Page 37 of The Darkness is Calling

For a few moments, she says nothing. Then she breaks the silence with the question I expected the moment I made that statement.

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She exhales sharply, probably disappointed by my vague answer.

“And you can call me Katya.”

“I like Ekaterina better.”

“Then why did you call me dusha moya?”

I frown slightly, thinking both of an answer that will not be misunderstood and of the reason I called her my soul. Such an intimate endearment, yet a powerful one, whispered by the dark part of me that longed for her light.

And still does.

“Go to sleep, Ekaterina. It’s late,” I tell her in a tone that makes her understand the conversation is over.

Then I turn my back on her and try to fall asleep.

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

I almost laugh, amused by her desire to have the last word.

“I will if you will.”

I manage to rest only after some time, once I realize the woman beside me has been conquered by sleep.

I am not the kind of man who has trouble sleeping, the way I hear others do, haunted at night by the ghosts of those they have killed. That only means they dislike what they do. For me, Death calms me down, and that is why I always sleep very well, accompanied by the melodic screams of my victims.

But tonight, my dreams come scented with jasmine, on a beach in Greece, where the water is the color of her eyes and carries the delicate silhouette of the woman beside me.

Far from my usual kind of dreams, but neither I nor my body complain.

I do not need an alarm to wake up every day at six.

But when I open my eyes, I am surprised to see it is past seven thirty... and her lips are only a few inches from my face.

This woman is a delicate princess by day, but at night she turns into an… octopus.

I rise onto one elbow to admire the strange position in which she is sprawled diagonally, taking over more of the bed than any normal human should be able to.

I cannot help reacting with a gesture so ordinary for others, but far too foreign to me. I barely stop the laugh that wants to explode out of me when I see her head on my pillow.

Mine.

Her hair scattered everywhere, one hand thrown above her head, the other very close to my cock, which is growing harder at the sight of the princess stripped of all armor and immaculate masks.

In fact, she seems more beautiful to me like this than she does in her elegant clothes or with her hair styled as if for a photo shoot. She is perfect, and I do not stop smiling until my gaze drops along her sprawled body and I slowly realize just how tempting she would be if I were allowed to touch her.

Her breasts are barely covered by the T-shirt that has ridden up her stomach, exposing quite a bit of it, and the sheet no longer touches even an inch of the fine skin now caressed by the growing morning light. Her legs are slightly parted, and my imagination carries my fingers along her thigh, beneath the shorts, to the warm center only a madman would not want to taste.

Fuck it.

Now I am firmly convinced that my idea of forcing her to stay in my bed was a terrible one. Extremely terrible.

Which is strange, because my decisions are always flawless.