A single bead of sweat slid between my shoulder blades, tickling a lazy path down the curve of my spine before it vanished into the waistband of the makeshift shorts I'd hacked out of old pajamas. The apartment felt like the inside of a hair dryer, humming with heat. My ceiling fan chopped the air overhead in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but the faint citrus tang of my last cleaning binge. I propped my calf against the desk's crossbar, letting cool wood press into skin.
On the left: a sagging bookshelf draped in fairy-lights I'd never bothered switching off, their glow splashing soft halos over a regiment of sketchbooks, empty energy-drink cans, smut books, and my Bad Dragon toys. I'd arranged the monsters by size, smallest on the edge, fattest knot dead center, with the horse cock towards the end because hierarchy mattered. Order mattered.
On the right: my drawing station, dual monitors angled, reflected me, a pale ghost in an oversized white tee. The flimsy cotton clung transparently to the freckles dusting my breasts, freckles people in chat insisted were "constellations mapping the night sky." When I had done a face reveal. I had let the shirt hang, knowing the damp fabric sculpted what it needed to. Knowing half my audience would clock the hardened peaks beneath. I'd learned early that the carrot was always better than the stick.
I shoved damp mauve hair off my neck, pushed a damp strand behind one ear, and tugged the blue lace thong a touch higher on my hips. Then I leaned in, flicked on the ring light, and opened StreamForge.
The starting-soon screen popped up, my own looping animation of a smirking demoness twirling a quill between razor claws. Viewers trickled in like moths, icons blooming along the sidebar. I skimmed names, lips curling when I saw the predictable names: FrostyWhispers, DeepSeaDiver69, KnotAllHeroes, RoseIsRed. Ready to watch whatever world I sketched for them tonight.
Mic live. Camera on (though only the VTuber rig would ever show). I shifted, letting the edge of the chair kiss the under-curve of my thighs. She bloomed across the screen, all ample curves and mischievous grin, just within TOS, just provocative enough to snag even the algorithm's attention.
"Evening, my monsters." My voice, husky from heat, from anticipation, slid into the room. I watched chat ignite with heart emojis and drooling faces. "Seems the weather's trying to melt me alive. Think you can keep me distracted?"
A cascade of YES QUEEN and WE'LL TRY, GODDESS rolled upward, dopamine sparks in pastel text.
"Good," I purred. "But distractions are earned. Tonight, we're tackling a commission close to my heart, big, bad werewolf meets maiden who should know better." I tapped the tablet, conjuring an empty canvas. "Anyone feeling brave enough to guide the direction? I might listen. If you ask sweetly."
The bait hung out there, trembling. KnotAllHeroes bit first: Bigger knot than last time.
FrostyWhispers seconded with a string of pleading emojis.
A third user typed, Make her beg for it to stop, but don't.
I let suggestions snowball until the chat flooded. Then, palm poised above the stylus, I stilled my hand, cheek resting thoughtfully on knuckles. Silence stretched. Dozens of viewers typed question marks.
There, right there, the fragile tether between need and gratification. I tugged.
"Hmm," I said, dragging the syllable like velvet across skin. "Maybe. But I'm curious… Who remembers the rule about tributes?" A ripple of confusion, then a few old regulars chimed in. They knew. Every stream, I set the price, a certain number of gifted subs, a flurry of retweets, before I indulged their more vivid requests.
Tonight's quota spilled from my lips, steep but not impossible. Gasps, groans, a handful of determined cheers. I watched the counter surge. Twenty-seven gifted. Thirty-five. Forty. I smiled as numbers leapt: obedience quantized in digital currency. Every ding of incoming subs.
"Good pets," I crooned once the bar filled. "You make Mommy proud."
I stroked the stylus across the tablet, loose, confident lines blooming into lupine jawlines and tense maiden shoulders, the kind of push-pull anatomy I'd studied till it lived under my nails. Each time muscles flexed in the drawing, my own did too, forearm sinews tightening with swift strokes. I toggled to my face-tracker; the VTuber rig mirrored my grin, my lashes, my wicked tilt of head.
Three windows over, a private DM pinged—a gold-star donor named ManticoreMuse. He'd tipped big last month for an exclusive high-res file. His message tonight: "Need another private set. Triple your usual. Think you're free?"
Triple. Tempting. But I let it sit unseen. A slow response builds hunger. Hunger builds revenue.
Back to chat. DeepSeaDiver69 tried again: Mermaid + kraken when??
I snorted. "Patience, Diver. Tentacles take time."
