Page 8 of Shadow Man
His anger lingers, bright and hard. Lighting up the alleyway in suicide red. I hear the faint ringing of a connecting call before he’s issuing out coded instructions to his cleanup crew.
“Near the corner of Fairfax and Redmond. Double hit. Clock’s ticking.”
What must I look like to him, I wonder. Back turned, dress ruined, too much skin on display—
“You’re going back to rehab.” Hanging up, he swings his declaration at me.
No compromise.
No way.
I don't know what’s best for me anymore, but I know it’s not that. I’ve never felt more sterile than I do in those places. They’re guillotines for the soul.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I heard you.
“Here.”
A warm jacket gets thrown around my shoulders, the heady, intoxicating smell of him drugging my senses more than the coke. It’s too much. He’s too much.
“Stop, Grayson,” I say hoarsely, dragging his jacket from my body. “Just leave me alone...Just leave me alone.”
Shutting my eyes, I drive my forehead into the wall, the roughness scratching at my skin again as invisible creatures crawl from the brickwork and into my broken cracks. At the same time, I can feel him moving behind me, not touching—never touching—but my awareness of him, of the heat emanating from his body, tells of a prologue to a story I’m refusing to read.
“Never.” The deep vibration spills up from the center of his chest.
Never?
Very little falls from his mouth, and it’s always three sentences short of an explanation.
He plants one large hand above my head, sentencing me to his brand of intimacy, forcing the one thing that we never speak of from my lips.
“Do you want to fuck me too, Joseph?” Every word is stripped bare by the resignation in my voice. “Is that what makes you my shadow? If so, then do it. Take me now. Ruin every shred of decency left inside of me. There’s nothing you can do to this body that’ll make it feel any less empty or used.”
There’s a pause. “I don’t fuckbroken.”
He delivers it angrily, viciously, like my words disgust him. LikeIdisgust him. I shut my eyes even tighter, his response bruising me far more than it should.
How did my life come to this?To this alleyway… To this sinner… To the black dress now torn across my shoulders… To a world of darkness… To the two would-be rapists lying dead at my feet.
“I don't fuckbroken,” he repeats huskily, his breath skimming across my exposed neck, forcing me to imagine the shape and texture of his kiss. “When you come to me willingly, Anna,and you will come to me willingly one day, I want you whole. I want you compliant. I want those legs wide open, with all your pretty morals, regrets and pain lying next to your soaking-wet panties on the floor. And shall I tell you why, myLuna?” The breath catches in my throat. This is the most I’ve ever heard him speak. “I want the pleasure of breaking you all for myself.” He moves in even closer, until there’s barely a whisper and a prayer between us. “Your walls will crumble. Your tides will turn. When you scream and shatter and fall apart in my hands, it’ll be me who puts you back together again. You will meld only to me. You willseeonly me. You willwantonly me.”
“I hate you,” I whimper, tears of helpless rage smearing across my cheeks. Despite everything, I can feel a stirring between my thighs. It’s a spark that can’t catch. It’s a spark that’s drenched in pain and self-loathing... But it’s a spark, nonetheless.
“Perhaps.” He drops his hand and takes a step away from me, flaying me with cold air and solitude. “But hate crashes people together as hard as that other emotion… One night, Anna—”
“To fuck the shadow and never dance amongst the stars again,” I finish for him, tonelessly.
The air shifts again, blackens, and then I’m feeling his heat for the first time. Grabbing my arm, he spins me around to face him.
Just as quick, I wrench it away, clutching at the ripped seams of my dress to cover my exposed chest. “Get your hands off me!” I scream, because a touch from him hurts more than anyone’s.
He curses and lets go. The alleyway is sparsely lit with the headlights from passing cars. I see his huge silhouette before I see the man. The myth.The shadow.He hasn't changed much since we last met. He’s still six-foot-four of hard muscle and discordant sin. With steely eyes and a dirty blond buzz-cut to penetrate my surfaces more cleanly.
“First I’ll make you bleed, and then I’ll make you heal,” he repeats slowly.
I glance at the bodies on the ground.