Page 55 of Goldsin

Dead.

A rush of adrenaline courses through me. Relief and satisfaction next.

Julian entwines our bloodied fingers, squeezing my hand ever so slightly before leading me out of the grimy corner and toward his matte-blackDucatiparked outside.

The sleek machine seems to purr with anticipation as Julian straddles it before extending a helmet to me. I hesitate, my hand frozen in midair as I stare at it.

The events of the night are still swirling through my mind—the bastard’s hands on me, the taste of fear as heviolated me, the visceral satisfaction of exacting my revenge.

“Hey.” Julian softly breaks the spell, offering me his bloodstained hand.

I look at him and see the same pain, anger, and determination mirrored in his eyes.

For a brief second I allow myself to forget about the guy and what he did to me. I place my trembling hand, soaked with blood, in his crimson one and feel a strange sense of comfort at his touch.

In one swift motion I slip on the helmet and climb onto the bike behind him. I shoot a quick text to Eleanora to let her know I’m heading back home with Julian without giving too many details. I’ll let her imagination explore what might have happened tonight. I don’t want to worry her ... or tell her I killed someone.

As we speed through the Seattle night, the wind whipping through my hair and the city lights blurring together, I cling to Julian, feeling more alive than ever before.

Because despite everything, I know we’re similar in so many ways. Bloodied, broken, but still fighting.

CHAPTER TWELVE

JULIAN

The moment we enter my penthouse the heavy silence of the night surrounds us.

Aurelia stops in her tracks, her eyes darting around the place as if she’s a trapped animal. “Maybe I should just go home ...”

A heavy feeling hammers in my chest. The thought of leaving her alone tonight gnaws at me. She’s been through enough, and I wasn’t there to prevent it from happening ... I just need to have my eyes on her for the rest of the night.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than intended. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her eyes lock with mine, and I can see the defiance in them. But she doesn’t argue back. Instead she chooses to follow me through the penthouse.

That’s my good girl.

We reach my bedroom, and I flick on the lights,revealing the king-size bed with its black silk sheets and the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an unbeatable view of the Seattle skyline. A large abstract painting hangs on one wall, its vibrant colors and distorted shapes challenging the viewer’s perception. That’s why I love abstract paintings. I could lie in bed and stare at them for hours.

But it’s the pinboard next to it that truly tells a story, adorned with a collection of my favorite book quotes and various trinkets I’ve collected over the years. Each one holds a special memory. They’re more than just objects; these are fragments of my past. That’s why I didn’t add anything to remind me of Aurelia. Categorizing her as something that happened once and no longer exists would be wrong. That’s not her. She’s still a part of my present, something I refuse to let go of.

My eyes fall to the poem I pinned to the board, “The Chrysophilist”byTheodore Montclair. I read it every night before falling asleep, to the point I now know it by heart. Like a religion. A prayer.

Like a sinful spell for the heart.

“The Chrysophilist

It shines,

calling to you the first time you see it.

Never rusts,

but it does with your heart.

It gleams,

telling you it’s all you need.

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