But I filed the idea away. Future leverage.
While the wolf's claws curled into virgin hips on-screen, I risked a glance at the shelf. The toys gleamed under fairy lights, awaiting to be used. The biggest, a marbled navy horse cock, stared back. I remembered ordering it after con season: a celebration piece for hitting 20k followers.
Fans drooled, but only I decided when they tasted. I feathered shading along the wolf's haunches, deepening the sense of bulk, power, and of forcefully taking the maiden. Chat exploded with praise: That fur texture!You're insane!Teach us!
"Maybe one day," I murmured, knowing I never would. Teach a person your tricks, and you gift them independence. I preferred devotion.
Heat climbed my chest, still, the closeness of the shirt, the gummy air, turned every breath humid. A sly thought slithered in: an overt tease might spike viewership. I uncrossed my legs, angled the webcam down just an inch, making the droop of the oversized tee frame more bare thigh in the avatar's silhouette before turning on the real-life feed. The motions alone, subtle, made chat erupt.
A spectator typed, Goddess, you're evil.
I typed back: "Evil keeps the world interesting." Sent it. Pinched the message so it floated across the screen. Before turning off the real feed.
Minutes bled into an hour. Each time someone begged for color choices, I made them poll for it, splitting factions, letting them argue. When the votes tallied, I picked whatever I wanted anyway by rigging it, spinning the choice to sound like theirs. They lapped it up.
By the time the wolf's snout pressed against the maiden's trembling stomach. A tremor crawled along my own thigh—hours of shallow breathing catching up. I pushed it down. Later.
I checked the clock—1:47 a.m. Muscle ache coiled in my wrist. I bounced the stylus off my palm, watching the reflection of fairy-lights skid over aluminum. "Alright, monsters," I said, throat a low rasp, "this goddess needs ice water and eight hours of pretending to be normal. Last looks." I zoomed the camera into the wolf's knot, then the maiden's parted lips, before zooming back to the whole composition. A final chorus of adoration poured in; I let it soak like bathwater around tired limbs.
"Remember," I added, gaze slicing straight through the lens even if they couldn't see my eyes, "drink water, get rest, crave responsibly—and tomorrow, you'll want me even more."
I killed the feed. The ring light blinked out, plunging the room into fairy-lit dusk. Quiet rushed in, soft and thick. I exhaled, stretching arms overhead until the shirt hem brushed my navel, and padded to the window. Night shimmered outside, cicadas screaming like over-amped fans. In the faint reflection on the glass, I watched myself tug the thong higher still, a self-aware smirk tilting my lips.
I walked to the shelf. Bad Dragons glimmer under fairy lights. I pluck the navy horse from center stage and kiss the blunt tip. A line from chat—bigger knot, Mommy!—ghosts through memory, twisting into a grin. I would take a shower with this one tonight.
The bathroom tiles prickled beneath my bare soles. I twisted the faucet and listened as the pipes rattled awake, sending a torrent of water cascading from the showerhead in a silvery arc. Clothes go next. The oversized tee peels away slowly, cotton tugging at my skin before falling in a lazy heap. Blue lace followed next, thumbs hooking, and I step out, deliberate, savoring the gentle brush of fabric down calves, ankles, toes. Cool air kisses the patch of coarse, neatly trimmed hair nested above my pussy. A grin tugged the corner of my mouth as I nudged the bathroom door shut with a hip.
Water first, always. I threaded the toy beneath the stream, watching droplets sheet off silicone curves. The scent of peppermint soap mingled with clean steam, fresh but edged with something illicit. I soaped the shaft carefully, palms gliding up and down until it squeaked, then rinsed until suds spiraled away down the drain.
With the suction cup anchored low on the tiled wall, the toy jutted at a perfect upward angle. I stepped beneath the spray, lifted my arms, and let water pound across shoulder blades, coaxing muscles to loosen. Threads of mauve hair drifted over my collarbones in damp ribbons. For a moment, I simply stood there, breathing, letting the shower's roar drown the echo of those weird dreams still buzzing in my skull.
I turned, bracing palms against slick tile, eyes roving over the toy's midnight swirls. I bit my lip as I started to gently tug at my inverted nipples, slowly bringing them out. I lowered until the head brushed my pussy lips teasing. A sigh slid from my lips, half contentment, half hunger.
Easy, I coached myself. I bent my knees, guiding until pressure gave way and the flare stretched me open, a deliberate stretch that made my toes curl on the tile. The shower hammered at my shoulders, sending rivulets racing down my sides, over nipples which I teased with my free hand.
