Something Wicked

CAINE

Coincidences have served their purpose. The tie in her drawer. The wine on her counter. The key in the velvet bag. She's off balance now, second-guessing herself at every turn. That's where I want her. That's where she's pliable.

But she's stubborn. Defiant. I saw it yesterday, the way her lip curled when she typed in the lingerie sizes, the way she almost rolled her eyes at the subscription list that was tailored only for her. She thinks she can keep me at a distance if she laughs about it, if she pretends it's all absurd.

She's wrong.

It's time to take away the absurdity. To give her something undeniable.

I've already scheduled the task for tomorrow:

Vendor Meeting – 9:00 a.m.

Location: West End Café, corner booth.

Contact: Mr. Black.

Simple. Formal. Professional. She won't question it—not right away. She'll walk in expecting to meet a vendor, clipboard in hand, already rehearsing polite small talk.

And I'll be there, waiting.

Not in the shadows. Not behind a screen. In front of her. Looking her in the eye.

The beauty of it is she won't know who I am—not truly—not until it's too late. Mr. Black will just be another name in her schedule. A stranger. Polite, attentive, perhaps a little intense. She'll leave unsettled, curious, maybe even drawn in.

And later, when she pieces it together—that her client, her shadow, her "Mr. Black," are all the same man—it will be too late to undo the connection.

I want her to walk into that café thinking she's in control. I want her to sit across from me and feel safe enough to smile. I want her to laugh, to talk, to let her guard slip just enough that when the truth comes, she won't know if it's fear or desire tightening in her chest.

The web is ready.

Tomorrow, I'll step out of the dark.

Not as Caine Blackthorne. Not yet.

As Mr. Black.

———

ALIE

By the time five o'clock crawls past, I'm fried. My eyes ache from staring at spreadsheets, my wrists buzz from typing, and my brain feels like overcooked pasta. I log out of the last call, close the client's files, and start mentally building the wall between work and me.

That's when the notification pops up.

One last task.

Vendor Meeting – Tomorrow, 9:00 a.m.

Location: West End Café, corner booth.

Contact: Mr. Black.

I blink at it, groaning under my breath. Seriously? At the end of the day?

It isn't unheard of. Plenty of virtual gigs throw in-person errands at the last minute—drop off paperwork, confirm an order, smooth over whatever executives don't want to touch themselves. I've had colleagues handle them before. But this is my first time.

My first real in-person request.

My stomach gives a small, unwelcome twist. Not fear exactly, but something colder. Something that feels like standing on a curb and realizing the headlights are coming a little too fast.

I reread the instructions. Simple. Clean. Almost too clean. West End Café. Corner booth. Mr. Black. No phone number. No company name. Just initials and a clock.

I rub my temples. It's just work. I need the money. I can't afford to turn picky over a detail that's probably nothing. Still, the name claws at me. Mr. Black. It sounds made-up. Like the kind of name you give when you don't want to be known.

A shiver skirts down my spine. I shake it off, shut the laptop harder than necessary, and tell myself I'll sleep on it.

It's only coffee, I think. Just another job.

But deep down, I don't believe myself.

———

CAINE

The hours before I show myself to her stretch like wire pulled too tight. For months I've lived in her shadows, orchestrating her world piece by piece, letting her believe in coincidence. But tomorrow, that ends. Tomorrow, she'll sit across from me and realize the presence she's felt all along was never her imagination.

It was me.

And I intend to savor every second.

I prepare the way a soldier sharpens a blade. Not in a suit—that would make me untouchable, remind her of the gulf between us she isn't ready to bridge. No, I'll wear the leather jacket she's already seen, the one tied to her fear and fascination. Jeans. Boots. Unpolished. Approachable. The version of me she can almost recognize, though not enough to name.

I walk the penthouse like it's a ritual. My watch, the one she'll notice. The cologne, faint but sharp, already branded into her memory. The envelope in my inner pocket, her name written in my hand—something I'll leave where she'll find it when the time is right.

