#avis

You’d only been in Los Angeles for six months when she found you.

At the time, you were working late nights at a forgettable Italian restaurant just east of Koreatown, the kind of place that smelled like burned oregano and desperation. You were new, quiet, polite—things that didn’t go unnoticed. Especially not by someone like Avis Amberg.

You first saw her during a lull between the dinner and bar crowds, her frame emerging from a black car like a storm spilling out of the sky. She walked in without waiting to be seated, without looking at a menu. Her heels clicked on the linoleum, her gloves were still on.

Her eyes—sharp, dark, unreadable—found you at the counter. And something in you…paused.

You don’t know what she saw in you. You never dared to ask. But two nights later, she was back.

After the fourth visit, she started asking for you by name.

By the sixth, you weren’t working there anymore. She’d bought the restaurant and shut it down, the same night she left you a note tucked into your apron pocket:

“You shouldn’t have to work so hard. Let me take care of it.”

You live in her penthouse now.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. You tell yourself you’re safe.

But the locks only open from her side.

She never hurts you. Not once. Not even when she’s furious—at her crew, at a deal gone bad, at the world. When she speaks to you, her voice drops low, velvet-soft, laced with something sweet and dangerous.

“A doll like you shouldn’t be anywhere near blood,” she said once, when you accidentally walked in on her cleaning a gun.

And still, every day, you see the blood on her. Not literal. Not always. But in the way her hands linger on your shoulders. The way she touches your face like it’s made of something holy. The way she looks at anyone who gets too close to you.

You’ve seen that look just before someone disappears. She wants you.

You’re not stupid. You feel it when she passes behind you, a hand grazing your waist just enough to make you shiver. You hear it in the catch of her breath when you wear anything even remotely tight. You notice the way her jaw tenses when someone else makes you laugh.

But she won’t touch you. Not like that.

She waits. She watches. She tells you she’ll never do anything unless you ask. Beg, she once whispered, brushing a curl from your cheek, her lips so close to yours you stopped breathing. “I want you desperate for it, sweetheart. Not afraid. Not unsure. Just mine.”

That’s the part that scares you.

Because you’re starting to want it.

And you don’t know if it’s you wanting her, or fear laced with fascination, longing twisted with survival. You lie awake most nights, heart pounding, heat curling low in your stomach, wondering what it would feel like to finally break.

And every time, you imagine her voice in your ear, saying:

“Good girl. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

It starts with the dress.

You’re getting ready for one of her “business dinners.” That’s what she calls them—euphemisms for blood-and-smoke deals in candlelit lounges, where men try to act unbothered under her gaze and women try not to look too long at her red mouth.

She leaves a box on your bed.

It’s black satin. Backless. Tight.

When you pull it out, your breath hitches in your throat. It looks like something meant to be torn off.

You hesitate.

Then you hear her heels clicking toward your room, unhurried. You don’t have time to overthink it—just enough to slip it on and smooth it down over your hips as the door opens.

She stops in the doorway.

Stares.

Something inside her stills, goes quiet, like a lion watching prey that’s too beautiful to eat—yet.

“You look…” Her voice is hoarse, low. “Fuck. Turn around.”

You do.

She crosses the room slowly. Her hand skims your side. Not enough to satisfy—never enough. Just enough to make your stomach twist.

“You know what that dress does to me?” she asks, quiet, close.

“I didn’t pick it,” you murmur.

“I know. But you wore it anyway.”

Her knuckles ghost down your spine. You shiver.

She smiles—tight, unreadable—and steps back. “Let’s go.”

The dinner is at a rooftop club in West Hollywood. The kind of place where every laugh feels fake, every drink costs a fortune, and every powerful person is either owned by someone—or owns someone.

Avis owns everyone in the room.

Including you.

You sit beside her, quiet, letting her hand rest on your knee while she negotiates in low tones with men who’ve killed for less than what they’re offering tonight.

And then she disappears.

Just for a second. Bathroom, probably.

That’s when he sits beside you.

