand over his wet cheek to brush the hair away from his forehead.
Gunner lowered his hands slowly, revealing his reddened eyes shining with tears. He had the look of a little boy who had just been scolded for breaking his favorite toy, scared and desperately seeking your approval.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you," you said in a sweet voice, caressing his jaw with your thumb. "It's just that I get scared for you, Gunner. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. But I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm here. I'm always here."
Hearing your words, relief transformed his face. He leaned into your touch as if your hand were his only refuge in the world. He slid across the seat until he rested his head on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck while his arms wrapped around your waist with an almost possessive strength.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, mommy," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, seeking that absolute protection that only you gave him. "Don't leave me alone. Don't let them drive me crazy."
Feeling his warm breath against your neck and the weight of his body seeking you out softened you completely. In that moment, the toxicity of the party was forgotten. You let yourself be wrapped in the illusion that you were his salvation, his anchor. You hugged him back tightly, kissing the crown of his head and letting that sweet, bittersweet warmth fill your chest, convincing yourself once again that as long as he was in your arms, you could protect him from everything. Even from himself.
𓆩𓆪
The moonlight barely peeked through the slats of the blinds, drawing silver lines across the messy sheets of your bed. It was past midnight, and the silence of your room was broken only by the hiss of the alcohol-soaked cotton on Gunner's skin and the sound of his breathing, which was gradually calming down.
He had arrived an hour ago, tapping on your window with bloody knuckles and the same stray-dog look he used every time he destroyed something.
"I'm almost done," you murmured, concentrating on the cut on his lip. Your fingers moved with almost surgical precision, a routine you knew by heart.
"I missed you today," he said, his voice husky. He was staring at you with that total devotion that always managed to make you forget your anger. "Seriously. All day I was thinking about how I wanted to be here, with you. With no one else."
You gave him a soft smile, wanting to believe him. Wanting to convince yourself that the suspicions that had been lingering in your mind all week were just your own paranoia. You finished cleaning the wound, set the first-aid kit aside, and almost immediately, Gunner grabbed your waist to pull you toward him.
The mood changed in a second. The tension of the night turned into something thick, warm, and urgent. Gunner laid you back on the mattress, climbing on top of you while his hands searched for your skin underneath your t-shirt, desperate, seeking to erase the disaster of his day in your body. His lips moved down your jaw, kissing you with an intensity that left you breathless. You gave yourself to the moment, closing your eyes, seeking that connection that made you feel like everything was worth it.
He dug his hands into your hips, pulling you toward him as he let out a muffled groan against your ear. And then, just as clothes were starting to get in the way and the pace was quickening, the illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Ah... Vanessa..."
The name floated in the bedroom air like a bucket of ice water.
You went completely rigid underneath him. Your eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling. It took Gunner a couple of seconds to realize you had stopped entirely, that your hands were no longer around his neck, but were pushing against his chest with a cold force.
"What?" your voice came out as barely a whisper, empty, devoid of any emotion.
Gunner froze over you. The dim light wasn't enough to hide how the color drained from his face and how his pupils dilated with panic.
"No... no, babe, wait," he stammered, pulling back a bit, his hands shaking. "It wasn't... I didn't mean to say that. I swear I don't know why I said that name. I was thinking about some stupid school thing, seriously, Y/n, look at me."
You sat up in bed, running a hand over your face as your stomach churned with disgust. The puzzle pieces clicked together all at once: the subtle lies, the glances you caught in passing, the gut feeling you always tried to suppress. He was a pretty liar.
"Get out, Gunner," you said, pointing at the window. Your voice was shaking, but not from sadness—from a dull, exhausted fury. "Get the hell out of my house."
Instead of moving, Gunner collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the floor right next to your bed, pressing his hands against your legs as tears began to stream from his eyes at an alarming rate. He started to cry desperately, sobbing so hard his shoulders shook.
"No, please, Y/n, don't do this to me!" he begged, his face drenched and his voice broken, playing the victim entirely. "It was a mistake, I swear on my life. I'm messed up in the head, you know how bad I've been these days. If you leave me now, you're going to destroy me. Don't leave me alone, I can't handle this."
You shifted on the bed to get away from his touch, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. You stood up, determined to kick him out of your life that very night, tired of carrying the weight of his demons.
"I don't care anymore, Gunner. It's over. I'm not going to keep putting up with this. Leave."
But he didn't leave. Gunner stood up from the floor, his eyes wild with tears, intercepting you before you could reach the door. He grabbed your arms—not with violence, but with a possessive desperation that pinned you in place. He leaned in close, pressing his forehead against yours while his sobs brushed against your skin.
"If you walk out that door, Y/n... I swear I'll hurt myself," he whispered, and his voice no longer sounded broken, but carried a manipulative coldness that froze your blood. "I don't care what happens to me. I'll wreck the car or go find those guys from the pool hall to let them finish me off. You decide. If you leave, it's going to be your fault. Don't leave me alone."
You stood static in his arms, your breath shallow and your eyes fixed on the darkness of the room. The trap had closed perfectly around you. You looked at his face covered in tears and dried blood, feeling the last trace of illusion die inside you, leaving you only with a bittersweet, suffocating emptiness.
You knew it was a lie, you knew it was his worst manipulation, but the fear and the childhood chains were stronger. You didn't leave. You stayed right there, in silence, letting him hold you while he calmed down, trapped in a room that now felt like a prison, knowing you were condemned to stay there and take it.
Context: They are high school exes who "hate" each other, but in reality, they just needed to be locked up together to forget their problems.
7 Minutes in Heaven.
The music vibrated through the living room walls, but in the kitchen, the atmosphere was cold enough to freeze anyone.
You were leaning against the granite countertop, holding a red cup with a drink that had almost no ice left. At the other end of the counter, Hollis was talking to a group of people, but his posture was far too rigid for someone who was supposedly having fun.
Emma -your friend- leaned toward you, pretending to look at their phones to play it cool.
"If you keep looking at him with that 'I want to commit a crime' face, people are going to think you still care, Y/n."
"I'm not looking at him," you replied immediately, shifting your gaze to the ceiling. "I'm analyzing the terrible paint job in this house. It's a visual crime."
"Right, you always say that when you look right where he is." Emma commented with a teasing smile.
At that moment, Hollis said goodbye to his group with a light laugh and walked straight toward the drink dispenser, which was conveniently just a couple of steps away from you. Roman followed closely behind him, rubbing his temples with a exhausted look on his face.
"Excuse me, royalty," Hollis said, with that half-smile that always managed to grate on your nerves. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your important work of ignoring the entire world."
"Don't worry, Hollis," you replied, giving him a falsely sweet smile. "Your mere presence is already a big enough interruption to my peace of mind."
Roman let out a theatrical sigh and looked at Emma, who just rolled her eyes.
"See what I mean?" Roman said, pointing at the two of you with his cup. "You haven't even been in the same square meter for five seconds and it already looks like you're going to draw swords. Get over high school, please. It's been years."