When everything is set, I return to my screens.

Her apartment glows across the feeds, each angle mine to command: grainy night vision from the bedroom, clear color from the living room, the tiny kitchen cam tucked in the smoke detector. She sits at her desk now, hoodie slipping from one shoulder, hair knotted messily on top of her head. She doesn't know she chews her pen when she's thinking, or that she hums when she types. But I do. I know every nervous habit, every sound she makes when she thinks she's alone.

I lean closer, tracking the curve of her neck where the fabric falls. Desire coils tight inside me. Not just for her body—though I want that too—but for the look on her face when she realizes I've been here all along. The heat in her cheeks when she connects the dots. The sharp pull in her chest when she understands she isn't afraid of me—not really. She's afraid of how much she already belongs.

She stretches, back arching, and I curl my hand into a fist. She has no idea the power she wields over me just by existing. No idea how much restraint it takes not to walk through her door now, strip away the last of the pretense, and claim what's mine.

But patience makes the hunger sweeter.

Tomorrow, she'll walk into that café thinking it's just business. She'll sit across from me, wary but polite, and wonder why my voice feels like déjà vu. She'll wonder where she's seen me before, why my presence feels familiar in a way she can't explain.

And when I lean in, when I call her by name—soft, deliberate, in a way no stranger should—she'll know.

Not the whole truth. Not yet.

Just enough to let the spark catch.

Enough to bind her closer.

———

ALIE

I log off and shut the laptop like slamming a door on the day. My brain still hums with spreadsheets and client pings, but my stomach growls louder. Dinner doesn't have to be complicated. It never is.

I boil a pot of water, dump in half a box of macaroni, and stir until the steam fogs the window. Cheap, quick, comfort food. By the time I'm scraping powdered cheese into the pan, the tension in my shoulders has started to ease.

I curl up on the couch with the bowl, scrolling until I land on a true crime podcast I've been saving. The host's voice is smooth, practiced, almost soothing as he walks through the setup of the case: a woman walking home alone, a stranger watching from the dark.

My fork stops midair.

The phrasing is too close. The way he describes the alley, the headlights, the sound of footsteps—it's almost exactly the way the storm felt pressing against my skin last night.

I snap the podcast off. Silence rushes in, too heavy.

"Not tonight," I mutter, setting the bowl aside half-finished.

I draw a bath instead, letting the water run hot and deep, steam curling around the edges of the mirror. I sink into it until the warmth pulls the air from my lungs, loosening the knot at the base of my spine. For the first time all day, I let myself stop bracing.

Eyes closed, I let my thoughts drift. At first it's nothing—colors, shapes, scraps of memory. Then a figure begins to form, vague and faceless. A man, close enough to feel but not close enough to name. Strong hands at my hips, a mouth against my throat, the kind of touch that burns even as it soothes.

I don't let myself linger on who he might be. I just let the facelessness be part of the fantasy. Safer that way.

My fingers dance down my front, thumbs brushing against my beading nipples before stroking down the small curve of my stomach. My last boyfriend had hated how soft I was. Maybe that was why he cheated...I stop the thought there, redirecting myself to the stranger in my day dream.

I can feel the firm line of his lips across my neck, and his hands follow closely behind my own, cupping my breasts, flicking the pointed tips while kissing my pulse. He drags his teeth across my skin and a whimper parts my lips.

It had been way too long since the last time I had done something like this. The warm water around me heightens the sensations, and I lean back further, parting my thighs. My daydream lover takes it as an indication that I want more and wastes no time slipping a large broad hand between my thighs, cupping my sex. My clit throbs in a slow steady response and he taps it, almost playfully with his thumb.

I let out a sigh of need as I rock into my own fingers, and bite my lip. My desire is slick, making me hot and eager for more, but I'll settle for what I can give with just my fingers. I picture him biting harder into my shoulder, and I shudder. His hand becomes more firm, less playful, and he slides his thick fingers inside.