You don’t know his name. Just that he’s tall, grinning, probably drunk. He says something about your dress. Then something about your face. He leans in too close.

You stiffen.

You don’t have time to tell him off before she returns.

The silence that follows is violent.

Avis says nothing. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t acknowledge him. Just looks. Her eyes flick from his hand near your hip to your face—and then back to him.

“Move,” she says softly.

He doesn’t.

She laughs. It’s cold.

“I said move.” Her tone sharpens. No anger. Just steel.

He’s gone in seconds.

She sits. Leans in. Her voice brushes your ear like a razor wrapped in velvet.

“I told you, sweetheart. You’re not theirs. You’re mine.”

That night, in the elevator, she doesn’t speak. You lean against the mirrored wall, heart racing. She’s standing beside you like a storm held in a wineglass—tight, controlled, on the verge of shattering.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say quietly.

“I know.” Her eyes don’t leave your reflection.

“I didn’t flirt.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want him.”

Now she looks at you.

There’s something hungry in her stare. Something unholy. “Then why didn’t you stop him touching you?”

You falter. You don’t know. Or maybe you do. Maybe you wanted her to see. Her jaw clenches. “Go to bed.”

You step out of the elevator. She doesn’t follow.

But later—hours later—you wake to the sound of the door creaking open.

You don’t turn. Just lie still.

She’s in the room. You feel it in your bones. Her steps are soft, slow.

You don’t hear her undress. But when she slips into the bed beside you, the silk of her nightgown brushes your arm.

You don’t move. Then you feel it. Her hand—just barely—on your waist. A breath. Not yours. And then her whisper, right against your ear:

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You don’t sleep after she whispers it.

You just lie there, your breath held hostage in your throat, her hand still a ghost on your waist.

She doesn’t move either.

You feel her heat behind you. The tight, restless stillness of a woman on the edge of a decision she knows she can’t undo.

“Avis…” you breathe.

That’s all it takes.

Suddenly, she’s on you—pressing you down into the sheets, her body flush to yours, her mouth hovering a whisper from your lips.

“Say it again.”

You do. Softer this time.

Her lips crush yours like a punishment. Like she’s angry she waited this long. Her kiss tastes like wine and violence, like every bit of control she’s been holding back is gone now, finally gone.

She moans into your mouth like it hurts. Like she’s starving.

“I tried to be gentle,” she rasps. Her hands are on your hips, holding you in place. “I tried to wait for you to be ready. I didn’t want to break you—”

“Then do it,” you whisper. “Break me.”

That’s when she snaps.

She flips you under her like it costs her something. Like she’s been dying to ruin you and can’t wait another second.

Her mouth drags down your throat, your chest, leaving marks. Claiming. Worshipping. Her hands are everywhere, pinning your thighs, sliding beneath your clothes, tearing at fabric like it’s in her way.

She’s frantic. But deliberate. Every move is designed to make you beg—and you do.

You beg her.

“Avis, please—”

“I know, baby. I know.” Her voice cracks. Her hands tremble as they slip between your legs, finally touching you like you’re something holy. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”

You whimper.

She kisses you again, slower this time, possessive, as her fingers slide inside and your whole body arches.

“Mine,” she growls against your mouth. “No one else gets to have you. Say it.”

“I’m yours—” You’re already shaking.

“Say my name.”

“Avis.”

Her pace quickens. She kisses your throat, your collar, your jaw, working you open like she’s memorizing the sound of you falling apart for her.

“I’m never letting you go,” she whispers. “Even if it kills us.”

You come apart gasping her name.

And when you collapse back into her arms, trembling and dazed, she wraps herself around you like armor. Like she’s trying to keep you safe from the world—or herself.

She doesn’t sleep.

You do, eventually—exhausted, tangled in her sheets, breath still uneven from what she did to you. But Avis just watches. One hand under her cheek, the other splayed across your bare waist, fingers twitching every time you shift in your sleep like she’s terrified you’ll disappear.