"I am perfectly over it, Roman," you said, taking a sip of your drink. "It's just that some people never learn to mature. The haircut changes, but the fifteen-year-old boy attitude stays."
"Oh, look who's talking, the one who still uses the same defensive sarcasm when she gets nervous," Hollis fired back, taking a step closer to the counter and staring straight into your eyes. "What's wrong, Y/n? Does it bother you that I share the same air as you?"
"It bothers me that you waste it."
Emma huffed and took you by the arm, while Roman placed a hand on Hollis's shoulder to push him in the opposite direction.
"Enough," Emma declared. "Let's go to the living room. You two need to interact with normal people."
"I second the motion," Roman agreed, looking at Hollis with annoyance. "If I have to hear another passive-aggressive remark from you two, I'm going to throw myself out the window."
While you and Emma walked away toward the living room, Hollis and Roman walked in the opposite direction toward the hallway. Hollis, far from being affected by their venomous exchange in the kitchen, had an insufferable, satisfied smile plastered across his face.
"Did you see how she looked at me?" Hollis asked, taking a drink from his cup, still staring down the hallway where you had gone.
Roman frowned, stopping dead in his tracks with an expression of pure confusion.
"Are you talking about the 'I hope you choke on ice' look? Yeah, man, I think everyone within a three-meter radius saw it."
Hollis let out a low chuckle and shook his head, leaning against the wall with an air of absolute victory.
"No, you don't understand at all," he said, lowering his voice a bit. "She still loves me."
Roman stared at him blankly for three long seconds. The level of Hollis's delusion and the arrogance with which he said it was, officially, the last straw. He inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You guys are crazy," Roman muttered. "The two of you are completely insane and you're dragging me into your psychosis."
Without giving Hollis time to answer, Roman turned around and walked purposefully toward the living room. He spotted Emma immediately; she was sitting on one of the large couches, staring at her phone with the same exhausted expression. Roman dropped heavily into the empty space next to her.
"I can't stand them anymore," he growled by way of greeting.
Emma didn't even look up from her screen, she simply nodded.
"Did he just say something stupid?"
"He just assured me that Y/n still loves him based on a look of lethal hatred." Roman rubbed his face with his hands. "They have so much built-up tension they're going to blow this house up."
Emma locked her phone and looked at him sideways.
"Tell me about it. Y/n has been insisting all night that Hollis is 'visually and emotionally irrelevant' to her, but she knows exactly which corner of the house he's in at all times. They're too proud to make the first move. If we leave them alone, they're going to end up killing each other."
Roman rested his elbows on his knees, staring at an empty spot on the floor. Suddenly, a spark of pure mischief flashed in his eyes. He looked up and scanned the living room.
"Hey... a lot of people are already calling Ubers, aren't they?"
"Yeah, in less than an hour it'll just be the usual group left," Emma confirmed, frowning. "Why?"
Roman turned to her with a nearly machiavellian smile.
"Because we're going to suggest playing spin the bottle. And we're going to make sure, by divine intervention or pure cheating, that the bottle points exactly at those two idiots for the seven minutes in heaven challenge."
The surprise on Emma's face quickly dissolved into a conspiratorial smile.
"I like the way you think, Roman."
"I'll handle spinning the bottle," he added. "You make sure to shove them into the coat closet. And Emma..."
"Yeah?"
"Get the key. We're not letting them out in seven minutes."
By the time the party dwindled down to about ten people, the group had crowded onto the living room rug. In the center of the circle, an empty beer bottle awaited its fate.
You and Hollis were sitting almost opposite each other, a distance they considered "safe," but one that allowed them to keep glaring at one another.
"Alright, you pair of party poopers!" Roman announced with a suspiciously bright smile, rubbing his hands together. "The rules are simple: the person who spins the bottle picks the dare, and the two chosen go into the coat closet for seven minutes. No exceptions, no cowardice."
"How mature, Roman. What's next? Playing tag?" you commented, rolling your eyes.
"If you're scared, just say so, Y/n," Hollis provoked from his spot, crossing his arms smugly. "Though I get it. I'd also be terrified of the bottle pointing at me and having to spend seven minutes with someone so insufferable. It would disgust me to be locked in there with you, honestly. I'd rather get bitten by a raccoon."
"Disgust? Please, Hollis," you shot back immediately, leaning forward. "The disgust would be mine. Having to breathe the same stagnant air as you for seven minutes in that dark closet is literally my definition of Chinese water torture. I'd rather lick the floor of this living room."
While the two of you kept up your heated argument, completely absorbed in throwing daggers with your eyes, Roman exchanged a quick glance with Emma. With a swift and perfectly practiced motion, Roman spun the bottle in the center.
The bottle spun rapidly several times over the wooden floor, slowly losing speed bit by bit.
"...it's just that you don't even have the vocabulary to hold an argument with me, Hollis, that's why you always resort to the same old teasing about..." you were saying, gesturing with your hand.
Clack.
The bottle came to a complete stop.
The base pointed straight at Hollis. The tip pointed directly at you.
A dead silence fell over the group. Emma suppressed a triumphant laugh, covering her mouth with her hand, while Roman let out a dramatic whistle.
"Well, well, well," Roman said, jumping up from the floor. "Looks like fate has a pretty twisted sense of humor. To the closet, you two resentful lovebirds!"
You froze, looking at the bottle and then at Roman.
"No. Way. Absolutely not going in there with him. Roman, spin it again!"
"That's cheating!" Hollis protested, though his face had also gone slightly pale as he processed the situation. "I don't want to go in either! I demand a lawyer and a change of opponent."
"Rules are rules," Emma declared, grabbing your arm firmly and forcing you to stand up. "We don't want cowards in this game. Move your butts."
Between Roman pushing a Hollis who was pretending to put up physical resistance, and Emma dragging you, the two of you ended up in the hallway facing the narrow door of the coat closet.
"This is ridiculous," you grumbled, crossing your arms as Emma opened the door, revealing a small, dark space packed with winter coats that smelled of dampness and perfume. "Seven minutes? I swear if he makes a single sarcastic comment in there, I will suffocate him with a scarf."
"And I swear if you try to murder me, I'll scream so loud I'll ruin your eardrums," Hollis replied, stepping into the closet with a deep sigh of resignation.
"Have fun!" Roman called out with an angelic smile.
Emma gave you a final little nudge into the closet. You landed so close to Hollis that your chest almost brushed his. The door slammed shut, plunging you into near total darkness, broken only by a thin sliver of light beneath the door.
Click.
The sound of the key turning in the lock echoed with terrifying clarity.
"What the hell?!" you exclaimed, banging your fist against the wood. "Hey! Why did you lock it?"
Behind the door, Roman's voice carried perfectly clear to both of you:
"It's to make sure you don't cheat and sneak out early!" Roman shouted. "Hey, guys, since these two are going to be busy suffering... how about we all go to the kitchen for more alcohol? I got incredibly thirsty."
