‘I thought you –’ she whispers.
‘What? Loved you? Damnit, Stella. You think love is gentle, soft hands, warm smiles. That’s just a lie they feed children to keep them quiet at night. Love is teeth behind a kiss. It’s the rose that blooms, luring you in with its beauty just to watch you bleed when it cuts you with its thorns. I would bleed, fuck, I have bled for you, Stella, and I would tear myself open just to show you how deep this goes.’
‘I-’ her mouth opens. But she’s lost for words.
I grip her arms, and look deep into her eyes. ‘Is it roaring through your veins like wildfire, demanding, aching, clawing to be felt?’ I place a hand over her heart. ‘Love is the knife you never see coming. I loved Elina so much I forgot where I ended and she began. I gave her everything – my breath, my bones, my sanity. Then you came along and stole it. Now, thisthinglives in me like a parasite, whispering your name every goddamn time I close my eyes. You made me feel alive, and when I’m not touching you, I feel like I’m dying. So, please, if you can’t give yourself to me entirely, then do me a favour, and put me out of my misery.’
‘You speak like love is a curse.’
‘It is, but this time, it’s mine to cast,’ I reply.
The steam still clings to the mirror, blurring my reflection. I drag the towel across my chest like I’m wiping away more than just water, like I’m scrubbing off the chaos that is Stella.
The black shirt and trousers are pressed, immaculate, spread out on the bed. No blood, no wrinkles, no trace of Stella and the chaos she leaves in her wake. I button up the shirt slowly, like a man who knows every detail matters. The jacket that follows is tailored, and I slide it on like armour. I’m going to need it. I pause before leaving the room, close my eyes, and inhale. Her scent is still on my skin, her voice still in my head.
Fuck.
She makes me weak. I grip the edge of the dresser, my knuckles turning white. She’s just a girl. A complication… but the tremor in my chest tells me otherwise, and when I open my eyes, she’s standing there in front of the man she’s unravelling.
I should have just killed her. Instead, I took her because it was necessary. I kept her because possession is power. But now? Now I want her for reasons that make no sense. Reasons that make me weak. She’s defiant, reckless, a wildfire that should have been extinguished. Now I watch her burn and feel the heat crawl under my skin. She fights me, makes me crave things I’ve never allowed myself to want, she’s the one thing I can’t control, and that makes me want her more than ever.
I slide into the dining room just in time. My pulse hammering as he ends a call. He knows I’m here, and my stomach knots. I’m not late, but I’m not early enough to feel safe. I swallow hard. My palms are damp, my throat is dry, and the worst part? I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of what he’ll say or what he won’t.
CHAPTER 25
THE CURATOR
I used to think freedom meant escape – breaking free from my father and his friends. I thought if I could run away, I’d be free. No bars keeping me inside, no eyes lurking in the corner of my bedroom.
But survival isn’t about running. It’s about choosing where to stand, even when the ground beneath you was never yours to claim.
Mr Lewis gave me a choice: Cold independence or protected captivity. I’d already tried the cold independence approach, the kind that swallows women like me whole, and I decided solitude didn’t make me strong. It made me a target.
But here, under their watch, I breathe deeper. I don’t trust them – not one bit... at least, not yet, but I breathe because I’ve tasted what it means to matter. To be seen, even in the dark. And when Sal’s voice brushed against me like velvet, I felt it; the shift. I know this life isn’t mine, but maybe it could be. Maybe surviving doesn’t mean escaping, maybe it means evolving.
I am no longer the girl who begged to be saved, the girl cutting one grin away at a time. I am The Curator. Chosen. Reborn. Staying.
Sal doesn’t look at me when he leaves. Instead, I see a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white, and the silence between us now louder than the water still dripping from the shower head. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. The way his shoulders tense as he shuts the door behind him said all there needed to be said.
Clothes are scattered on the bed like an afterthought - because I wasn’t expected to survive. A black shirt. Jeans. Not much else. I dress slowly, fingers trembling just enough to make me hate myself for what just happened. Each button feels heavier than it should. I dress like I’m patching up a wound.
I walk out the room, down the stairs, past the dining room. Sal and Mr Lewis’ voices drifting out – Sal’s is low and clipped, Mr Lewis’ smoother, more dangerous. I don’t stop long. I don’t breathe. I just keep moving, wondering what would happen if Mr Lewis knew I was snooping. If I’ve learnt anything of late, mob men don’t forgive. They erase, unless it’s under special circumstances, and I’m definitely not special.
Outside, the air slaps my cheeks. The wind carries the scent of pine and dust and wild rosemary. The landscape stretches wide – Valencian hills with the distant hum of cicadas. I see the stables before I reach them. There are horses grazing, the wind carrying the sound of hooves on the hard ground. There’s something sacred about the way they move. Untouched. Unbothered. I used to be like that. Before the bruises. I stay back, just far enough not to spook them. But not going to the stables? That’s worse, because Mr Lewis is watching. I can feel his eyes from the window. So I walk.
The scent hits me first. Leather, hay, motor oil...and something metallic. The stables are colder than they look, despite the early sun rays illuminating rows of gleaming tack and rusty tools. As I round the corner, I see someone. She stands with one hip cocked, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
‘Hi, you must be The Curator?’ she beams, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Waylynn.’
Waylynn is my sun-soaked contradiction – her blonde curls spilling out from a well-worn Stetson. Her denim is faded, molded to her body like paint. Her jacket is lightly frayed at the edges, sleeves rolled up to reveal arms that have tossed hay bales, held rifles, and dragged secrets across blood-stained floors.
I know that look.
Her boots thud heavy against the concrete as she strides towards me.
‘Hi, yes, that’s me,’ I nod.
‘Come on,’ she says, her voice smooth like bourbon. ‘You ready to stop being the one that gets hunted?’
