Morpheus just watched, his expression cold and calculating, like he was conducting an experiment and I was the test subject. There was no warmth in his eyes, no concern, no humanity. Just that clinical detachment of a scientist observing a lab rat navigating a maze. I could feel his gaze boring into my back, measuring every movement, every hesitation, cataloging my responses for whatever twisted purpose he had in mind as I walked toward the stairs, my boots heavy on the wood. Each step echoed through the silence, a rhythmic countdown to something inevitable. The sound seemed to reverberate through my chest, matching the dull thud of my heartbeat. Each step felt like a descent into something I couldn’t come back from. A threshold I was about to cross that would change me fundamentally, irrevocably. Each breath felt like the last one before I lost myself completely, before whatever remained of who I used to be dissolved into the darkness waiting below.
Seventy-two hours.I could do a lot of damage in seventy-two hours.
The hallway upstairs was dimly lit. The overhead bulbs cast long shadows that stretched across the walls like grasping fingers. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet with each hesitant step I took. I passed my own room with its familiar door slightly scuffed at the bottom, passed the other officers’ rooms where I could hear muffled snoring and the occasional rustle of sheets, passed the bathroom where someone had left the door ajar and the faint smell of soap and steam still lingered in the air, and then I was standing in front of her door.
The door that was supposed to be locked.
The door that Morpheus had just told me was open.
I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the worn brass doorknob that seemed to glint mockingly in the half-light. My hand trembled as I reached for it, my fingers hovering just inches away. I could feel my pulse hammering in my throat, could feel the blood rushing in my ears like a distant ocean. I could feel the monster inside me pressing against my ribs, demanding to be let out, clawing at the walls of my chest with desperate, hungry fury.
You can’t do this. You know what will happen if you go in there.
But I was already turning the knob. Already pushing the door open. Already stepping inside.
The room was small, barely big enough for the bed, a dresser, and a chair shoved into the corner. The air smelled faintly of her, something clean and floral, mixed with the underlying scent of fear that seemed to cling to her like a second skin.
And there she was.
Sleeping restlessly on the small bed, her body curled tightly on its side, one arm tucked awkwardly under a thin pillow, the other draped protectively across her stomach. Every few minutes, she shifted slightly, her breathing uneven and shallow, like she couldn’t quite settle into true rest.
She was wearing a faded tank top and cotton shorts. Thin, flimsy things that looked like they had been worn too many times, leaving most of her skin exposed to the cool air of the room. Her legs were bare and pale in the dim light, her feet tucked up defensively toward her body—a subconscious act to make herself smaller, more invisible. There was something vulnerable about the way she lay there, curled into herself, as if even in sleep she was guarding against something unseen.
I stepped closer, my boots silent on the worn floor.
She whimpered in her sleep, a soft, broken sound that made something twist in my chest.
“Many faces,” she mumbled, her voice slurred with sleep. “Snake... pretending to be a lion...”
I froze, my breath catching.What the fuck is she dreaming about?
But I didn’t have time to wonder. Didn’t have the capacity to care, because my need to touch her overrode every sane thought in my head.
I moved closer until I was standing right beside the bed, looking down at her.
Her skin was a creamy light caramel, like it had been kissed by the sun just enough to leave it glowing warmly in the dim light that filtered through the room. Smooth. Flawless. Luminous. Not a single blemish or imperfection marred its surface. The kind of skin that begged to be touched, to be traced with fingertips, to be marked, to be claimed. It seemed to radiate a subtle warmth, an invitation that was impossible to ignore. Every curve, every contour was highlighted by that soft, golden undertone, making her appear almost ethereal in the shadows.
My hand moved before I could stop it, as if drawn by some magnetic force I couldn’t resist. Slowly, carefully, almost reverently, I traced the curve of her body, starting at her shoulder, following the graceful line of her arm, down to the dip of her waist, over the gentle swell of her hip. Her skin was buttery soft beneath my fingertips, warm and alive and impossibly perfect, like silk warmed by the sun. Every inch of her felt like a discovery, a secret revealed just for me. And as I touched her, goosebumps rose across her exposed flesh, spreading like wildfire everywhere my hand traveled. Her body responded to mine in ways that made my breath catch in my throat while I watched, mesmerized, as her skin came alive under my touch, each tiny bump a testament to the electricity that crackled between us.
Her body knows me.The thought sent a surge of possessive satisfaction through me, dark and primal and utterly consuming. It wasn’t just desire. It was something far morevisceral, more ancient. Her skin recognized my touch before her mind could catch up. Her breath hitched in that particular way it only did for me. Every involuntary shiver, every subtle arch toward my hands, every unconscious lean into my presence. Her body betrayed her, telling me secrets she would never admit out loud. And I reveled in it.
She didn’t wake. Didn’t stir. Didn’t even shift position or murmur in her sleep. Just kept sleeping, completely still except for the rise and fall of her chest. Her breathing shallowed, uneven, almost labored. Her eyelids remained closed, unmoving, and yet her body responded to my touch even in unconsciousness. A slight tension in her muscles, a subtle change in her breathing pattern, small involuntary reactions that told me some part of her was aware, even if her conscious mind remained somewhere far away in the depths of sleep.
My dick was hard as a rock, painfully throbbing in my jeans. The pressure was unbearable, a relentless ache that demanded release.
I looked down at her, as my gaze traveled slowly across her form. I noticed the way her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing a narrow strip of her stomach. The skin there was pale and soft-looking in the dim light. I observed the way her shorts clung to her hips. The fabric hugging her curves, leaving her thighs bare and vulnerable to the cool evening air. There was something unguarded about her posture in that moment, something that made her seem smaller, more fragile than usual.
Fuck.
Without thinking, I reached down and unbuttoned my jeans. The sound of my zipper was loud in the quiet room, but she didn’t wake. Didn’t move as I pulled my cock out, already hard and leaking, and wrapped my hand around it. The first stroke sent a jolt of pleasure through me, sharp and electric. I bit back a groan, my eyes locking on her body, on every inch of her exposedskin. I stroked again, faster this time, my hand moving in a rhythm that felt both familiar and desperate.
My eyes traveled over her slowly, deliberately, taking in the curve of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, the way the material clung to her skin and shifted with each breath she took. I traced the dip of her waist with my gaze, following the graceful contours of her body down to the smooth expanse of her thighs, where the soft light cast delicate shadows across her skin. I memorized every detail, every line, every shadow. The subtle rise and fall of her ribcage, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her hair fell across her collarbone. I wanted to commit it all to memory, to hold on to this moment and never let it slip away.
The more I looked, the faster I stroked. My breathing grew ragged as my chest heaved and my pleasure built, coiled tight in my gut.
She is mine. She is fucking mine.The thought consumed me entirely, obliterating everything else in its path. The club, with its pulsing lights and suffocating crowds. The money I had been chasing for months, the money she stole. Morpheus’ stern warning echoed in my head, telling me to stay away, to keep my distance, to not cross that line.
None of it mattered anymore.