Deeper. The toy filled me inch by patient inch, every ridge sent a sensation lighting beneath my skin. I clenched, then relaxed, small pulses of muscle drawing it farther until my thighs trembled with the effort of holding halfway. Steam blurred the corners of my vision, and for one decadent breath I floated somewhere between heat and weightlessness.
Fuck id kill to fuck a monster.
Water hissed, and a soft, involuntary moan slipped free, swallowed at once by the echoing bathroom shower head. I rode it down until it was trying to get into my womb, up until the toy threatened to slip free, down again. My palms slid on my chest while I pinched and pulled my nipples. While my other hand, I splayed my fingers wider, as I moaned.
The monster was buried in me I loved the feeling of it, though a knot was also so fucking good. Shame I didn't have a cum tube for this one. The thought sharpened a spark low in my belly; my breath hitched.
Down, up, down. The pattern morphed, stuttering when the toy nudged a sweet spot so deep it stole sound from my lungs. I bowed my head, let forehead rest against cool porcelain Wall. Water coursed in rivulets between my breasts, over freckles, down my four-pack abbs, down and dripping past where I was connected to my toy.
Faster now. The world shrank to four points: the pounding spray, the toy horse cock, the trembling in my thighs, the thick pulse of pleasure blooming outward in concentric rings. I slipped and ended up sitting on it full. I couldn't help but moan even louder as I kept moving my hips, hips snapping, breath scattering in broken syllables. Steam pressed hot kisses along my spine; droplets flared on overheated skin.
"Fuck I'm going to cum!" ragged cry from my throat. I rode it, grinding down until the wave peaked, broke, and tumbled me into shuddering release. I ended up squirting hard.
When the tremors ebbed to soft echoes, I eased up, letting the toy slip free with a faint, wet gasp of suction. My knees wobbled; I pressed a grateful palm to the wall until I regained my balance. The shower kept running, mercifully cool now, sheeting away lingering heat. I drew three long breaths, counting each one until my heart slowed to a steady beat.
Cleaning came next, always. I unlatched the suction cup, cradled the toy beneath the spray, and soaped it again, gentler this time. Once it gleamed pristine, I set it in the corner niche to dry.
Fresh peppermint lather foamed beneath my nails as I scrubbed skin, paying extra attention to sensitive spots still thrumming. Rinsed, I turned the knob to off. The sudden hush rang loud as thunder.
I toweled dry in slow passes, savoring the soft rasp of cotton over damp freckles, the cool bite of air on heated flesh. In the mirror's clearing oval, I caught my reflection: eyes bright, mauve hair darkened to wine, a flush still pinking thighs and cheeks. The small trail of hair below my navel curled slightly, gorgeously unruly. I traced it with a fingertip, satisfied.
A pair of striped panties waited on the counter, peach-and-cream bands that hugged hips just right. I stepped into them, snapped the waistband, and rolled shoulders back. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs, but it was the good kind, the satisfied kind.
Leaving the bathroom, I turned off all my lights. I padded to the bedroom. Cool sheets whispered against freshly washed skin as I slipped beneath them. Ceiling-fan shadows spun lazy circles overhead. I sighed, letting lids drift shut.
Sleep folds over me like deep water, cool and thick. The hum of the ceiling fan blurs into nothing, and the faint peppermint on my skin dissolves into frost-brittle air.
Snowflakes drift sideways, hurled by a merciless wind that smells of pine pitch and iron. I stand on the same stone balcony I always do, yet every detail feels fresh, all the same.
Below, torches gutter along the main boulevard. At the harbor, black-keel longships ram skeletal piers; planks creak, ropes snap, and steel clashes like distant thunder. The invaders have come ashore again; this dream always begins like this.
My breath plumes white. I'm dressed unlike myself: a sleeveless gown of silver, the color of storm clouds, shoulders mantled by scales of translucent crystal that tinkle when I move. It was slightly see-through.
Behind me, hinges groan. Boots ring on marble. The five armored women fan out in practiced formation, helmets under one arm. Their plate is luminous, sculpted from semi-transparent crystal that seems to swallow moonlight and exhale trapped starlight. The leader—tall, imperious, hair like spun snow- salutes with a fist over her heart.
"My lady, this perch is exposed." Her voice carried respect. I know the lines by heart, yet it I say them all the same.