"Yeah, great idea!" Emma's voice chimed in, intentionally moving away. "Don't let the love—I mean, the hatred consume you! We'll be back in seven minutes!"
"Emma! Roman! Open this damn door right now!" Hollis yelled, pounding on the wood right next to your head.
But the only sound they got back was the sound of the group's footsteps fading down the hall, followed by the faint murmur of the music from the living room. They were completely alone.
The darkness of the closet was nearly absolute, broken only by the thin line of golden light slipping beneath the door. The space was so cramped that the scent of Hollis’s cologne—that blend of wood and citrus that, to your frustration, was still exactly the same—invaded your senses immediately.
You tried to take a step back to gain some distance, but your back instantly hit a row of hanging coats.
"Careful, royalty," Hollis’s voice whispered in the shadows, noticeably deeper and closer than usual. "We don't want you destroying someone else’s coat inventory."
"If you weren't occupying three-quarters of this closet with your massive ego, I'd have room to move," you snapped back, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield.
You stood frozen, trying to focus your eyes in the dark. Even though you could barely make out his features, you knew perfectly well he was looking at you. You could feel the intensity of his eyes locked onto you.
"What are you staring at?" you blurted out, raising an eyebrow defensively.
A low, husky chuckle was heard, the kind that used to give you goosebumps in high school. Hollis leaned a few centimeters forward, closing the small gap separating you.
"Me? Nothing. Just making sure you don't try to suffocate me with a scarf, like you promised out there," he joked, though his playful tone carried a hint of nervousness. "Although... with how close you are, it almost feels like you're looking for something else."
"Oh, yeah? And what's that supposed to be?"
"I don't know. The shallow breathing, the locked gaze..." Hollis let out a half-smile that you could guess from his tone of voice. "What's wrong, Y/n? Do you want to kiss me?"
"Kiss you?" You let out a dry laugh, even though your heart gave a treacherous leap. "Please. I'd rather swallow glass. It would completely disgust me."
"Oh, come on. Don't fake it," he insisted, taking an almost imperceptible step that caused the tips of his shoes to bump against yours. "In high school, it didn't disgust you that much. In fact, I'd swear you loved it."
The air in the closet felt like it turned to lead. The mention of high school fell between the two of you like a block of ice, instantly freezing the banter.
"That was before you decided it was an excellent idea to swap spit with someone else behind the gym bleachers," you said. The words left your mouth heavy with a resentment you had tried to bury under layers of indifference.
Hollis visibly tensed in the darkness. His playful stance completely crumbled.
"Are we on that again?" he asked, and this time his voice held no trace of mockery, only deep frustration. "Y/n, I've told you a million times. Nothing happened the way you think you saw it."
"I know perfectly well what I saw, Hollis!" you hissed, keeping your voice low just to stop the people outside from hearing, even though you wanted to scream inside. "I saw that girl practically on top of you. I saw you holding her waist. What was I supposed to think? That you were teaching her CPR?"
"You should have stayed two seconds longer instead of running away!" he shot back desperately, taking a step that eliminated any free space left between your bodies. "If you had stayed, you would have seen that I pushed her away immediately. She kissed me, Y/N. I didn't even see it coming, and the second I reacted, I pushed her off. She was hysterical because she had just broken up with her boyfriend and... and she did something stupid. But by the time I turned around to look for you, you were already gone."
You ran out of air, feeling the heat of his chest crashing against yours with every agitated breath.
"You broke my heart, Hollis," you confessed in a whisper, and for the first time in years, your shield of sarcasm cracked completely. "The next day you tried to act like nothing happened, and when I wanted to talk about it, your stupid pride made you shut down. You told me if I didn't trust you, it wasn't worth keeping it going."
"Because I was hurt that you thought I'd be capable of doing something like that to you," Hollis admitted, lowering his head, almost brushing his forehead against yours. "I was a proud idiot, I know. I should have gone after you, I should have begged you to listen to me. But I assumed you hated me... and I guess it was easier to let you hate me for something I didn't do than to accept that I had lost you forever."
Your eyes widened. The sliver of light from the floor illuminated his eyes, which shone with a painful honesty you had never seen in him before. They were so close you could feel the trembling of his hands near your arms, torn between touching you or keeping his distance.
It was as if the ground shifted beneath your feet. For years, that memory—the silhouette of Hollis with another girl in the shadows of the bleachers—had been the foundation of your anger, the armor you wore to protect yourself from how much you missed him. But now, seeing the painful honesty in his eyes just inches from your own, that armor completely shattered, leaving only an overwhelming emptiness.
"Did you really... not kiss her?" you asked, and your voice, stripped of all sarcasm, sounded small, almost broken.
"Never," Hollis answered without a second's hesitation. His hand, shaking, rose slowly until it caressed your cheek with a gentleness that stole your breath away. "I could never have done that to you, Y/n. I loved you too much. I still..."
You didn't let him finish.
All the accumulated frustration, the side glances from tonight, the years of silence, and the pain of the misunderstanding exploded in a single impulse. You leaned forward, trapping his lips in a hungry, desperate kiss.
Hollis let out a muffled breath against your mouth, as if he had been waiting for this moment for an eternity. His hands immediately traveled to your waist, pulling you into him tightly, erasing any trace of space between your bodies. The kiss wasn't soft or slow; it was a torrent of pent-up emotions, a mix of relief, apology, and the undeniable physics of two people who had never stopped belonging to each other.
You clung to his shoulders, burying yourself in his warmth while he cradled you against the closet wall, completely ignoring the coats surrounding you. The outside world, the party, and the timer simply ceased to exist.
In the hallway, the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant music from the living room. Emma looked at her phone screen, where the timer had just hit the zero-second mark of the mandatory seven minutes.
"Done," Emma said, pulling the closet key from her pants pocket with a smile. "Time's up. I'm going to let them out before they end up killing each other in there."
She took a step toward the closet door, but before she could put the key in the lock, Roman's hand intervened, firmly catching her wrist.
"Wait," Roman whispered, with a sharp look.
"What are you doing?" Emma asked, frowning. "The seven minutes are up, Roman. We fulfilled the deal."
"Emma, please. I know Hollis, and you know Y/n," Roman explained, tilting his head toward the closet door. "Those two are stubborner than a mule. If we open the door right now, they're gonna walk out pretending nothing happened, fix their clothes, cuss us out, and go right back to ignoring each other the rest of the night just to keep their stupid pride intact."
Emma looked at the wooden door and then at Roman, hesitating.
"So what do you suggest? Leave them in the dark?"
"Exactly. They need more time," Roman insisted with a knowing smirk. "They need the confinement to make them desperate enough to stop acting and speak from the heart. Let's go get another round of drinks from the kitchen. If they're still screaming at each other when we come back, we'll open it. But I bet you whatever you want that right now they aren't having such a bad time."
Emma was quiet for a second. Then, noticing that from inside the closet there were no more bangs or furious complaints to be heard—but rather a suspicious and total silence—a satisfied smile spread across her face.
"You're right," Emma concluded, putting the key away again. "Let them suffer a little bit more. Let's go get that alcohol."
