Page 34 of Black Heart

But instead of enduring any penitence, I’m creating desperate fuel formore.

If imagining what it would be like to have sex with him was that incredible, what the hell would it be like to actually?—

NO, LAYLA.

That road doesn’t lead to a happy ending. The Scythe insists he’s protecting me, but his traits lean more toward a stalker than a defender. He sends me trinkets in the form of human skin as “proof” that other men are after me.

Not to mention his manners. He took my thumb drive without so much as a thank you.

I clench my fingers above my keyboard when the final, cutting thought hits me: I don’t even know his name.

The fluorescent lights above my cubicle flicker like a warning, the mundaneclick-clackof keyboards around me nowsounding like a countdown to something inevitable, something irreversible.

Like the Scythe will storm in here next, demanding I strip down so he can claim me in front of my startled coworkers.

Last night’s encounter wasn’t just crossing a line. It obliterated it. In one reckless evening, I flirted with danger and danced with the devil. And now, sitting here amid the drone of office normalcy, I’m electrified with a secret that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

I thought I could play him, thought I could weave through his defenses and pluck out his vulnerabilities like a needle through fabric. It was supposed to be a way to gain leverage. If he’s so distracted by my body, maybe I could find a way to escape both the danger he presents and the people who don’t want me talking.

Instead, what I exposed was a rawness within myself and a need for pleasure so deeply sown, I hadn’t known it was there until the Scythe offered me relief.

I’m not sure what I want more. For these Mafia men to show themselves or to stay in this aggravating purgatory where I lay in wait for the next person who wants to hurt me.

If there even is one.

It could all be a ruse. I only think I’m in danger becausehetold me I was. He used it as an excuse to set up cameras in my home, monitor my every move, scare me, threaten me … pleasure me.

But I’m not so innocent myself.I lured him to the top of the lighthouse, knowing what he is. I justified it as a right to an explanation for the jarred nightmare he left in my car, but we all know the real reason I drew him up there.

I wanted to see him again.

My mind replays last night—my fingers turning into his touchand igniting my skin, his very real whispers weaving through the room like silk and steel.

How can I sit here, typing reports and sipping coffee, when I’ve lifted the curtains to this town and seen something darker, so much more intoxicating?

My screen comes to life, an email notification popping up.My heart skips a beat. Because now, every ping, every call could be him. The man who’s not just ambushing my life but also creating a fire that’s threatening to consume everything I am.

I’m still lost in my thoughts when I sense someone standing by my cubicle. Looking up, I see Ethan, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

“Hey, Layla, you okay?” he asks, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve seemed a bit off lately.”

I pause, caught off guard.

“I’m fine, Ethan. Just tired,” I reply, forcing a smile. “You know, long nights of Netflix.”

I’ve been successfully avoiding everyone at Pulse Dynamics, especially Emmitt Dawson, who returned a few days ago after taking time off. He returned quieter and with shifty eyes, like he was constantly bracing for incoming threats.

I don’t blame him. I’ve adopted the same attitude.

If he’s aware that I’m an involuntary witness to his crimes, he doesn’t give any indication. To my surprise, he hasn’t come up to my desk, tried to massage my shoulders, or smell my hair when he thinks he’s asked a distracting enough question to get away with it.

Dawson isn’t avoiding me, exactly. He’s still my supervisor. But he’s not acting like himself. He’s neither creepy nor interested. It’s like I’ve stopped existing.

Like he’s already marked me as a dead girl walking and I’m nolonger worth his time, or he’s been warned that he’ll turn into pickled skin if he’s seen talking to me?

Both are terrifying prospects.

Above me, Ethan’s forehead creases with worry. “You know you can talk to me, right? We’ve known each other for, what, five months now?” He grins. “That puts me way above cubicle neighbor.”

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