He didn’t come in last night, refused to touch me in the way I wanted, and laughed when I almost begged. He kissed me like a man who would do anything to fuck me numb and then walked the fuck away like he had all the time in the world to do it. Who does that? Who fingers you in a car like that and leaves you alone in the hallway after an orgasm?
Azrael. That’s who.
So what is this? What the hell are we, and why is this even a question in the first place?
Saturdays used to be mine.
My ritual day. The only day when the world knows better than to exist around me.
I start the morning unhurried. Cat is already waiting, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, glaring at me, judging me like the lazy servant that I am. I go through the motions, pretending this is just another day, but something doesn’t sit right. No matter how hard I try to forget whathappened yesterday—or more accurately, how I refuse to admit how pathetic I act around him all the damn time—my brain keeps on revolving around the same question: why?
What, exactly, about last night was about us being together, me being his and him being mine, and how much was just part of the experiment? To say I’m confused would be an understatement. I need to know exactly what Azrael is doing and if he’s still following through with the experiment.
Victoria: Why did you take me to dinner yesterday?
I’ve never been accused of being subtle, and my brain can’t deal with uncertainty.
If my life is not sitting right, I will always overcompensate in other areas. Hence, the outfit I chose just to go get my wine. I’m dressed like I have a red carpet waiting—heels and my most expensive dress, both matched with a customized mouse gun.
Andrew is at the counter, just like always. But as soon as I walk in, he looks at me like he’s surprised I’m here. It gives me the ick. Or maybe it’s just because of the way I am dressed? I choose to believe the latter.
Seconds later, he goes to the back and returns with the bottles bagged.
“I added an extra one. Bordeaux.”
Okay, Andrew, where the fuck are you going with this? I thought we were…platonic friends.
A new bottle isn’t unusual, but a new red wine in July is.
“Why?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.
He shrugs, casual but not really. “It’s like scotch. Thought you’d like it.”
This is too much. I will miss the wine from this place, but I guess there’s no way in hell I’m coming back. I knew gettingthat fucking bottle of scotch was a mistake. Azrael really likes destroying everything good in my life.
I take the bottles and leave without another word. Everything around me is changing, and the universe refuses to shut up about it.
In the kitchen, I pour a glass of this fucked-up wine and stare at it. What the hell am I even supposed to do with it?
Bordeaux. With a smell that invades my senses and leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. It tastes like him. Well, not literally, thank God, that would certainly turn me into an addict. But the way it fills every part of me and leaves me quieter than before—yeah. That is Azrael.
I hate how much I like it. I hate that everything is starting to be about him.
I sink into the couch, staring out the window, distracted by my own thoughts.
What I need right now is a way to distract myself from him, to keep me occupied. Right. A mission. Time to focus.
I pick up my phone, ready to call Alex. He will find it strange, will probably make a stupid remark, but I’d rather have that. Last time he tried to call me on a Saturday, I made sure he understood what a huge mistake that was—burned him so hard he probably still checks the calendar before dialing. Yet here I am, voluntarily going against my own damn rules.
I hit call before I can change my mind and it only rings twice before he picks up.
“Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”
Oh, I really shouldn’t have done this.
“Is this a cry for help or did you miss me too much?” he continues.
I roll my eyes. “Relax. I just need a distraction.”