The space that before felt suffocating and narrow now seemed like the only place in the world they wanted to be. The metal hangers rustled softly as Hollis adjusted you a bit more against the closet wall, moving his hands under your thighs to lift you up and making sure you were comfortable amidst the sea of winter coats.
"What do you think you're doing?" you murmured against his lips as you felt him lift your dress trying to look at your panties, which were already starting to get damp from the kisses he had given you earlier.
"What? It's what I've wanted to do since the party started. I love how this dress looks on you, but I like what's underneath it even more." You felt his words tickle your stomach; for the first time, you didn't want to use your sarcasm to protect yourself from his comments, you just wanted it to happen.
"You're an idiot, Hollis," you replied, though your fingers tangled gently into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him back. "An idiot who owes me a much longer explanation when we get out of here."
"I'll give you all the explanation you want... after I make you mine again." A low chuckle escaped your lips; you felt an excitement just like those high school years, as if you were doing something forbidden, hidden away from the rest of the world.
One of his hands moved away from your thigh to start unbuttoning his trousers, while he began leaving wet kisses starting from your jawline down to your neck. Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the anticipation of his words pulsing against your chest. You couldn't see anything due to the darkness of the closet, but you could feel him pushing your panties aside to position himself at your entrance, sliding slowly inside you. You immediately let out a sharp moan, which he instantly silenced by joining his lips to yours again.
"Shh, you don't want anyone to hear us, right?" he whispered against your lips. You could feel his victorious smile against your mouth, but he wasn't helping much; he buried himself inside you with a torturous slowness that made you involuntarily arch your body at the deep and perfect invasion. The pleasure was so sharp that another involuntary moan escaped your throat, but he gave you no time to process it, sealing his lips with a hungry, deep kiss to drown out the sound.
As time went on, Hollis increased the pace, his movements becoming deeper and steadier, his pelvis crashing against yours with a wet sound that echoed off the wooden walls. You felt like you were losing your senses; every thrust made you tremble from head to toe, and your breathing became erratic, searching for air between his desperate kisses.
"God, Y/n... you're so tight, you're going to drive me crazy," he groaned against your neck, losing his composure as his fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, lifting you to take him even deeper.
You tried to bite your lip to keep from screaming, but the feeling of him filling you, of that hot and perfect friction, pushed you to the brink. A muffled whimper escaped your nose as your nails dug into Hollis’s back, searching for an anchor in the middle of the storm of pleasure.
You could feel the pressure building in your core, a wave of heat that threatened to drive you mad. Your eyes shut tight as the friction became unbearable, an ecstasy that forced you to arch toward him.
"Hollis...!" you gasped, but your voice was lost in a broken sigh as you felt the shock of the orgasm rushing through you. Hollis let out a guttural groan, burying himself in you one last time with desperate strength as his own body tensed, releasing himself inside you.
Both were left panting, joined in the shadows, hearts hammering against their chests. Silence returned to the closet, broken only by their catching breaths and the residual heat of their surrender.
They were just finishing fixing their clothes when a murmur of footsteps and muffled laughter began approaching down the hallway. Emma's voice cut clearly through the wood.
"Well, it's been almost thirty minutes. If they're still alive, it's a miracle. Open it already, Roman."
Hollis and you stepped away from each other reluctantly, trying to act normal while looking into each other's eyes with a spark of shared mischief in the dim light. The pride and quick wit that characterized you both returned in a split second, but this time, you were playing on the same team again.
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ADDICTION
For Roman, control wasn't a preference; it was a necessity. In his world, depending on others was always a risk, but there were certain comforts he wasn't willing to give up. The "powder" was one of them. It wasn't a simple addiction; it was the fuel for his sleepless nights, the spark that kept his mind sharp while he planned his next moves.
That was why, when his trusted dealer vanished from the map overnight—leaving behind rumors of a hasty escape or a tragic end—Roman's annoyance was immediate. The cheap substitutes that flooded the city corners weren't an option; he didn't put just any garbage into his body, nor did he lower himself to deal with low-life criminals who grew nervous just by looking at his shadow.
It was an old acquaintance from the business who, after seeing his obvious discontent, slipped him a piece of paper with a single handwritten detail: a phone number and an alias.
"He's the best." he had been assured in a whisper. "But he has strict rules. He doesn't show his face. They call him ghost."
Roman didn't like mysteries; he liked to know exactly who he was dealing with, measuring his rivals and allies with a single glance. However, the scarcity was pressing, and curiosity—a rare weakness in him—began to gain ground.
That night, sitting in the leather armchair of his half-lit office, with an untouched glass of whiskey on the desk, Roman stared at his phone screen. The cursor blinked in a completely empty chat. He typed a single word, simple, waiting to see what kind of ghost would answer on the other side.
[New Contact: Ghost]
Roman: Hello.
Ghost: Who gave you this contact?
Roman: A mutual acquaintance. My usual provider had to... retire from the game. He told me you handle the best powder in the area.
Ghost: I don't vouch for recommendations if I don't know who they come from. But I'll make an exception this time. Clear rules: No calls. No meetings. No questions. How much do you want?
Roman: I like that you're direct. I want 15 grams to start. If the quality is good, we'll be very good partners.
Ghost:: We are not partners. I am your provider, you are the buyer. Nothing more. The price is 1,200.
Roman: Fine. Where do we meet for the exchange?
Ghost: We don't meet. Tomorrow at 8:00 PM, leave the cash inside a black bag behind the dumpster in the alley on 4th Street. If the money is complete, I will send you the coordinates of your package ten minutes later.
Roman: And how do I know you won't just keep my money and disappear, ghost? I don't usually trust ghosts.
Ghost: My reputation speaks for itself. If you don't trust it, find someone else. You have until tomorrow at noon to confirm if you accept the conditions.
On the other side of the city, the bluish glow of your phone screen hit your face in the darkness of the room. The closed curtains isolated you from the outside noise, creating the perfect environment to focus. Obviously, you knew who this Roman guy was. Your contact had already warned you that an important guy would message you; he had assured you that he was a steady buyer with deep pockets, but with a big warning: he was extremely demanding and used to having things done exactly his way.
The problem for Roman was that he had met his match. You were exactly the same. Your motto had always been "my merchandise, my rules," but you knew perfectly well that in this business, the big client usually thinks "my money, my rules." Reading his short replies, you knew immediately that this man would be a headache. However, you couldn't ignore the numbers: asking for fifteen grams right off the bat on the first contact showed he wasn't playing games. It was going to leave an excellent profit.
The phone vibrated on your sheets, interrupting your thoughts.
Roman: Fine, I accept the deal.
A small smile formed on your lips. You knew that, despite his arrogance, you had secured a perfect buyer. You set the phone aside and began to prepare the package with your usual flawless precision.