She memorizes everything. The rise and fall of your chest. The curve of your mouth, still swollen. The marks on your skin that she left—her initials, almost, if you squint. Her claim.

You belong to her now.

She’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

By morning, you wake up to her still watching. Her stare is unreadable, but heavy—obsessive in a way that should unsettle you, but doesn’t. Not really.

“Did I hurt you?” she murmurs, voice rough from lack of sleep.

“No.” You stretch, and the soreness between your legs makes you wince—she sees it, flinches like it stabs her. “You didn’t.”

Avis exhales slowly. You can tell she doesn’t believe you.

But she leans forward anyway, brushes her lips over the bruise on your neck like an apology. “Next time,” she says lowly, “I’ll go slower. If you let me.”

Your heart stutters. Next time. There’s going to be a next time.

She doesn’t let you out of her sight that day.

You try to get dressed, but she stops you—her arms wrapping around your middle from behind, chin on your shoulder, bare chest pressed to your back.

“Stay,” she whispers. “Just a little longer.”

You nod. You don’t even hesitate.

When you finally do leave the bedroom, it’s like stepping into another life.

Avis calls off every meeting she has. Sends men away with a wave of her hand and a bite to her voice that tells them not to ask questions. You sit at her breakfast table in her oversized shirt while she takes a call with a gun on the counter and her hand resting on your thigh.

She doesn’t care if they notice. In fact—she wants them to. Let them know who you belong to. Let them see who Avis Amberg would burn the whole world for.

Later that evening, she shows you a drawer.

Full of things you hadn’t expected.

A necklace with your birthstone. An envelope with photos of you—old ones, some you didn’t know existed. A sheet of paper with your signature traced over and over again in her handwriting. Your handwriting.

You look up at her, heart in your throat.

“I’ve loved you,” she confesses, voice hoarse, “since before I knew how to say it. I used to dream of keeping you in here. In this house. In that bed.”

Her jaw clenches.

“I still do.”

The silence was heavy when she told you.

Just a whisper, barely above a breath, but it was enough to cut through the air like a blade.

“I think I need space.”

Avis didn’t respond at first. Her jaw clenched. You watched the faintest tremble travel through her hand where it gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. The tension in her shoulders gave her away more than any words would. And when she finally turned around, her eyes weren’t soft like they’d been last night.

They were wild.

“Space?” she echoed, voice brittle. “From me?”

You nodded, arms crossed, trying to ground yourself. You weren’t sure what had changed—but the weight of her presence had been unbearable lately. She was always watching. Always planning. Always there.

“Yes. Just… a few days to think. To breathe.”

She took a slow step toward you. “Is this because of what happened with that idiot guy?” she asked. Her voice had that dangerous stillness to it.

You blinked. “No. Avis, I just—”

Her hand slammed against the wall beside your head. Not touching you. Not hurting you. Just close. Too close.

“You belong to me,” she hissed. “You think I don’t see the way you’re slipping away? Every second you’re not in my arms, my mind goes places—ugly places. And now you want to leave?”

“Avis—”

“I gave you everything.” Her voice cracked. “I killed for you. I burned men alive for looking at you too long. I cleaned the blood off your hands before it could even dry. And now you’re what—done with me?”

You stared at her, stunned.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered. She flinched like you’d slapped her.

“No,” she murmured. “No, baby. Don’t say that. I just—I can’t—” Her breath hitched. “I can’t lose you.”

When she kissed you, it was a collision.

Teeth. Tongue. Desperation.

Her hands gripped your hips, tight enough to bruise, and when you gasped into her mouth, she pulled back only a moment to stare at you.

“I know I said the next time would be softer,” she growled. “But with the way you’ve acted…”

Her eyes burned.

“I’m not sure you deserve it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. You should have been afraid—but your heart was already pounding for a different reason. You were soaked with tension, aching in places you didn’t want to admit.

Avis smirked as she felt your body tremble.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your back hit the bedroom wall before you even realized she’d pulled you there. You weren’t sure whether you’d walked or been dragged, but now her mouth was on yours again—urgent, punishing.

