Page 2 of The Darkest Hour

But. . .if I have to die, let it be here. This is a good place.

I returned to the woman enraptured by the octopuses.

How does it feel? Are you cuming from their touch?

I was no stranger to such bizarre displays; this club catered to the elite's most eccentric tastes regardless of illegality or morality laws. This was why it was located on a hidden island—a place that wasn’t even represented on most maps.

A place where I could truly be safe from tons of killers who were relentlessly pursuing the $10 million dollar reward on my head. Here, I could escape the ruthless chases—the endless game of cat and mouse that had recently defined my weeks.

Still, I scanned the space and could never let my guard down completely.

Danger lurked in every shadow.

Even here on this remote island, someone might be looking for me. The thought kept me vigilant, always prepared for the next threat.

The next challenge.

Satisfied that there was no danger, I turned back to the tank.

Hmmm.

Even more octopuses appeared, nibbling and tracing a path down her lush silhouette, from the curve of her neck, down the swell of her breasts, over the natural arch of her waist, and even between her thighs.

She trembled in pleasure and more bubbles left her mouth.

The woman's eyes were closed in ecstasy, lost in the sensations rippling across her skin as the tentacles slithered over her. In that moment, she wasn't merely a spectacle for the crowd's pleasure—she was a paramour of the ocean, indulging in wicked, intoxicating play.

Thoroughly entertained, I watched as one of the octopuses—much larger than its peers—extended a long arm towards her face. The suckers on its limb delicately grazed her lips.

Her back arched slightly at this sensation.

I licked my lips and felt that familiar thrill. It was a reminder of the power dynamics I had navigated so many times before with women, always on the edge of control and surrender.

On the stage and behind the tank, a band began to play a sultry jazz number, weaving its way into our senses.

The double echoes of trumpet and saxophone created a symphony of desire as if each note were another suction cup on her brown skin.

Occasionally, she would open her eyes and look out into the male audience with a knowing smile. Her gaze would linger on each of our faces before returning to a far-off place where only she and the octopuses existed.

Mmmm. Maybe, I should buy her to fuck.

I took another sip of my bourbon, savored the burn as it slid down my throat, and noticed a familiar figure entering the room.

Finally.

A man with wide-rimmed glasses and a tailored suit, approached.

Paris.

Of course, that wasn't his real name.

In our world, no one ever shared their real names.

“Good evening, Havoc,” Paris greeted me, settling into the chair next to mine. Then, he gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering on the well-defined muscles that strained against the fabric of my suit. “You look quite dashing as usual.”

“You look dashing too.” I grinned. “However, you’re late. Surely, I should get a discount.”

“Very funny.” Paris frowned. “This place isn't exactly easy to get to, you know. The Pacific Ocean is vast, and finding a hidden island that isn't even on the map is no small feat. I had to charter a seaplane, and the navigation alone was a nightmare. Add in the restricted airspace and the need for discretion, and you can understand the delay.”