The next night, Roman's punctuality showed. The alley on 4th Street was dark, barely lit by the reflection of a distant streetlight. Right at 8:00 PM, Roman's silhouette crossed the corner. He didn't stop to look around to avoid raising suspicions; he walked with a firm step to the dumpster, dropped the black bag with the 1,200 in cash, and left immediately, heading straight to his car to avoid running into any local crazies.
He got into the vehicle, closed the door with a sharp thud, and the engine came to life, isolating him from the outside cold. Exactly ten minutes passed. At 8:10 PM sharp, his dashboard screen lit up and his phone chimed with a notification.
Ghost: Go to this address, you'll find your package inside a cookie tin. [Shared Location]
Roman arched an eyebrow when he saw the map. The marked address was only three minutes away, on a slightly more lit but deserted commercial street at that hour. He drove fast, parking half a block away. Getting out of the car, he walked toward a specific spot next to a closed shop; there, on top of a clean trash bin, was the metal tin with old Christmas designs. A ridiculously effective camouflage.
He took it, returned to the car, and, once safe inside, opened it. Beneath a couple of papers meant to add bulk, the sealed bag with the fine white powder gleamed. Roman took the bag between his fingers, assessing the texture and purity at a glance. He let out a long sigh of relief; the quality was impeccable.
He looked at the empty cookie tin and then at his phone. "Ghost" not only worked clean, but moved fast. Roman typed one last message before driving off.
Roman: Excellent quality. You have a steady client, Ghost. I hope the exchange is more personal next time.
You were already far from the area, watching the confirmation on your screen while counting the cash you had already picked up from the first spot. Seeing his insinuation of "making it more personal," you let out a silent laugh.
Exactly three months passed. In that time, Roman had become the perfect buyer: always on time, paid to the penny, and no longer argued with your indirect delivery methods. However, through the screen, the tension between the two had grown. It was no longer just a transaction; it had become a game of push and pull. Roman remained fascinated by the identity of this mysterious "Ghost" who maintained such a strict distance.
One night, while you were cleaning your workspace, the phone vibrated with the custom ringtone you had assigned to him.
Roman: I'm almost done with the stuff from last time.
Ghost: So fast? Didn't I just give it to you 6 days ago?
Roman: What? Do you care about me now, bro?
You smiled ironically as you read the "bro." It amused you greatly that he assumed with such certainty that you were a man. You typed quickly, keeping your usual dry tone.
Ghost: Nah, I don't care. I'm just surprised you finished it so quickly.
Roman: Yeah, I shared it. But hey, better for you, right? More profit.
Roman: But this time, I want to see you. It's been a long time. I'll pay you more to meet in person.
You paused for a moment, looking at the screen. Normally you would have blocked anyone who insisted so much on breaking the rules, but Roman's audacity amused you. You decided to tempt him a little.
Ghost: If it's 15 as usual, it's 1,200. How much would you pay me for the exception?
Roman: I didn't think you'd agree so easily. 2,000 for the same 15 grams, how does that sound?
Ghost: I wasn't going to accept, but I got curious to see how much you were willing to pay to see your favorite dealer. I think you've lost your mind from the use, but I don't care about the extra cash. I accept. I'll send you the place tomorrow.
On the other side of the line, a smile filled with pure satisfaction formed on Roman's lips. He had finally done it. The mysterious ghost on the phone had yielded. In his mind, Roman was already imagining the person's profile: probably a weird, sullen guy, maybe a haggard addict with the look of living in the slums who hid out of pure paranoia. He amused himself with the thought of seeing the terrified look on this "boy's" face when he saw who he had been dealing with all this time.
The next night, the atmosphere was heavy. Roman was waiting in the agreed alley, a dark, secluded place where the street light barely reached. He wore his usual impeccable elegance, holding a lit cigarette between his fingers while impatiently checking his phone screen.
The echo of light footsteps broke the silence of the alley. Roman looked up, expecting to see a guy in a hoodie appear, but his eyes widened slightly when he saw a girl walking with total composure toward him. Her steps were firm, confident, and under the dim light of the street lamp, her presence was commanding; she looked straight out of a modeling magazine, completely contrasting with the filth of the surroundings.
Roman, assuming she was a civilian who had taken a wrong turn in such a dangerous area, lowered his phone and let out an arrogant, protective smile. He couldn't help but hide the immediate attraction he felt upon seeing her.
"Hey, mami. Need something?" he asked in a smooth, drawn-out voice, convinced she was a lost girl who needed help. And if she needed it, he was more than willing to give her all the attention she wanted.
You stopped a meter away from him, looking him straight in the eyes. Your favorite buyer was finally face-to-face with you, completely defenseless against reality.
A half-smile drew on your lips as you pulled a small, neat metal box from your coat.
"Sure. I need my money," you replied with a firm voice, extending the box toward him.
The cigarette almost fell from Roman's fingers. The confidence with which you spoke, the exact words, and the delivery box made all the pieces click in his head in a second. The coldness of the messages, the absolute control of the business... it wasn't a haggard guy. It was her.
The surprise left Roman completely speechless for a few seconds. His mind, usually quick and calculating, tried to process the clash between the cold "bro" of the screens and the stunning woman in front of him. He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the tip of his shoe without taking his eyes off you.
"Ghost?" he managed to say, with a half-smile of incredulity, while his gaze swept over your features. "Wow... I certainly didn't expect this."
"Less talking and more business, Roman," you said, keeping the box extended. "I'm in a hurry. I don't like staying in the same spot for more than five minutes, and you already wasted one processing the information."
Roman let out a low laugh, truly captivated by your untamable attitude. He pulled the stack of bills with the agreed 2,000 from his coat and handed it to you, deliberately brushing your fingers as he made the exchange.
"It's a shame. I thought for that price I could buy you a drink and get to know my provider better," he commented suggestively.
"The extra price was just for the ticket to see my face. The show is over," you replied with a sly smile. You quickly tucked the money into your jacket, turned around, and walked away down the alley, vanishing into the darkness of the night as fast as the smoke you were named after.
Roman stood there, watching the place where you had disappeared. He was completely fascinated.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
From that night on, the game changed completely. Roman no longer messaged you just to restock; he became a constant presence in your notifications.
Roman: I must admit the merchandise is excellent, but the packaging exceeded my expectations.
You read the message and left the phone face down on the table. You knew perfectly well what he was trying to do, and though you had to admit Roman was a highly attractive man with a dangerous magnetism, your golden rule was to keep your distance.
Days passed, and the messages kept coming.
Roman: Are you that busy, Ghost? Just want to know if you're available for a big order this week.
Ghost: Friday at the same time. Choose the usual drop-off location.
Roman: So sharp. Are you always this cold with your favorite clients?
Ignored. You would let hours, sometimes days, pass before responding only to what was strictly necessary. But Roman wasn't one to give up easily; the mutual indifference only fueled his obsession with breaking your armor.
A month after their first in-person encounter, Roman decided to change his strategy. He cited you at a luxury penthouse on the top floor of an exclusive building in the city, a private place where he had total control of the environment. When you arrived and the door opened, the mood was dimly lit, with soft music in the background and a bottle of expensive liquor on the coffee table.
