Page 42 of Irrevocably

I click through to the recording from last night, and of course there’s us, having sex in her bed. I watch us, the urge to keep watching so strong that I have to take a breath and force myself to speed up the playback. I don’t need to see us fuck again, been there, done that. I fast-forward to after I’ve gone, then watch her sitting on the bed, still wrapped in the quilt. She slides her hand under one of the pillows and brings out my knife, and in spite of myself, I’m amused.

So, she did take it. Little thief.

She examines it for a long moment, then gets out of bed and goes to the windows, flicking aside the curtain to look outside. Then she turns around and looks around her room, frowning. She’s restless and clearly searching for something, her gaze roaming. Then she looks straight at the camera, and her eyes narrow, and she’s coming toward it, reaching up to where I put it on the wall near one of her posters. She stares at it for one long moment and then, abruptly, she turns and vanishes out of her room.

Fuck. So that’s why my feeds went dead. She found the camera in her bedroom and then went to search the house for more. Tinkerbell’s no fool.

I’m irritated that she found all the eyes in her house, but I’m also strangely … impressed. God knows how she knew to look for cameras, but she did and she found them. Definitely not what I was expecting.

I fast-forward her bedroom feed until she finally comes back in and then watch as she looks at the last camera and says, “Hey. If you’re wondering, I’ve got your knife. Oh, and I found all your little spy cameras, too. I took them all out, but I think I’ll leave this one here.” She gives me a smile. “Enjoy the show.”

I lean back against the couch, irritated and amused in equal measure. She found them all. One point to the good little college girl. Luckily for me, the cameras aren’t vital any longer, not now I have her.

The only feed I have left now is the one in her bedroom, and it’s empty.

I’m not disappointed, of course not. Why would I be? I was only checking the cameras, nothing more, and now I’ve checked them, it’s clear I don’t need to bother anymore.

Yet, I don’t move. I stare at her empty bedroom, focusing on her white wrought-iron bed and its bright patchwork quilt. Where I made her come hard and scream my name. Where for the only time in my life, I was in charge. I made the decisions. I controlled things. And for once, it didn’t end in death.

My cock hardens, just to spite me, and I’m just about to close the laptop and find myself something more useful to do, when Astrid finally walks in. She must have had a shower since she’s wearing a pretty robe covered in blue flowers, and her long hair looks damp.

I still, my breath catching.

She’s standing with her back to the camera and slowly – too slowly not to be intentional – she lets it fall from her shoulders and onto the floor, leaving her naked.

This is for me, isn’t it? She can’t know for sure that I’m watching her live, but she definitely knows that I’ll be watching at some point.

I should close the laptop and walk away. I’ve seen her naked, and while she’s certainly beautiful, I’ve seen plenty of beautiful naked women. Yet even so, I don’t move, all the blood in my body rushing below my belt.

Somehow, it’s different watching her now, knowing how silky her skin felt, how tight her pussy was, and how sweet she tasted. I can’t seem to look away. I find myself reaching out to touch her image on the screen, tracing her shoulder and down her side, over her hip and thigh. Naturally, I feel nothing, but the memories of last night linger. I can still feel her against my fingertips, still taste her on my tongue.

She turns her head to the side, one corner of her mouth lifting. She’s doing this to fuck with me, isn’t she? Which means I should definitely close this laptop and not let her get into my head. But instead I lean forward, as if that will close the distance between us, enable me to smell her scent, feel her heat. I want her to turn around, give me a glimpse of those pretty tits and the curls between her thighs. I want her to tell me that she wants me.

She doesn’t do any of those things, though. Keeping her back to the camera, she picks up a pair of pale-blue lacy sleep shorts and puts them on, followed by a matching lacy camisole with thread-fine straps.

My gut clenches. She’s not going to let me see her.

I’m used to being the weapon in Enzo’s hands, his decisions mine. But I’m the one with the power when it comes to a target. I’m the one who waits and watches and when the time comes, delivers the killing blow. They never see it coming, because if they did, I would have failed at my job.

But this … I don’t have the power here. She’s taken my camera and she’s using it against me, and the only thing I can do is stop watching.

And I don’t.

My dick hardens, pushing against my fly and the ache becomes even worse, when finally, she turns. The camisole clings to every delicious inch of her tits, her nipples hard and visible through the thin fabric. The fabric of her sleep shorts is thin, too, and for a second I wish she was a brunette so I could see the dark shadow of the curls guarding her pussy.

She looks up at the camera. “You want to watch me, Lucien? Fine. Watch me.”

Then she goes over to the bed and pulls my knife out from under her pillow.

Chapter Twenty-One

ASTRID

I don’t know if Lucien is watching me live, but I hope so. And I hope he’s furious that I took all his cameras down. This morning, I thought briefly about telling Dad that there were cameras in our house, but I decided not to in the end. He’d have too many questions that might lead him to find out about Lucien, and I can’t have anyone finding out about Lucien.

He’s my secret. Mine. And I’m not giving him up until I’ve figured out what the hell is going on in Blackwater.

Dad was out all day today, and he’s still not home tonight, so I can’t talk to him yet about his relationship to the Hellhounds. It’s definitely not a conversation I want to have via text, which means I have to wait until he’s home.