Page 14 of Closer Than You Think
Even her.
Six
Hallie
Iwake the next morning with an ache between my legs. But not from my newfound near-constant state of arousal. It’s more real, more visceral. It feels like it’s from being used.
But that doesn’t make any sense. I think about the dream I had. A hazy, delirious dream that has me reeling with pleasure.
A man, just like the one from my book, came into my apartment and fucked me just like I’d been fantasizing about. I can’t remember his face, but I remember the way he made me feel. Wanted. No, needed. It felt like he was pleasing me and claiming me all at once. I’d never had a dream like that before.
Surely, that’s all it was. A dream. But a part of me isn’t sure.
I look around me and notice nothing out of place. My window is closed. My bed has no imprint from another body laying next to me. My pale, freckled thighs have no finger-shaped bruises.
But my pussy feels used. Could it have been me? Could I have just been too rough with myself in some dream-state?
I try to remember what happened. Admittedly, taking a sleeping pill and drinking an entire bottle of wine was not the smartest idea. I’m normally much more responsible. But between the stress of Alex’s investigation into Teddy’s death,and my hormones raging, I’d just wanted to relax and enjoy my Friday night.
And I did.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the remnants of the dream that cling to my consciousness like cobwebs. The rational part of my brain insists it was just a fantasy, a manifestation of my pent-up desires and the intoxicating influence of the book. But the ache between my thighs tells a different story, one that sends a shiver of both fear and exhilaration down my spine.
It has to be my mind playing tricks on me.
But a small part of me can’t help wanting more. Wanting it to be real.
Seven
Silas
The cool night air bites at my skin, but it's nothing compared to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I'm a shadow among shadows in this derelict warehouse district where even the rats know better than to squeak.
I inch closer to the dilapidated building; its walls are pocked with the scars of past skirmishes. Inside, my target conducts his final symphony of crime—a cacophony of urgent whispers and the rustle of dirty money. His name is a blight on the lips of those who fear him: Viktor Drago, a kingpin whose hands are stained with more blood than the abattoir floors.
Through my earpiece, Cain’s instructions echo, cold and precise. “Ensure it's gruesome. It needs to scream louder than the silence we need for the Senator's cover-up.”
“Understood,” I reply, my voice a mere breath against the mic. A grin tugs the corners of my lips. Gruesome is something I excel at. Something I so rarely get to indulge in.
I move forward.
Infiltration is child's play; guards are predictable, eyes easy to blindside. Darkness is my ally, and within it, I’m untouchable. I slip inside, senses heightened, every sound and shadow etched into my awareness.
Drago’s voice filters down from the upper floor, guttural and dripping with arrogance. He gloats over a shipment of contraband arms, blissfully unaware of the grim fate looming over him like a guillotine's blade. It's not just the weapons, or the drugs, or the lives he trades like currency—it's the power he wields, the fear he inspires. That's the real threat.
I ascend the metal staircase. My fingers tighten around my gun. I’ll use my knife for the job, but the gun is to ensure I get there. Footsteps approach. A guard rounds the corner, weapon drawn, eyes wide with surprise. Too late. I strike, swift and silent as a viper. A shot between the eyes, silenced by my suppressor. He slumps to the ground, a puppet with cut strings.
Reaching the top, I find Drago, back turned, engrossed in his dirty empire. The air reeks of sweat and greed. I step forward, undetected, my presence a secret only the dead could whisper.
“Viktor Drago,” I announce, allowing my voice to break his bubble of security. He spins, reaching for the gun at his hip, but I'm faster. My fist connects with his jaw, a blow that sings of shattered bone and spilled secrets.
“Who sent you?” he snarls, spitting blood.
“An old friend,” I say, almost kindly. The knife dances in my hand, eager for its performance. Drago's eyes widen with the realization that his reign ends in a pool of his own corruption.
I deliver the coup de grâce with the elegance of a dancer and the precision of a surgeon. I slide the blade into his gut, twisting it to ensure his blood spills fast and messy.
Some of it splatters onto my cargo pants and I lick my lips in satisfaction. Drago collapses, his life force ebbing away into the filth-streaked floorboards. His demise is a message written in blood and violence—a warning to those who dare cross The Syndicate.