"You're on time," Roman said, wearing a black shirt with the first few buttons undone, looking dangerously relaxed.
"Always. Here is your stuff," you said, placing the bag of powder on the table.
Roman took the package, but instead of putting it away or paying you immediately, he opened the bag and poured a perfect line onto a glass surface. Then, he looked at you intently, those dark eyes full of intentions.
"Join me tonight," he invited, extending a small rolled note to you. "Let's enjoy this together. It's on the house."
You took a step back, crossing your arms. Your posture was firm.
"I don't consume with clients, Roman. It's a strict rule. I collect my money and I leave."
"Come on, Ghost" he insisted, taking a step toward you, closing the distance until you could feel the heat radiating from his body. His voice dropped to a magnetic whisper. "You already broke your rule about not showing your face. What difference does one more exception make? Besides... I know I'm not indifferent to you. I can see it in your eyes."
Your gaze held with his. The air in that room was thick, charged with a heavy, dangerous tension that you had been ignoring for months through the screen. Roman was right about one thing: danger attracted you, and having him so close, challenging your limits with such sweeping confidence, was beginning to make your defenses falter.
You looked at the line on the table and then returned your eyes to him, a slow, defiant smile appearing on your face.
"Alright, Roman..." you said, uncrossing your arms and taking a step forward, catching him completely in his own game. "You win this round. But don't get used to it."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
You took a deep breath before tilting your head. Upon inhaling the thin line of white powder, you felt a sharp, electric sting racing through your nasal cavity, heading straight for your brain like a bolt of cold light.
Moments later, the world began to shift. The tension in your shoulders dissolved, replaced by an euphoric lightness. You felt a sudden, liquid warmth spreading from your chest to your limbs, tinting your cheeks with a soft flush. The air in the room grew denser, richer, and the friction of your own clothes against your skin began to feel dangerously stimulating, awakening a latent spark of desire in your belly.
"Shit... this is... perfect," you whispered, feeling the heat swell within you. Roman, who had been watching the process from the shadows, immediately caught the shift in the atmosphere. He saw how your pupils dilated until they devoured your irises and how that clouded gaze, charged with a mixture of euphoria and hunger, settled upon him.
A crooked, predatory smile appeared on his face; it was a look he knew all too well, the one that preceded chaos.
"I see you're already in the right place, ghost," he murmured with a voice vibrating with anticipation, setting his liquor glass down on the table. "That look tells me you don't just want to talk anymore."
He approached you with slow strides, enjoying the way your body seemed to react to his presence, intensifying the heat already consuming you. Finally, he sat beside you, gently taking hold of your wrist.
"Come here," he murmured in a husky, drawn-out voice.
When Roman pulled you toward him, you didn't resist. Sitting on his lap felt strangely natural, as if the power dynamic you had shared for months over screens was finally finding its physical resolution.
"You took too long to agree, ghost" Roman whispered against your skin, his voice deep and heavy while his hands, firm and warm, gripped your waist.
Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling it back slightly to look him in the eyes. Despite your blurred vision and the distortion of the city lights pouring through the massive window, the intensity with which he watched you was sharp. You were no longer just an alias on his phone; you were the woman who had kept him under control for months, and now he had you right where he wanted.
"I told you not to get used to it, Roman. And you don't need to call me ghost anymore, just call me Y/n," you said with a slow smile, feeling the prickle of adrenaline rush down your spine before leaning in to find his lips.
The kiss was chaotic, fueled by the rush of the high and pent-up desire.
Roman pushed you down against the couch, his hands working with an almost violent desperation to strip away your clothes. When he took off your panties, he only had to use one hand to tear them completely apart, your thighs were finally exposed, he dropped between your legs, his dark gaze taking in your dampness.
"You're going to regret having spent so much time hiding from me." he growled, before burying his face between your legs.
You felt her hot, wet tongue trace a searing line from your mound of Venus to your clitoris, sucking with a force that made you back arch and pulled a breathless groan from your throat. While his tongue played with your clitoris, his hand moved up to squeeze one of your breasts, massaging it while his tongue worked relentlessly, driving you to the edge in a matter of seconds.
"God, Roman..." you gasped, burying your fingers in his dark hair as your body trembled violently from the overstimulation. Your eyes rolled back, feeling every movement of Roman's tongue like an electric shock bringing you to the absolute limit. Far from slowing down, he increased the pressure, using his fingers to open you up even more while his tongue worked with an almost animalistic precision, relishing how you unraveled in his hands. Roman thought he would never feel as alive as he did in this moment, devouring the woman he had chased in the shadows for so long. He felt a surge of absolute dominance; he didn't want to be gentle, he wanted to possess you completely, with no filters or barriers to hold him back. He stood up with quickness, shedding his pants to stand bare and ready, his long, hard member throbbed at the sight of how wet you were for him.
"I'm not using anything, Y/n. I want to feel all of you" he commanded in a low, haunting voice, his gaze locked onto yours as he forced your legs open wider than necessary, lifting one of your thighs to hip level.
Without giving you time to process the intensity of his words, he positioned himself over you and pinned your wrists against the couch with one of his hands, rendering you immobile. With a slow but brutally deep thrust, he buried himself in your wetness, filling you completely in one go.
"Look at me... I want you to see exactly who claims your pussy," he growled, moving into a frantic, possessive rhythm that stole your breath away. Roman felt like his head was going to explode; the heat inside you was so suffocating and perfect that he only wanted to lose himself in the chaos. His movements grew more erratic, each hard thrust driving deep into you, marking his territory with every clash of his hips against yours.
"You're mine... only mine, damn it," he panted, his voice breaking as he gripped you tighter, almost painfully, forcing you to feel every bit of his power.
You could barely articulate words; your mind was a whirlwind of colors and intense physical sensations. Your legs wrapped around his waist, driving for more friction as the pleasure hit you in waves. "Please, don't stop," you pleaded, feeling your clitoris rub against him with every stroke, drawing you closer to an inevitable, shattering climax.
"I'm going to finish inside you, little bitch. I'm going to leave you so dirty that no one else is going to want to touch you but me," Roman murmured, his voice cracking with raw lust as his thrusts came fast and reckless, penetrating to your very core.
"I don't need anyone else when I have you," you weakly murmured back, abandoning all pride, your head thrown back and your body convulsing as you felt the world give way. He didn't slow down, his hips slamming against yours with a raw sound and with one final, violent surge that knocked the air right out of you, he let out a stifled moan, his voice cracking with as he began to plant wet, desperate kisses on your neck. Finally drove all the way in, spending himself deeply inside you while you both crashed into a messy, trembling climax on the fluid-stained couch.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀
The light of dawn filtered softly through the curtains, illuminating the room after the storm of euphoria and sweat. The silence was thick, broken only by the quiet breathing of the two of you. You felt heavy, wrapped in the silk sheets, while Roman kept his arm around you, pulling your side close against his chest with an unexpected tenderness.
