“Scotch?” I ask, hoping to sound as normal as possible.
Andrew blinks at me, slightly confused, but only asks, “What kind?”
“Celebrating an event I’ve been waiting for, for years,” I vaguely mention, and based on my extremely limited knowledge of anything but wine, I hope it’s enough.
I can see a string of questions forming behind his eyes, but luckily he doesn’t push it, and after a moment in front of a shelf he returns with a bottle that looks older than this country. The perfect gift for my Professor.
I take it without another word and walk out, holding the bags full of bottles as I walk back. The shop is close to my apartment, precisely eight minutes of walking at a normal pace. It’s the same route every time, and I’ve followed enough times that I can walk it without turning my brain on. After last night, I need this quiet moment for myself.
The first few minutes, everything is normal. Then it suddenly isn’t. There are no loud sounds or heavy footsteps, just apresencethat is following me, a shadow in my periphery.
Fuck, here we go. I knew getting the scotch was a bad idea.
Every nerve lights up, my hand instinctively shifting to the bag where the small gun is hidden between clinking bottles. They must know I would notice, so there was no point in being subtle. I grab my weapon of choice and spin around, pointing it to where the fucker is standing.
The street noise fades into the background as I track the tension in the air, my body is in full attack mode, all my senses alert. I’m about to shoot the first bullet when I see it…
“Oh shit, not you,” I curse under my breath. “So, it’s finally my turn. Just fucking great.”
Back inside my home, I let the intruder rumble around the house as I peel off my blazer and let it drop somewhere between the entrance and the kitchen. My shoulder cracks. My knee aches. The entire situation wore me out.
I drop the bottles on the counter and push my hands against the counter’s edge. To distract myself, I pour myself a glass of wine and take my phone out of my dress pocket to reread the message, only to see he actually replied.
Azrael: It was just the grade for your performance. Just facts.
Facts.
I stare at the screen, biting my lip as the gulp of wine I just swallowed burns its way down my throat. I can’t believe it! He disappears for almost one week and comes back with this stupid explanation?
Facts, he says.
Like the way he looked at me wasn’t pure hunger. Like he didn’t rub his cock at the sight of my body. Like he didn’t grind his teeth just to stop himself from touching me.Men.
Victoria: Sorry, who is this?
He cannot possibly believe I will accept this as an explanation and welcome him back like he’s the most important thing in my life. I will and he is, but still.
His reply is not coming, and I’m starting to second-guess myself. The last thing I need now is for him to disappear again. After an acceptable waiting period—three minutes—I text him again.
Victoria: It was shame, right?
Azrael: Shame?
Victoria: The first feeling you tried to dissect in the warehouse. Huge mistake.
The time he spent ignoring me was pure torture, but I had time to think about what Azrael was trying to achieve in the warehouse.
Azrael: You think I was wrong?
Victoria: I’m just saying it seems like you were looking for a quick ending.
Azrael: …go on.
How do I make this man understand that I haven’t felt shame in more than a decade? Anyone else saying this would make it sound cocky, but he should know me by now, and I have no reason to hide it.
Victoria: You thought shame was some sort of pivot point that would pull something out of me.
Victoria: That if you could make me feel ashamed, I would lose the strength to fight.