"Tell me something new," I answer, fingers curling around the balustrade. Down on the lower switchback, household guards exchange crossbow fire with axes and round shields. A gout of orange light erupts, painting struggling silhouettes in hellish glow in the blizzard.
The guard captain steps closer, breath misting. "Scouts report three warbands on the western rise. They threaten to encircle us."
"And the harbor?"
"Lost." A flick of sorrow crosses her steel-blue eyes. "Evacuation continues, but—" She trails off as a horn blares below, mournful and furious.
My father rides into view, his destrier a white marble beneath him. Even from this height, I could see the glow of spells wreathing his spear. His cloak snaps, revealing that same White Raven crest, only his is embroidered in thread of actual silver. He reins in long enough to glance up at me. The dream always freezes here, his Snow white hair whipping, the torchlight crowning his helm like a fiery halo, the resigned, but unbroken, smile he spares me.
I want to shout, warn him that this night never ends well. My throat locks.
Hooves thunder. He spurs downslope toward the maelstrom of steel and frost, taking fifty knights with him, each pennant streaming starfire particles. Somewhere beyond the ridge, drums pound like the heartbeat of a glacier. The invaders chant in a harsh tongue: skaldic syllables rising, breaking across the valley wall.
A tremor rattles the balcony. Shards of ice skitter across stone. Far below, civilians surge toward the keep gates, women, children clutching carved wooden Ravens, and elders bent beneath furs. I feel that aching loneliness in every cycle.
Another horn blast, this one closer. A boy soldier stumbles through snow up the grand stairs, mail shirt bright with blood. "The prince has fallen!" he cries, voice cracking. "Shields are breaking!"
The words slice me open, same as always. My knees threaten to buckle, but crystalline gauntlets seize my elbows: the captain and her second flank me, half urging, half dragging. We retreat through stained-glass doors that hiss shut behind, drowning out the storm.
Inside, the grand hall glows with welkynd stone. Refugees cluster in alcoves, whisper-weeping, their eyes luminous with fear.
A column of guards pounds toward us from the eastern corridor—my father's hearthguard, sigils scorched and dented. One kneels, extending an ornate scabbard. Blood slicks the leather grip.
"My lady, your father bade us to protect you." He doesn't say the rest.
The sapphire gem at my throat flares, reacting to some unseen tide. Its pulse climbs—one slow throb, then two quick, like a warning knuckle against ribs. Cold leaks up the chain, flooding clavicles, shoulders, and skull. The hall tilts; chandeliers warp into swirling comets. I know what comes next.
I'm yanked down a side passage before debris can kiss me. The captain hauls me bodily, surprisingly gentle for all her strength, while four remaining guards form a diamond screen, shields throwing back stray arrows. Lamplight slashes across crystal plate each time they pivot.
Stairs spiral downward, carved through living rock. Somewhere above, a chorus of war cries. Below, wind roars through a throat-like tunnel, carrying briny sea spray and a rank of pitch smoke.
We burst onto a hidden quay carved beneath the citadel. Nine narrowboats bob in black water, moored to rings of mother-of-pearl. Children huddle in each hull, white-faced, clutching talismans that glow faint aquamarine. Elder mages trace glyphs along the gunwales, protection runes that sputter sparks whenever ice touches them.
The captain spins me toward the last vessel. "This is where we part," she says, voice steadier than her eyes. She unclasped her gorget, exposing the soft line of her throat, and presses a frost-rimmed kiss to my forehead. "Live, Princes. Our people survive through you."
Most nights, she simply ushers me aboard. Tonight she slips something from her belt—a shard of milky stone threaded on silver wire. It's warm, impossibly, like sunlit sand. She secures it beside the sapphire already pressed to my chest. Two pulses sync for a beat, blue and white, before steadying.
"Should the ice claim you," she whispers, "break the shard."
"I don't even know what it is," I protest, breath fogging.
"Knowledge comes later. Survival first." She backs away, drawing her sword in one fluid motion, crystal plate chiming. "Row, oarsmen!"
The boat shudders as we push off. The tunnel yawns open to moon-drenched sea. Snow whips sideways, driven by a gale. Our prow cuts through foam toward a dark horizon where enemy longships prowl like wolves.
I look back once. The captain stands framed by a cavern mouth, blade raised, armor radiant. A volley of arrows streaks toward her, emerald traceries of sorcery, and she meets them with a crescent of shattering light.
Midway across the strait, a colossal silhouette looms off starboard: a leviathan of oak and iron, sails painted with snarling bear sigils. Before oarsmen can pivot, ropes unfurl from her mast, weighted hooks biting our hull. Raiders in wolf-pelts surge, boots pounding planks. Chaos erupts, screams, steel ringing, planks splintering.
