Page 95 of The Toy Collector

“What the fuck?” I mutter, squinting at my reflection. My hair is a nest of tangles, my eyes puffy and underlined with smudged mascara.

I look like I’ve been through a war, which isn’t entirely inaccurate. Memories of Static flicker through my mind, but they’re fragmented, like someone took scissors to a film reel.

My hands tremble as I grab my robe, throw it on, and cinch it tight at the waist. Ready for battle, I push the door open, words of rage building in my throat. But as I walk back into my bedroom, the words dissipate.

“Why are you still here?” I ask, accusation heavy in my tone.

Enzo sits on my bed like he has the right—like a dark king surveying his rightful domain. The sheet pools around his waist, exposing a torso that belongs in an Italian Renaissance painting—all lean muscle and smooth skin. His hair falls across his forehead. He looks like sin incarnate, and he knows it.

“Tell me you didn’t move in while I was asleep,” I say, aiming for dry humor but landing somewhere between disbelief and horror.

His eyes, so blue they seem almost artificial in the morning sun, lock onto mine.“Yes,” he says simply.

One word. No explanation. No apology. Just confirmation that this man has invaded my space, planted his flag, and expects me to accept it.

“No,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. “Absolutely not. I appreciate the knight-in-shining-armor routine at Static, but that doesn’t give you permission to…” I wave my hand around frantically, “… to colonize my apartment. You need to leave.”

He doesn’t move. Not an inch. Not a muscle. He just watches me with those eyes that see too much, that strip away pretense and leave me feeling naked despite the fabric wrapped around me.

Smirking, Enzo stands in one fluid motion, the sheet falling away entirely. He’s completely naked and completely unashamed. I try to look away, but my body refuses the command from my brain. My eyes track down the defined planes of his chest, the narrow trail of dark hair that leads to…

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

When I just shake my head and press my lips together, he lets out a deep laugh. Then he reaches for his pants and pulls them on without underwear. The fabric settles low on his hips, and I hate that it’s somehow more erotic than his nudity.

“Come,” he says, already walking. “There’s something I want to show you, Toy.”

Against every scrap of common sense I possess, I follow him out to my living room. He doesn’t wait to see if I will; he just expects it. The worst part is that he’s right.

My breath catches when I see what now hangs on the far wall. A framed puzzle—a portrait of my face, rendered in tiny, interlocking pieces. It’s stunning in its detail… so intimate it feels like surveillance disguised as art. Perfectly capturing the flecks of gold in my eyes, and the scar in my eyebrow that even I forget exists.

But what makes my stomach drop are the eight blank spaces where no piece resides. “What the…” I trail off and shake my head.

“The missing ones are the ones you burned,” he explains without prompting.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break through. Now I finally see what the pieces I destroyed were; parts of me.

It’s obsessive. Deranged. A violation dressed as devotion. And still... part of me wants to be seen like this. My fingers touch my lips as I realize the horrible truth. I like being the object of such dedicated obsession.

I continue to stare at the missing pieces, at the spaces I’ve created, and feel something hot and dangerous blooming in my chest. Something that makes my skin tingle and my breath quicken.

Needing to distract myself, I turn and head toward the kitchen. “I don’t think it goes with my furniture,” I dryly say over my shoulder. “And I don’t like looking at myself.”

Enzo doesn’t even bother responding, but his answering chuckle grinds on me. This isn’t funny at all. It’s disturbing, and wrong on too many levels to count.

In the kitchen, I head straight for the coffee maker. My fingers have just touched the canister of beans when his hand closes around my wrist. The contact is electric and shamefully welcome.

“No caffeine,” he says, voice quiet but final. Like the decision was made hours ago.

I jerk my arm away. “Excuse me?”

“Your system is still processing the drugs.” His tone is matter-of-fact, devoid of condescension but allowing no argument. “Caffeine will make it worse.”

“So will dealing with you without coffee,” I mutter, but something in me, some treacherous part, is touched by his concern.

He opens the refrigerator, retrieving a bottle I know for a fine fact I didn’t buy. “You can have coconut water.” Then he gestures to a wooden box on the counter I definitely didn’t own yesterday. “If you insist on something hot, there’s caffeine free herbal tea.”

I want to hurl both options at his perfectly sculptured head. I want to tell him that I’m a grown woman who can decide what goes into her own body. The irony of this thought, after Ben literally drugged me, isn’t lost on me.

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