Harry tipped her hat at him. He flicked his wrist, shooing them. “Fine, take her upstairs. Distract her,” he said, taking a swig of champagne before muttering, “But tomorrow, I’m buying her a chastity belt.”
They went up to the Amethyst Suite. Sterling was at the end of her rope, happy to ease her mind by being bound by Harry’s Shibari ropes.
“Turn around,” said Harry. Sterling obeyed. The scene had begun.
Harry arranged bundles of jute twine on the bureau. She paced over to Sterling and lifted her chin for a kiss. Harry’s lips were soft but the corners of her body were sharp. Their usual tension was missing. Like they’d forgotten how to weave together.
Something was off. Perhaps it was that, try as she might, Sterling couldn’t pretend the person kissing her was Andreas.
She zeroed in on her heartbeat, slow and deep compared to Harry’s fluttering pulse. She nibbled Harry’s lower lip, picturing Andreas’s full lips and how he’d grasped her hair in the alleyway outside the Loos Bar. She clung to wisps at the memory’s edge, tracing her hands along Harry’s skeletal frame, searching for a place where her fantasy could take hold. Where she could pretend as long as she kept her eyes closed.
She thought of every missed opportunity. The narrow bedroom of Room 5. The confessional booth inside the church. The Hotel’sfront steps, where his footprints had spun back. She pictured all the places Andreas hadn’t kissed her until she realized, in a daze, that she’d stopped kissing Harry.
“Where’s your head at, kid?”
“I’m here. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“I’ll do the thinking for both of us, pet.”
Sterling let her worries slip away while her clothes fell to the lilac carpet, leaving her naked save for stockings and shoes. Harry adored those boots. They stayed on.
Harry began with a single-column tie on her right wrist, looping the bight through a quick-release knot. A safety measure, the rigger’s promise to protect the rope bunny. There were dangers to their play, luxurious risks taken for fleeting, blissful rewards.
Bound in the angel tie, Sterling’s arms were bent like wings, fingertips grazing her clavicles. Harry pressed the back of Sterling’s hands, ordering her to push back, checking for radial-nerve compression.
“Good girl,” she said.
Harry looped rope around Sterling’s neck, jute rough against soft skin. Tight, but not enough to restrict her airway. As long as she behaved.
A rope dress covered her torso and looped between her legs, with a sumptuous knot placed in averyconvenient spot. Each time rope dragged under previous loops, the ridges notched against each other, making every knot vibrate. Bound this way, her body moved as a unit, forced to follow orders she’d normally be a brat about.
Harry marched Sterling to the bed and laid her down on her back, rope cutting into her neck with every movement.
“Focus,” instructed Harry. Sterling relaxed, which released tension, allowing her to breathe. Harry spread Sterling’s legs and moved between them, dragging her to the mattress edge. Clenching a loopof rope between her teeth, she rolled up her sleeves. She slipped off her tie, then laid it over Sterling’s eyes.
“Hold still. Keep the blindfold in place.” She kissed over her stomach, snaking her tongue between breaks in the intricate pattern.
Harry’s breath was hot on her neck. She pressed the carefully positioned knot she’d made earlier, and Sterling rocked against it, pleasure surging. The chandelier’s glow traced along the edges of the loose blindfold, flickering. As if the sensation was too overwhelming for even the Hotel to bear.
Harry grasped Sterling’s throat. The sparkling edges of the blindfold darkened as she squeezed. Harry groaned in her ear.
Loud enough that Sterling didn’t hear the door open.
Harry released her throat and stood. “Hey! What the—”
Thud. Crack.
Shards of glass scattered over Sterling, and hot splatter hit her torso. It smelled like blood. She felt Harry collapse and slide to the floor. The intruder clambered on top of Sterling, yanking the ropes at her neck. She tossed the blindfold off. It was dark. The power was out.
Her attacker was faintly outlined by dregs of light from the streetlamps below. Long, curly hair hung over his face. His movements were animalistic, desperate.
It was Lukas, the other bartender from the Loos Bar.
He’d killed Harry. And he was going to kill her.
— 51 —Einundfünfzig
Over the years, Sterling had dated masters of Brazilian jiu jitsu, Krav Maga, even circus acrobatics, and she’d learned moves from each. But none of that shit mattered right now. She was made of fear and instinct. Scratch. Claw. Bite. Kick. Anything for some fucking air.