The mage beside me tries a barrier glyph; an axe cleaves her forearm. Blood steams away, vivid crimson against falling snow.
Instinct screams: break the shard. My numb fingers fumble for the warm stone. I raise it overhead, but a raider barrels into me—stench of mead, sweat, wet fur. The gem slips; I clutch air. The man's mailed fist catches my chin; white stars burst behind my eyes. Wood gives beneath my spine, I'm airborne.
Then ice-cold sea kisses everything.
Water clamps lungs in a vise. Moonlight fractures above like a buckled ceiling. I thrash, skirts tangling like kelp. The sapphire flares again, blazing cobalt, casting ripples of light ten feet in every direction. The warmth of the shard, somehow still on its chain, ignites, melting the surrounding sea to a swirling crystal sheath. It wraps me, contouring limbs, cocooning. Sound mutes. Darkness presses.
Just before vision narrows to a pinpoint, I hear her voice, the captain and my father's, clear as winter bells across impossible distance:
"Live."
I jerk awake in my bed, sheets twisted around my calves, peppermint still ghosting in my nose. The ceiling fan drones its lazy orbit. Sunlight slants across the bedroom in thin, golden blades, sketching bars over last night's discarded tee and the faint dent my shoulders left in the pillow. Reality settles soft and familiar around me… until my phone buzzes beside my ear and the day tilts on its axis.
One new message: Rose 🌹.
I swipe without thinking, and there it is, a perfect photo. Rose in burgundy lace that cups her breasts, garters kissing the tops of honey-gold thighs, a coy smudge of lipstick matching the trim of her bra. Her mouth is parted, a soft breath caught mid-tease, and her eyes, hazel, flecked with mischief. "Morning, Sweety. Still on for tonight?" Beneath the text, a single red heart pulses.
I sit up, pushing hair out of my eyes, and grin so wide my cheeks hurt. Of course she'd send after all my hard work to break her up with her Ex. The word tastes like victory frosting. I conjure a quick flicker of memory, months ago, him sulking at that dive-bar table, Rose laughing too brightly as I "accidentally" steered conversation into all his jealous soft spots. A nudge here, a compliment there, she deserved better, someone who listened, someone who saw her. It didn't take long for the cracks to show, and when they split wide enough, I was right there to guide her out. Friendly shoulder. Midnight texts. A well-timed "he doesn't appreciate you."
Now she's mine for the evening, whether she knows the extent of it yet or not.
The phone buzzes again—another photo, this time a close-up of the lace panties' satin bow. Too much? she writes. I bite my lip hard enough to feel the edge of teeth. Never, I type, thumbs slow so autocorrect can't betray the tremor in my hands. Can't wait to see the rest in person.
I swing my legs over the mattress, stretch until I hear and feel that lovely crackle. The floorboards are cool, grounding. Date prep mode: engage. I pad to the closet in just the striped panties, catching glimpses of myself in the full-length mirror. I catalogue what Rose likes: the curve of my hips, the way the thong peeks when I lean forward, the freckles she once traced absent-mindedly while drunk on my couch. I tug open drawers, black mesh bra that nudges cleavage just right, cropped tee, the high-waisted skirt that clings before flaring mid-thigh. Casual, she'll think.
In the bottom drawer, under sketchpads of half-finished centaur pin-ups, lies the evening's real decision: slim pink silicone harness or the matte-black curved one that matches her lingerie. I lift both, weigh them like options in a jeweler's store. The black gleams—sleek, assertive, curved upward just enough to drag a gasp from memory. That one, then. My palms are suddenly warm. I nestle it into my purse beneath a discreet silk pouch, the harness folded flat.
Shower is quick, just enough citrus soap to chase sleep from skin, cold rinse to steady nerves. I towel my hair, let it fall in damp waves around my shoulders. Makeup today is soft.
I picture the restaurant I booked, dim lighting, leather booths, and share plates perfect for leaning close. I'll offer a forkful of something decadent, wipe sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb, and watch her pupils bloom. After dinner, the rooftop bar a block over, string lights tangled above, music low. I'll stand behind her at the railing, point out nonexistent constellations, calloused fingertips brushing the goose-flesh inside her elbow—until she can't decide if the night air or my breath raises the hair on her neck. Then back to my place, of course, where the fairy-lights already glow warm and the shelf of dragons waits. Fuck I might just use all of them on her....
