Page 40 of Safe Word

However… would I really be able to aim to kill if he was waiting inside?

I nudged the door open with my foot, every nerve in my body screaming.

Shadows stretched across the corner tiles like the tentacles of a beast.

Unsteadily, I pushed the door open further, my gun cocked and ready as the hinges creaked with foreboding. Darkness greeted me with all my fears and insecurities, windings itself around my chest.

The alarm began to churn in warning, its mechanical sound calmly counting down the seconds as though the door hadn’t already been breached. Uncle had insisted on the system, too – a failsafe that activated if there was no movement in the flat for over an hour. It was supposed to make me feel safe, but tonight, it felt sinister. Mocking.

There hadn’t been any alerts on my phone. The app should have blared the second someone tried to force their way in. I had tested it myself, over and over, until I was sure it was infallible. But there had been nothing. No notification. No warning.

But that slow creak of the door opening onto an empty void…

With a shaky hand, I clicked the light switch. Brightness flooded the room, and I held my breath, my heart clenching as I willed the shadows to stay empty. I never prayed before, but now I wished I knew how to. Because I don’t want to see those eyes. Blue, haunting eyes that had stared through me a thousand times before.

He can’t be here.

I forced the rising panic back down my throat.

Travis was in prison, I reasoned with myself. Half a world away, locked, where he couldn’t hurt me any more. He couldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t possibly know where to find me. He doesn’t even speak Italian.

I reiterated those words until they took root in me and bloomed into enough courage to invite me further in.

Leaving the door open behind me, I stepped inside, my free hand fumbling for my phone. I swept through the security app’s live feed, frantically checking each camera.

Empty.

The flat was empty.

If anyone had been inside, the cameras would have caught them. I should have felt relief, but it didn’t come. The knot in my stomach only tightened as the realisation struck.

I’d left the fucking door unlocked? Was I that stupid?

My mind raced, replaying the night. I’d been lost in the haze of Ghost and the package change – the anticipation of his touch, his voice, the way he could make me forget everything but him. Had I been so reckless, so desperate, that I’d left the goddamn door wide open?

After everything I’d done to keep my presence here a secret, all the careful measures, the painful precautions, I’d nearly blown it. Like some naïve teenage girl consumed by lust, I’d left myself fucking exposed.

The initial fear ebbed, replaced by something colder. My teeth pressed tight together, bitterness burning hot behind them, but even that couldn’t hold back the reality from crashing down on me.

All the satisfaction, the relaxation I’d felt earlier – it was gone now. Shattered. The warmth of Ghost’s touch felt like a distant memory, eclipsed by the suffocating dread creeping in from the edges of my mind.

Reality had sunk its claws in, and there was no escaping it.

Sighing, I gave in and reached for that bottle of wine after all. The cork popped with a satisfying thunk, and as I poured myself a glass, I peeled off my wig, tossing it onto the back of a chair. My scalp prickled with relief as I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the tension ease ever so slightly.

After viewing a day’s worth of camera feed on fast-forward, I realised I had been stupid enough to leave the door open. Between the moment I’d left and the moment I’d returned, there hadn’t been a soul in the flat.

Cursing at myself, my eyes dropped to the laptop on my desk that waited like a silent judge, and I knew there was no avoiding it.

With another sip, the tingling sensation of panic retracted its jagged grip on me.

I fired up the laptop, nestling into my couch, the screen casting a pale glow across the room.

I guess I was going to write after all.

Ghost’s fingerprints still lingered upon my skin, but Chapter Fifteen of D’Angelo’s story was calling: the tale of an abused woman fleeing her sadistic husband – only to stumble into the arms of his equally sadistic brother. It had become disturbingly cathartic to write. Her twisted preference for his flavour of pain and torture wasn’t just an escape. It was a choice. A dark, deliberate choice. And as much as I hated to admit it, I could relate.

Memories morphed into fiction, ideas bled through, and my fingers flew across the keyboard. Steamy, vivid descriptions poured out of me as though the words had been waiting, lurking in the dark all along. This was the kind of scene broken women like me would devour – raw, passionate, laced with a flavour of danger that’d make their pulse shatter. And after my session with Ghost, and the jolt of finding the door open, I was left with a strange cocktail of lust, adrenaline and paranoia swirling in my veins. Desire still hummed under my skin, tangling with the fear. Not the clean kind – the kind that made me wonder if I’d left a part of myself behind in someone else’s hands.