Chapter 2 The Sacred Side Of Desire

I kept the flower.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I couldn't throw it away.

It sits in a water glass by the kitchen window, drooping now. Wilted at the edges. Still hauntingly white. Like it knows things about me I've worked five years to forget.

It shouldn't mean anything.

But the moment I touched that stem, it all came back-Dominic's breath in my ear, his fingers sliding between my thighs, whispering filth into my skin and calling it love.

He didn't take me.

He consumed me.

And I let him.

I pull my coat tight and head out. The streets are clean. Empty. A little too quiet. Munich always carries a polished kind of cold, like its buildings don't care whether you live or die as long as you don't make a scene.

Every click of my heels sounds louder than it should. Every shadow stretches longer. My pulse is too fast for a normal walk.

I passed a bakery. A man steps aside to let me by. Smiles.

He's harmless.

Probably.

But I feel it. That crackle in the air. That tight coil of something watching me.

I don't turn around. Don't run. That's how prey gets hunted.

At the café, I pretend to be someone normal. Someone who doesn't check every reflection for ghosts.

There's a new guy behind the counter. His name tag says Ben. He's twenty-something, soft-spoken, the kind who listens to podcasts about ancient Rome and thinks espresso is a personality.

He tries to flirt. I laugh too loud, too fast.

Then I feel it again.

That shift in the air.

Eyes on me.

But the whole time, I'm watching the door. Watching every man that walks in. Every stranger who makes eye contact too long. Every one who smells faintly of the cologne he used to wear-cedar, smoke, and sin.

I glance out the window. No one. Just my own reflection looking pale and tight-lipped.

He promised he'd find me. That no wall, no handler, no government would keep him from what was his.

"You think a courtroom can cage me, little dove?" he once said, voice soft like sin.

"You think your words can undo what I carved into you?"

By the time I get home, I'm exhausted.

That night, I slept with the lights on.

The flower droops further. The note stays folded in my nightstand drawer.

Every creak of the building feels louder. Every gust of wind is like a breath on the back of my neck.

By midnight, I'm under the covers, eyes wide open, body stiff, mind running circles.

I dream of him again.

I'm back in Venice. His apartment. The high ceilings and glass chandeliers. The smell of leather and smoke and something darker.

He's behind me.

One hand on my throat.

The other... sliding down the curve of my spine, past my hips, cupping me between the legs like he's testing something he already owns.

"I missed you," he says, voice low and thick. "But I missed this more."

He pressed me against the window.

Naked.

Exposed.

I feel the cold glass against my nipples, my breath fogging the pane as he spreads my legs wider with his knee.

"You've been dreaming of me too," he says.

His hand slides between my thighs.

I moan-too loud, too needy.

But he loves it when I fall apart.

His fingers sink into me, rough and deliberate, every movement dragging pleasure through my nerves like punishment.

"Still so fucking tight," he growls against my ear. "I could fuck you for hours and you'd still beg for more."

I try to protest, but all I can do is pant.

And then he's inside me.

Hard.

Deep.

Filling me in a way no one else ever did.

The window rattles as he slams into me again and again, his hand around my throat, his other hand gripping my breast like he's staking his claim.

"You never stopped being mine, Elena. Say it."

I shake my head, tears in my eyes-but my hips move in rhythm with his.

"I hate you," I whisper.

He grins. "Then hate me on your knees."

He pulls out, spins me around, and pushes me down.

I drop to my knees without thinking.

And I take him into my mouth.

He fists my hair and groans, watching me like I'm art he commissioned himself.

"You were born for this," he says.

And as I moan around him, I believe it.

I jerk upright, disgusted with myself.

Hand buried between my legs, slick and trembling.

My entire body throbs.

I curl in on myself, humiliated and breathless.

Because the worst part of trauma is when your body wants the monster more than it wants safety.

When your nightmare feels better than your reality.

Dominic Russo was the beginning and the end of me.

The fire and the ash.

"You can hate me all you want, Elena," he once growled into my throat.

"But you'll never stop letting me inside you."

I wake with a start, heart racing, soaked in sweat.

My hand is between my thighs, fingers still twitching, hips bucking against the phantom memory of him.

Shame chokes me.

But it doesn't drown the truth.

That night, I dream of him again. His mouth on my neck. His hands between my thighs. His voice is a weapon. I wake up gasping for his name.