Chi chi의 작품

CHAPTER 4DAMIEN’S POV:The office feels smaller tonight, the air thicker, charged with the kind of humidity that clings to skin even before anyone touches. Seventy second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass framing Manhattan like a living painting cold blues and golds bleeding into black. I keep the lights at thirty percent. Just enough glow to catch sweat, to trace the curve of a hip, to make shadows do half the work. Shadows are honest. They don’t lie about hunger.Clarissa arrived at 9:47 p.m. sharp. She always does when she’s feeling neglected. Platinum hair already loose, blouse unbuttoned to the third pearl, skirt riding high enough that I could see the black lace thong when she crossed the room. She didn’t speak, just walked straight to the desk, planted both palms on the glass, bent at the waist, and looked back at me over her shoulder with that practiced pout she thinks is seductive.I didn’t smile, stepped behind her without a preamble.My left hand gathered her hair into a

CHAPTER 3RAVEN'S POV His fingers hover at the edge of the lace, so close I can feel the heat from his skin brushing mine like a threat. The room is a cocoon of dim red light filtering through heavy velvet curtains, the bass from the club below thrumming up through the floor like a distant heartbeat. Private suite 12 smells of leather and bourbon, his bourbon, the kind that's aged in barrels worth more than my rent. The window behind him overlooks the writhing bodies on the dance floor, but up here, it's just us, predator and prey, though he's got it all wrong about who's who."Not yet," I repeat, my voice a low purr laced with steel. I tilt my head just enough to let the wig's waves shift, obscuring more of my face. My hand moves, slow, deliberate, brushing his away like I'm indulging him, like this is still a game he paid for. But under the skirt, my fingers itch toward the sheath on my thigh. One quick draw, and I could have the blade at his carotid before he blinks those d

CHAPTER 2:RAVEN'S POV:The mirror in my Brooklyn apartment bathroom is cracked in the top left corner, been that way since I moved in three years ago, I never bothered fixing it because it matches the rest of me. I stare at my reflection under the harsh bulb light, face half shadowed already, and feel the emptiness settle like an old habit. Tonight's not about beauty only, it's about bait. About becoming the kind of woman Damien Blackwood can't resist bidding on.I start with the foundation, heavy, matte, the kind that turns my skin into porcelain armor. Concealer over the faint scar on my left cheekbone from a knife fight two years back, barely noticeable, but I don't take chances. Then the eyes, smoky black liner winged sharp enough to cut, lashes extended with falsies that make them look predatory. Contacts, deep hazel tonight, not my natural gray. They change the whole face, make me someone else. Someone he won't recognize until it's too late.The wig came next, long, gloss

CHAPTER 1 RAVEN'S POV:The silencer coughs once, a soft, almost child-like, like a suppressed sneeze in a quiet library, and the mark drops like a sack of wet cement, his body folding in on itself with an undignified thud. His cheek smacks against the cold marble floor of his penthouse kitchen, the impact echoing slightly in the vast, open space, and blood starts pooling immediately, dark and viscous, spreading out in lazy, irregular fingers under the harsh, unforgiving glow of the pendant lights hanging like judgmental chandeliers above the island counter. The river view through the floor to ceiling glass windows mocks the entire scene, Manhattan's skyline glittering indifferently in the distance, a million twinkling lights that seem to say, "Another life snuffed out in this city? Who gives a damn?" I step over him without a second glance, my boot narrowly avoiding the edge of the stain as it creeps toward the grout lines. It is done, lingering on the dead is a luxury I can't aff