"Hey... look at me," he murmured, kissing your forehead gently, his voice regaining its professional calm, though still laced with a trace of exhaustion. "About a few hours ago... what I said... don't take it too seriously, Y/n. It was the high, the alcohol... the heat of the moment. Just a loss of control."
You looked at him from the corner of your eye, merely nodding in response to let him know you understood he hadn't meant the rough words literally, though it hadn't bothered you at all. Seeing that you were just as tired, a small smile formed on his lips before he adjusted himself to rest by your side.
"Get some rest now. You did a good job last night," he murmured softly, making sure you were comfortable.
"But, just a warning," he whispered, his voice a little raspy as his fingers gently stroked your shoulder. "Don't go thinking this will be the only time," he teased with a wicked little smile on his lips.
The only thing you could do was let out a amused huff. Well, it looked like you had finally found another kind of addiction that you were starting to like.
A/n:I promise there'll be more action in the next chapter. 🤞🏻
–Part1.
Student Fem!reader x Piano Teacher!Hollis.
The Winter Sonata
What happens when London’s most unattainable pianist claims you as his fiancée in front of everyone who judged you?
The clock ticked down relentlessly, counting the hours remaining until the most exclusive night in London, and the city had dressed itself entirely in silver and white. Outside, thick snowflakes danced under the golden glow of the streetlamps. Inside, two completely different worlds were preparing for the exact same moment. On one side was your small, slightly chaotic apartment.
The radiator hummed loudly, and the bed was completely buried under a mountain of discarded clothes. You rushed from one side to the other with a hairbrush in one hand and a tube of lipstick in the other, your heart doing little flips against your ribs. Every choice felt monumental. Should you wear the classic white dress that made you look like a proper conservatory student, or something a bit bolder to match your personality? Soft music played from your phone, but your mind was playing a completely different tune: the deep, resonant bass notes Hollis had played right beside you. You checked the time for the fifth time in ten minutes, accidentally smudging your eyeliner, and let out a frustrated groan mixed with excitement. You weren't just getting ready for a concert; you were getting ready to stand before the man who had completely upended your routine.
On the other side, the atmosphere was the absolute definition of stillness.
Hollis’s apartment was spacious, minimalist, and perfectly orderly. The only sound was the crackle of a burning fireplace. He stood in front of a full-length mirror, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever, though his fingers moved just a fraction of a second faster than usual as he fastened the silver cufflinks on his white shirt. He shrugged into his tailored tuxedo jacket, smoothing down the lapels with care. Everything about him screamed the image of the perfect maestro London expected him to be. Yet, as he reached for his watch, his gaze drifted to the window, watching the snow fall. For the first time in his entire career, he wasn't thinking about the critics, the applause, or the flawless execution of the sheet music. He was thinking about a single seat in the very center of the front row. He reached into his pocket, making sure the small detail he had prepared was safe, while a rare, faint smile softened the edges of his usually frozen expression.
With one final look at his appearance, both of you stepped out into the freezing London night, heading toward the grand theater where the cold rules of the conservatory were about to melt under the heat of a shared melody.
♫
"Oh, God, everyone is here..." you murmured in a low voice upon arriving at the venue and noticing the familiar faces among the crowd; even those who had once judged you with their eyes when you decided not to follow their rules.
"Miss Clifford, what a surprise to find you in these quarters after having abandoned your parents."
You instantly fell silent upon hearing that voice behind you. A year ago, to be exact, you had grown tired of the strict rules your family imposed on you—especially your mother. Your relationship with her had never been good; she wanted to control everything, but you were far too rebellious to be tamed. The only reason you still had money to sustain yourself in London was because your father kept sending it to you in secret; he loved you too much to simply leave you helpless.
"Oh, Mr. Evans, it has been a while..." you responded with a fake, polite smile, though your stomach felt twisted. "I'm glad to see you still haven't stopped being so... invested in other people's lives."
Your hands gripped the lapels of the white coat draped over your shoulders; you just wanted to run away from there. Before Mr. Evans could reply in a tone that clearly wouldn't be pleasant, his wife's voice called out to him. The moment he turned around, you took the opportunity to quickly spin on your heel, blending into the sea of people in evening wear who were starting to walk toward the main hall.
Finally, you reached your seat. You let out a soft sigh of relief upon finding yourself safe in your spot, far from the venomous glares. Hollis hadn't lied: your seat was absolutely and truly perfect. You had a direct view right at the center of the stage, where the imposing black grand piano gleamed under the spotlights, waiting for the maestro to play his beautiful melody.
Little by little, the grand theater fell into a deathly silence, interrupted only by the occasional dry, contained cough typical of such a refined place. The atmosphere grew tense, filled with an almost religious expectation. Suddenly, the house lights dimmed completely, and the stage spotlights intensified.
The side door opened, and Hollis’s silhouette stepped onto the stage.
Your heart beat faster than usual, and you had to swallow hard with difficulty, praying inside that no one would notice how unusually nervous you had become. Hollis looked unreal. The tailored tuxedo hugged his figure with flawless elegance, and his posture, straight and haughty, intimidated anyone in the room. He advanced with firm steps toward the center of the stage, bearing that serious, unreadable expression that had earned him the nickname the "Ice King."
The audience erupted into unison, deafening applause, but Hollis only offered a slow, gentlemanly bow. And then, before sitting at the piano, it happened. His sharp gaze swept across the front row with mathematical precision until his eyes locked directly onto yours.
It was only a second. An ephemeral instant in which the outside world seemed to freeze entirely. Through the lenses of his glasses, there was no coldness; there was a silent promise that everything about to happen in that room was exclusively for you.
Hollis looked away, settled onto the wooden bench, and placed his long hands over the ivory keys. The silence returned, denser than before, while you leaned slightly forward in your seat, goosebumps blooming on your skin as you held your breath.
♫
When the melody began, everything became magical. You listened to every note with absolute attention, feeling as if you were floating in the sky; it felt like a beautiful dream from which you never wanted to wake. For a moment, you forgot about everything and everyone, centering yourself solely and exclusively on the man in front of you. When he finally finished his piece, your mind snapped back to reality at the sound of the audience's euphoric applause, causing you to immediately stand up to applaud him as well.
An hour later, you found yourself enjoying the exclusive banquet offered by the conservatory. It was an intimate, elegant dinner, ideal for waiting out the midnight hour that would mark the arrival of Christmas. Everything passed in tranquility until, once again, someone from your past arrived to ruin the moment.
"Clifford? What is she doing here?" asked the voice of that old witch who had tormented you for so many years: Mrs. Lily. She was accompanied by her supposedly "perfect" daughter.
"How curious, I never thought I'd see you at an event like this. Especially now that you're no longer seeing James," Emma added with a slight, mocking smile. She had always wanted to destroy your relationship with your ex-boyfriend, and now she was surely savoring her victory.
"I was invited," you responded sharply, turning your back to shake them off, completely unaware that they would begin to follow you like flies.
They started to badger you with stupid, venomous comments. "Don't you think about your future?", "You should return to your parents so they can find you a proper fiancé." A fiancé? Please, the last thing you wanted in this life was for someone to try and control you again.
