Page 15 of Death By Chocolate

Dani doesn’t get to run from us.

7

DANI

HOME SWEET HOME

Ikissed Xeno, but I shouldn’t have.

He’s in my space, but he shouldn’t be. What is he doing? For that matter, what is he doing to me? His kiss tasted of Kentucky Bourbon, smooth and flavorful. It had been so long, the feel of a man’s lips on mine, dominating in its invasion, gentle in its probing. I lost myself in how good it felt. My pussy is still spasming for his thick cock.

Stupid, I know.

Omar, and probably the entire Hernandez-Dominquez family know I’m alive. I need a plan. One that does not include a six-foot-three, over-the-top Greek god.

The orange-red sunset bleeds across the sky like a fresh wound, casting long shadows through my floor-to-ceiling windows. I stretch my aching limbs, feeling the pull of healing tissue and the whisper of bandages beneath my clothes. The antiseptic smell from the clinic still clings to my skin, a ghost I can't shake. My apartment is smaller, much of it huge panes of floor-to-ceiling windows.

The wall thing again.

It feels different now, alien somehow. Twelve hundred square feet of emptiness staring back at me through pristine glass walls. The city sprawls below, a maze of lights and secrets I used to navigate with anonymity. Now? Not so much.

“No paintings. No basket of junk mail. One sculpture,” I hear Xeno say from behind me, his voice carrying an edge I can't quite place. “Interesting.”

The words hit harder than they should. That sculpture, a souvenir, reminds me - this place may never be a home. It's a waystation, a temporary shelter for someone who never planned to put down roots. The bare walls mock me now, reflecting nothing but tactical advantages and escape routes. It’s barren, like me. Huh, maybe it’s exactly what I am—rooms with empty spaces, blank walls with nothing to capture the eye, a thing to be tossed away, forgotten.

“Hey, you can go where you pay rent,” I mutter, but my voice lacks conviction. The open-concept layout I'd chosen five years ago when I accepted the job suddenly feels exposed and vulnerable. Every corner is visible from the front door except for the master bath and walk-in closet. Perfect sight lines for defense, but nowhere to hide.

Xeno's presence fills the space like smoke, impossible to ignore “And give you an out. Fuck no.”

“Lucky me.” My voice oozes sarcasm. “Oh, and the tour is self-guided.”

Every room except the master bath, the only bath, and the walk-in closet is visible from the front door. I opted out of the elevator entrance.

“Say that to all your visitors?”

Two steps down on the left is the living area— a huge L-shaped red suede couch with an ottoman that serves as a table and hidden storage. Centered on the sliver of black-painted brick that separates more floor-to-ceiling windows, a gianttelevision monitor mounted but rarely used. Two steps down on the right, all the kitchen appliances line up on the left like good soldiers in front of the elevated counter where I eat most of my meals. My bedroom has the tactical advantage; it sits on a dais, and the nation’s capital watches my back. No one else ever has.

Focusing on the hidden security panel, I hold still, allowing it to scan my retina. The contact lens that I feel naked without cools, signaling the connection. I know my eye color has shifted from brown to a vivid green. “House, status report,” I mumble, rolling my shoulders back. “Any breaches?”

“All systems green, Dani. No one has entered this unit since your departure. I detect one bio-signature in addition to yours.” House continues his pre-programmed, British accent, a welcomed familiarity. “Voss, Xeno, a resident of The Governor, has entered your premises. Shall I activate your do not disturb notification on all electronic devices and your sexual healing playlist?”

Shit, I’d forgotten that House had been programmed to heighten my privacy when I have a male visitor, other than the protectors of The Governor—Roman, Silvio, and Gabriel. Corso owned the damn block he could override every privacy and defense protocol.

“No—”

“Fuck, yes,” Xeno chuckles, looking around my space with a wry grin. “What else does she like, House? Cum on her tits. Cum-soaked panties. Cum deep in her ass.”

My pussy clenches as he tells me what he wants to do to me. I squeeze my legs together, ignoring the wetness pooling between folds. Luckily, he’s behind me, unable to detect the changes in my breathing.

“You’re not authorized,” House replies. Its posh British accent makes it sound more like a private butler than an AI-integrated defense program.

Xeno steps up behind me. A slight tremor ripples over my skin. The heat of him warms my back. My body betrays me, every nerve ending sparking to life. I resist the urge to lean on him. This isn’t the clinic. I can’t blame my reaction to him on medications.

“I want full access,” he whispers, close enough that his breath stirs my hair.

My mind races through the implications. Full access means trust. Trust means vulnerability. Vulnerability gets people killed. But the wall I've built between myself and the world feels thinner with every passing second. His words have a dual meaning. I’m not surprised that he’s back to talking about sex. I’m grateful he’s not asking questions about the ambush. Sex I can handle. Sharing my secrets, not so much.

If I hadn't been stuck in the fucking bed for the last two days, there's a good chance that we would have fucked each other already, grown bored, and moved on. Underneath all that crazed killer, there’s a natural-born charmer. He knows what to say and when to say it. It makes me wonder what I’m missing. How will he fuck me? Will he punish my body? Will he want to please me? Will he coax my orgasm, or will he fuck it out of me, bend my body to his will?

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