Her hands roamed fast, rough, grabbing at your thighs and ass like she owned them. And in her mind, she did.

“I need to see you,” Avis growled against your lips. “All of you. Now.”

She yanked your shirt up and off before you could respond, her hands already tugging down your pants. Her eyes drank you in like something holy and dangerous.

“You think you get to say ‘space’ and then hide this from me?” She cupped between your legs—right there—over your panties, and you gasped at the pressure. “No, sweetheart. That’s not how this works.”

She pushed her hand beneath the fabric, and her fingers were already sliding between your folds, spreading the wetness with a quiet, sinful sound.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “You’re soaked.”

Your legs nearly buckled.

“Avis—”

“What?” She pressed two fingers inside, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. “What do you need, baby? You wanna tell me you hate me now?”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers curled just right.

“You don’t want space. You want this. You want me.”

Her other hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding you of who was in control. Her grip was possessive, but her eyes—her eyes were something else. Desperate. Unhinged. Worshipful.

She fucked you slow at first, fingers pumping deep while she kissed your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—leaving marks like a brand. Then she sped up. You were gasping, trembling, holding onto her shoulders like a lifeline.

And when she pulled back, just to see your face—ruined, flushed, begging—she lost what little restraint she had.

Avis lifted you.

One fluid motion, throwing you onto the bed and crawling over you, yanking your panties off and tossing them somewhere forgotten.

She slid her fingers back inside you before you could even catch your breath, her thumb now circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

“You’re mine,” she hissed. “You hear me? I don’t care if I have to break you open every night to remind you. You belong to me.”

Your orgasm hit hard. Too hard. You cried out as you came on her fingers, thighs shaking, vision white at the edges.

But Avis wasn’t done.

She leaned over you, kissed your tear-streaked cheeks, and whispered against your ear:

“Again.”

You were still catching your breath—your chest rising and falling fast, skin slick with sweat, thighs trembling. But Avis hadn’t moved.

She hovered over you, braced on her forearms, lips ghosting across your collarbone. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with want, but there was a crack beneath them. A tremor. A fault line.

“I should ruin you,” she whispered, almost tender. “I want to. But not this time.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but she cut you off, sliding two fingers along your jaw and turning your face to hers.

“No,” she said lowly, “this time, you’re going to take care of me.”

Her hand trailed down your body, slow and commanding. Then she moved, shifting onto her back beside you, spreading her legs with a shamelessness that made your pulse trip.

“Show me you still want this,” she said. “Show me you still want me.”

And you did.

You moved over her, kissing down her neck, taking your time with each new inch of skin. She was warm and firm beneath you, her body humming with the tension of someone always poised to snap.

But not now.

Now she let you touch her. Let you worship her.

When you slid your tongue along her—soft, slow, savoring her taste—her breath hitched. Her fingers tangled in your hair but didn’t pull. She was letting go. Unraveling.

“Oh, baby,” she moaned, arching up into your mouth. “Fuck— just like that—”

You held her thighs apart, steady, watching her fall apart just for you. And when she came, shaking, swearing, her voice breaking on your name—you didn’t stop until she was limp, blissed-out, completely undone.

You moved back up to her side, her arm pulling you in without hesitation.

The silence after was thick. Warm. Real.

Her breath still stuttered, but her hands were gentle now—stroking your back, brushing hair from your face.

“I thought I’d lose you,” she said quietly. “And I know I don’t deserve to keep you. But I want to. I need to.”

You nestled closer to her chest, lips brushing the curve of her shoulder. “You scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

Avis tensed—but didn’t pull away.

“But I still choose you.”

That cracked her.

She kissed your temple, then your forehead, cradling you like you might disappear if she let go.

“I’ll try to be softer,” she murmured. “Even if I never really learn how. You’re the only thing that makes me want to try.”

You drifted off like that—wrapped in her arms, wrapped in her ruin—and for once, it didn’t feel like a trap.