The kettle clicks off; I pour, sip, savor. Phone buzz again, Rose has sent a selfie from her bathroom mirror, wet hair in a towel, bare shoulders slick and pink from hot water. Thinking about that taco place you mentioned, she adds. You pick anything, I trust you.
Already got us a table, 8 PM. Wear that shade of lipstick, I'll behave. Promise. A laugh emoji from her suggests she doesn't believe the last part, not really.
It's barely noon, too early to fuss more, so I pivot to work. Tablet powers on; reference boards bloom. I queue tomorrow's commission tweets, schedule a teasing snippet of the werewolf maiden, and set a poll: "Which detail next?" The engagement machine is humming. Every click is another coin in tonight's wine fund. But I can't keep focus; every brushstroke morphs into the shape of her mouth.
I finally gave up, shut the monitors, and started cleaning. Sheets stripped, fresh linen scented with lavender snapped flat across the mattress. Couch pillows fluffed, two fresh bottles of lube within reach but out of immediate sight. On the bookshelf, I rearrange Bad Dragons so that the sleek black harness sits front and center. The horse cock was at the center, but I angle it a hair to the left.
Afternoon drifts. I snack on fruit, scroll news, send Rose a song link—sultry R&B with a beat like a slow heartbeat. Thirty seconds later, a voice note pings back: her humming the tune, a giggle at the end makes me smile. I replay it twice.
Five-thirty: time to dress. The black mesh hugs snugly, nipples faintly visible. Cropped tee knifes right across ribcage, skirt settles on hips. Thigh-high stockings, I fasten thin garters, the clip's snap a tiny thrill. Boots, ankle-high, chunky heel, perfect for striding. In the mirror I turn, arch, check angles. Satisfied.
Purse check: wallet, keys, lip tint, slim black silicone bundle. I brush fingertips over it through the fabric.
Six-fifteen: another photo from Rose. She's dressed now, tight high-waist jeans, low-cut top letting burgundy lace peek. She sticks her tongue out playfully. Running errands. See you soon, Sweetie. I grin at the nickname.
Sun slants golden as I lock the apartment and head downtown. Heat's still clinging to asphalt; cicadas whine. My mind loops through dinner dialogue, tiny jokes to drop, moments to steer: she'll mention her ex's latest text, I'll brush it aside with a squeeze of her knee, murmur how some people don't deserve second chances. She'll agree, catch her bottom lip in her teeth, maybe realize how steady my hand feels on her skin.
The florist on Maple has a window display bursting with peonies. I duck in, choose a single stem, soft blush petals. The florist wraps it in kraft paper; I tuck it under my arm, imagining Rose's face when I hand it over. Not a bouquet, one bloom to cradle all night, keep her hands busy.
Crosswalk ahead flashes green; I quicken my pace, thumb composing a text: On my way. Don't tease the waitstaff. A laughing emoji bubbles.
At the opposite curb, I pause, adjust purse strap. The phone buzzes again—she's sent a final photo, this one from her in the restorant bathroom mirror: full outfit, pose turned three-quarters to highlight the round curve of her ass. The burgundy lace peeks above denim. My thumb hovers over the screen, adrenaline spiking deliciously. A truck engine revs somewhere nearby, but I'm busy enlarging the picture, zooming in on the delicate bow at her nape, imagining tugging it loose with my teeth. My pulse drowns out the city hum.
Focus, I chide myself, pocketing the phone. I step off the curb at the yellow light, half-laughing at how easily she unravels me.
The world tilts, sudden glare off chrome, a horn braying in horror. I look up just as the truck barrels forward, grill looming a breath away. For a frozen instant I see my reflection in its polished hood. Regret flashes, not for steering her away from him, but for running out of time before I could press that bow between her shoulder blades and hear her gasp.
Impact is a thunderclap. Air leaves my lungs, world inverts, sky becomes ground. The peony slips from numb fingers, petals scattering like blush snow.
I think of Rose, how she'll wait at the restaurant, twirling that flower, puzzled smile fading with each minute. How she'll check her phone, see the read receipt that never comes. How she'll realize, eventually, why.
Noise fades, edges blur. Somewhere in the hush, my phone vibrates one last time, her name flashing bright, a heart still pulsing. I want to answer, say sorry, say everything, but darkness folds in tight and quiet as lace.
And then there is nothing at all except the faint, lingering taste of vanilla-amber on my skin and the memory of burgundy silk under my hungry hands.