The water laps at the rim of the tub as I tilt my head back, chasing warmth, chasing release from the day, like an addict. I pant my way through my orgasm, my body trembling from the force.

For a while, it almost works.

———

CAINE

The cameras don't cover everything. I did that deliberately. Too much access kills the tension. But tonight, I can't help myself—I slip inside, silent as breath, while she runs the bath.

Steam curls down the hallway, carrying her warmth to me. I stand just out of sight of the cracked bathroom door, eyes fixed on the mirror. It's angled just right, giving me slivers of her: the slope of her neck, the line of her knees as they break the surface of the water, the way her lips part when she sighs.

She closes her eyes, drifts. Her hand slides lazily along her thigh. My jaw tightens. I want to step inside, kneel by the tub, guide her into the fantasies I already know are blooming behind those closed lids. I can almost hear the thoughts she doesn't dare name.

Instead, I stay still. Watching. Waiting. Hunger twisting tight inside me.

Minutes pass. Her sighs grow slower, her body slack, her head tipping back too far against the rim. My pulse spikes—not with jealousy this time, but alarm.

Her lips part again, but no sound comes. Her chin dips toward the water.

I'm moving before I've thought it through. The door eases open, hinges whispering. I'm at her side, sliding arms beneath her before the water can claim her. She stirs faintly, eyelids fluttering, but she's too far gone to fight.

I lift her from the tub, water streaming from her skin, soaking into my jacket. Her head lolls against my chest, warm and heavy. For a moment I just stand there, holding her, inhaling the sharp mix of soap and her skin. My heart pounds with something that almost feels like panic, but sweeter.

"Mine," I whisper into her damp hair.

I carry her down the hall, past the glow of her desk, into her bedroom. I dry her gently, careful to not disturb her. I want her to believe this was only a dream.

I lay her on the bed, pull the blanket over her, smooth her hair back from her forehead. She sighs again, curling into the pillow, unaware of the man who just kept her breathing.

I linger at the edge of the bed, watching her chest rise and fall, the memory of her body slack in my arms still burning in my veins.

She'll never know how close she came to being lost tonight. Or how easily I saved her.

Tomorrow, when she meets Mr. Black, she'll see only the man across the table. Not the shadow who already carried her, touched her, laid her in her bed.

And that will make the reveal all the sweeter.

———

ALIE

I must have drifted off in the bath, because the next thing I know I'm tangled in sheets, the lamp still on, skin clammy from the heat that lingers on me. My chest heaves like I've been running.

Dream.

But the images cling like cobwebs.

The alley again. The storm. Only this time I don't get into the Uber. The two men don't just laugh—they cross the street, step into the shadows, and I can't move. My sandals slip on the wet pavement, my voice won't work. One grabs my arm. The other yanks my purse away.

"Stop," I hear myself rasp, but they don't.

The rain drowns my words, thunder shakes the ground, and suddenly it's not just two men—it's more. Shadows crowding in, faceless, hands pulling, voices jeering. Panic crushes my lungs.

And then—he appears.

The faceless man.

Not to save me. To claim me. He's there in the chaos, part of it, his presence heavier than the storm. His hands pin mine, not cruel, but unyielding. His mouth is at my ear, his voice a low growl I can't quite make out, though the meaning is clear: you're mine now.

My body twists between terror and heat, fear and something I don't want to admit. He pushes me, coaxes me, demands in a way that feels both dangerous and inevitable. Rough. Unforgiving. And in the dream, I yield. Not because I want to, but because resisting feels impossible.

The lines blur—attack and embrace, fear and desire, no longer separate.

I wake with a strangled gasp, clutching the sheets, my body buzzing like it's been rewired.

The lamp still burns. The room is empty.

But the cologne—sharp, expensive, familiar—hangs faintly in the air.

And I can't shake the feeling that maybe I didn't dream all of it.

———