"I already have one," you shot back without thinking, spinning around abruptly to face them.
Your words only caused them to laugh right in your face with sheer superiority, a reaction that irritated you to your core.
"Oh, please, Y/n, don't lie," Mrs. Lily scoffed, adjusting her jewelry. "We all know perfectly well that no one would put up with that rebellion of yours... You respect no one."
But then, before you could let loose a furious retort, a commanding presence eclipsed the space. An elegant shadow planted itself right by your side, and a firm arm, wrapped in the expensive black tuxedo, slid around your waist with a naturalness that left you breathless. The warmth of his body enveloped you instantly, rescuing you from the chill of those women.
"Ah, there you are, sweetheart. Sorry I'm late, I was looking everywhere for you," a low, deeply seductive, and drawn-out voice pronounced, breaking the tension in the air with a baffling calmness.
You froze as you looked up. It was Hollis. London's very own prodigy was staring intently at you through his glasses with a sweetness so false it was perfect, playing the role with the genius of a professional actor. His long fingers tightened gently against your side, drawing you closer to his chest, while he turned his sharp, icy gaze toward Mrs. Lily and her daughter.
The faces of the two women completely contorted. The color drained from their cheeks, and their mouths fell wide open, frozen by the shock of seeing the most sought-after and untouchable pianist in London's high society calling you "sweetheart."
"Excuse the disruption, ladies," Hollis continued with that relentless courtesy that cut like ice. "But if you will excuse us, I must take my fiancée. We have a celebration waiting for us this midnight."
♫
Hollis guided you carefully, leading you far away from the prying eyes of the crowd. You could feel your cheeks burning before you stepped out into the open air with him, met instantly by the biting cold of the London night.
"I can't believe it..." you murmured, before bursting into a fit of laughter. "Did you see their faces?" you asked, trying to control your giggles as you felt Hollis’s hands meticulously adjusting your white coat to shield you from the freezing air.
"Thank you for saving me back there," you continued, looking into his eyes. "Though now I'm sorry everyone will be talking about you for a few days. They'll probably wonder how it's even possible for you to be my fiancé."
After saying that, you gently slipped from his grip and began to walk down the theater stairs, which were already blanketed under a dangerous layer of ice. But the moment you took your second step, your heels lost their grip, and you slipped. Fortunately, Hollis’s reflexes were fast: his arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you back and pulling you straight against his firm chest.
A sharp, immediate pain shot through your leg. It felt as though you had completely sprained your ankle.
"Auch!" you groaned, letting out a wail of pain as you leaned entirely into Hollis’s arms, unable to put any weight on your foot.
Hollis let out a tense sigh, his brow furrowing with a genuine worry he rarely ever showed. He held you firmly, making sure you wouldn't fall.
"Let me see," he requested in a low voice, leaning down slightly. Noticing how you avoided putting your foot on the frozen ground, he made a quick decision. He looked out at the street where the storm was raging, and then back at you. "A hospital will be completely overwhelmed at this hour on Christmas Eve; it will take them far too long to look at you. My apartment is only a few blocks away. Besides..." he paused briefly, staring intently at you through his glasses, "I already have a dinner prepared waiting for us. I'll examine you there."
Before you could protest or say you didn't want to be a burden, Hollis leaned down and, with astonishing ease, lifted you into his arms. Your heart took a wild leap as you wrapped your hands around his neck to keep from falling, letting his woody cologne envelop you completely amidst the falling snow.
♫
You stayed quiet for a few seconds as he effortlessly carried you toward his sports car. Your mind was racing; everything felt incredibly strange. Just a few days ago, this man was severely reprimanding you for not paying attention, and now he was carrying you in his arms as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
"A dinner? Seriously, were you that certain I'd agree to have dinner with you?" you asked with an amused laugh, looking at him sideways.
Hollis merely glanced at you from the corner of his eye before replying with total confidence:
"Yes."
When you reached his car, he settled you into the passenger seat with extreme delicacy, making sure not to hurt your ankle. The drive toward his home passed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft classical music flowing from the radio and the sound of the tires over the snow.
"Fiancé..." you murmured to yourself, letting out a low chuckle while observing his long, steady hands on the steering wheel. "What will you do when someone asks if it's true?" you asked him, keeping your eyes locked on him.
"Nothing..." His response caught you by surprise. What did that mean? Would he say yes... or no? Hollis kept silent for a second before adding: "I suppose I'll just say that my fiancée is a real troublemaker when it comes to following orders."
He joked, and for the first time, you saw him smile. It wasn't a subtle twitch; it was a genuine, warm smile that completely transformed his usual stern look—one that made you laugh softly and sent a flutter through your stomach.
Finally, you arrived at his spacious, elegant apartment. Hollis carried you in his arms once more to go upstairs and carefully laid you down on the living room's leather sofa. Immediately, he knelt in front of you and began to unbuckle the strap of your high-heeled shoe with incredibly precise, professional movements.
"Hey... Are you a doctor too, by any chance?" you teased a bit, trying to hide the nerves caused by having him so close and touching your skin.
Hollis didn't flinch. He looked up with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk of self-satisfaction.
"I studied medicine for three years at Oxford before dedicating myself fully to the piano professionally," he answered with absolute nonchalance, while his fingers gently pressed key points on your ankle to assess the damage.
You went completely silent, blinking in surprise at his confession. Hollis let out a low chuckle at the sight of your bewildered expression, clearly enjoying having left you speechless.
"It's just a mild sprain, Y/n. No fracture," he diagnosed, standing up. "Stay here. I'll get some ice, and then we will have dinner."
True to his word, Hollis served the dinner he had already meticulously prepared—a dish worthy of a high-end restaurant that filled the place with a mouthwatering aroma. You dined right there in the living room, sharing a strangely cozy atmosphere as the clock ticked down to midnight. The professor's rigidity had vanished completely, revealing an attentive, cultured, and magnetic man.
Just as the bells began to chime in the distance, announcing it was officially Christmas, Hollis set his wine glass aside. He reached toward the coffee table and picked up the small golden envelope you had seen earlier at the theater, along with a small, elegant navy velvet box.
He extended them to you, keeping his eyes locked onto yours.
"Merry Christmas, Y/n," he said in a deep whisper. "This is for you."
With hands trembling out of anticipation, you opened the velvet box. Inside, gleaming under the dim glow of the fireplace, was a beautiful, delicate gold pendant shaped like a treble clef intertwined with a small, rebellious rose.
"Hollis... it's beautiful," you murmured, feeling your eyes grow misty with emotion. "You shouldn't have..."
"Yes, I should," he interrupted, leaning toward you until his face was only inches from yours. "That pendant represents exactly who you are: pure music, free and beautiful, refusing to be tamed by anyone. And starting tonight..." Hollis brought his hand to your cheek, caressing it with a tenderness that melted away any trace of London's chill, "I won't allow anyone to extinguish who you are again."
