Page 23 of Entity

“Thank you, Kit.”

“For what?”

“Wanting nothing from me. No one has done that before. Not here.”

I open my mouth to ask what that means —Not here— when Orpheus lifts his head, gaze sharpening. He steps back from me, leaving me bereft, his gaze locked on something beyond the room. “Ian is coming,” he says. “He’ll be home soon.”

My stomach jolts, and I plummet back down to reality. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, playing imaginary love games with a Pleasurebot. “But how do you know—”

“I know,” Orpheus says. “He’s coming.”

“Okay,” I breathe. “Fuck, I have to go. I have to turn you off. I’m so sorry.”

But Orpheus is already on the dais, taking the same pose I found him in. He inclines his head. “Put this body to sleep, Kit. I’ll see you again soon.”

Anguish fills my chest. Ian won’t get an emergency call every day I’m here. “I don’t know if I will—”

“I’ll see you again,” Orpheus repeats.

I nod, swallowing a sob as I kneel at his feet. I’ve only just met him, but it feels like I’m losing a loved one.

I press the back of his heel, and then he’s gone.

Already, that sweet, familiar feeling that’s been holding my heart in a caress is beginning to fade. Everything seems sharper now, colder.

I turn for the door, knowing that, barring any cuckolding sexual proclivities, if Ian finds me down here, he’ll have me thrown out. The book will be canceled. But just before I slam Orpheus’s door shut behind me, I turn and look back.

He stands unmoving on the dais.

I shudder at the sight, and bile rises in my throat. Like this, he’s no longer Orpheus. He’s the Prototype, nothing more than a marvel of engineering. It’s like looking at a corpse.

I close the door and type in the code. The lock clicks, and I’m sprinting down the corridor, back through the vault door, and up the stairs. Over and over as I run, one thought repeats itself:He’s a fucking robot, Katherine. Whatever I met in that room was a program inside an enticing body, all engineered by Ian De Leon. Orpheus is a Pleasurebot, programmed to seduce human women. He’s probablyprogrammedto make everyone around him feel secure, familiar. Maybe it’s a frequency he emits, a psychological trick, a hypnotic effect.

He’s a fucking robot, Katherine.

I only just make it back up to the penthouse, lungs on fire, legs aching, when the elevator pings. I know how breathless I look, my cheeks flushed, hair in disarray. I rush to the sofa, flopping into a sitting position, trying to look casual.

The doors slide open.

Ian clocks me immediately, and our gazes lock. I think he narrows his eyes for a split second, some unknown emotion tightening the edges of his mouth. But then the moment passes.

“Fucking Christ,” Ian huffs, a sigh and a curse, going straight for the bar. “What a day, what aday. Sorry to leave you high and dry.”

“No problem.” I’m relieved to find that I sound almost normal — not too obviously winded from jogging up several flights of stairs. “I’ve just been brainstorming for the book. I came up with a slightly new direction.”

He rummages in the bar, pulling out a crystal glass and the whiskey. “Yeah? Tell me.”

“I have ideas. I mean, it’s a biography, but what if I put essays and slice-of-life anecdotes between each chapter? I think the public would love it. I’m thinking maybe I can include some of my personal experiences. From here in the penthouse.” I don’t have to elaborate; it’s obvious what I mean.

“Sure, sure.” Ian’s response is distracted, dismissive. He pours himself two fingers of whiskey and turns to face me, leaning his elbows on the bar. His dark eyes are piercing, the planes of his face softly lit with blue and purple from the alternating lights of a high-rise ad outside.

From where I watch, Ian looks almost inhuman. The contrasting light playing across his features, the way his hair falls just so, long black lashes framing a steady gaze. It’s like there is a sheen of unreality between us, or a canvas on which he’s been painted, and I’m trying to connect with a truth that can’t be seen.

I think of Orpheus, the connection I felt between us, the hint of obsession. I’ve experienced something like it before. I mean, I know who I am — I’ve been horny and infatuated too many times to count. But with Orpheus, it felt different. More. It was an intoxicating ache deep in my chest, more than just lust. And I hate that I feel empty without it now, that I miss it, that I misshim.

Ian watches me intensely, sipping his whiskey. Unspoken words spark between us, and I wonder how much he assumes. Does he guess I met his gorgeous creation in the vault? Doeshe see the wiring of my heart trailing away and down the stairs, down to where Orpheus stands unmoving in the dark?

“You should have a drink,” Ian says, joining me on the couch, his whiskey already half-gone. “You look pale.”

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