12. Layla

12

LAYLA

My vagina is a traitor.

I'm squirming in my office chair in hopes of punishing myself by feeling the ache, over and over again, as a shameful reminder of what I did last night.

But instead of enduring any penitence, I'm creating desperate fuel for more .

If imagining what it would be like to have sex with him was that incredible, what the hell would it be like to actually?—

NO, LAYLA.

That road doesn't lead to a happy ending. The Scythe insists he's protecting me, but his traits lean more toward a stalker than a defender. He sends me trinkets in the form of human skin as "proof" that other men are after me.

Not to mention his manners. He took my thumb drive without so much as a thank you.

I clench my fingers above my keyboard when the final, cutting thought hits me: I don't even know his name.

The fluorescent lights above my cubicle flicker like a warning, the mundane click-clack of keyboards around me now sounding like a countdown to something inevitable, something irreversible.

Like the Scythe will storm in here next, demanding I strip down so he can claim me in front of my startled coworkers.

Last night's encounter wasn't just crossing a line. It obliterated it. In one reckless evening, I flirted with danger and danced with the devil. And now, sitting here amid the drone of office normalcy, I'm electrified with a secret that's both exhilarating and terrifying.

I thought I could play him, thought I could weave through his defenses and pluck out his vulnerabilities like a needle through fabric. It was supposed to be a way to gain leverage. If he's so distracted by my body, maybe I could find a way to escape both the danger he presents and the people who don't want me talking.

Instead, what I exposed was a rawness within myself and a need for pleasure so deeply sown, I hadn't known it was there until the Scythe offered me relief.

I'm not sure what I want more. For these Mafia men to show themselves or to stay in this aggravating purgatory where I lay in wait for the next person who wants to hurt me.

If there even is one.

It could all be a ruse. I only think I'm in danger because he told me I was. He used it as an excuse to set up cameras in my home, monitor my every move, scare me, threaten me … pleasure me.

But I'm not so innocent myself. I lured him to the top of the lighthouse, knowing what he is. I justified it as a right to an explanation for the jarred nightmare he left in my car, but we all know the real reason I drew him up there.

I wanted to see him again.

My mind replays last night—my fingers turning into his touch and igniting my skin, his very real whispers weaving through the room like silk and steel.

How can I sit here, typing reports and sipping coffee, when I've lifted the curtains to this town and seen something darker, so much more intoxicating?

My screen comes to life, an email notification popping up.My heart skips a beat. Because now, every ping, every call could be him. The man who's not just ambushing my life but also creating a fire that's threatening to consume everything I am.

I'm still lost in my thoughts when I sense someone standing by my cubicle. Looking up, I see Ethan, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Hey, Layla, you okay?" he asks, adjusting his glasses. "You've seemed a bit off lately."

I pause, caught off guard.

"I'm fine, Ethan. Just tired," I reply, forcing a smile. "You know, long nights of Netflix."

I've been successfully avoiding everyone at Pulse Dynamics, especially Emmitt Dawson, who returned a few days ago after taking time off. He returned quieter and with shifty eyes, like he was constantly bracing for incoming threats.

I don't blame him. I've adopted the same attitude.

If he's aware that I'm an involuntary witness to his crimes, he doesn't give any indication. To my surprise, he hasn't come up to my desk, tried to massage my shoulders, or smell my hair when he thinks he's asked a distracting enough question to get away with it.

Dawson isn't avoiding me, exactly. He's still my supervisor. But he's not acting like himself. He's neither creepy nor interested. It's like I've stopped existing.

Like he's already marked me as a dead girl walking and I'm no longer worth his time, or he's been warned that he'll turn into pickled skin if he's seen talking to me?

Both are terrifying prospects.

Above me, Ethan's forehead creases with worry. "You know you can talk to me, right? We've known each other for, what, five months now?" He grins. "That puts me way above cubicle neighbor."

I appreciate his outreach more than words can say. It wasn't apparent to me until Ethan asked that I don't have anyone left to care about my well-being. "I consider you a friend, Ethan. And I appreciate it. It's just personal stuff, you know?"

Ethan nods slowly, his eyes still reflecting unease. "Personal stuff. Got it. But hey, everyone needs a break from their personal stuff sometimes."

God, if he only knew.

I raise an eyebrow, curious about where he's going with this. "What are you suggesting?"

"Well..." Ethan starts, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "I was thinking, maybe a change of scenery would help. Something different from, you know, codes and screens."

"A change of scenery?" I echo, intrigued despite myself. Ethan's more of a hermit than I am.

"Yeah," Ethan says with growing enthusiasm as if warming up to his own idea. "Like going out. There's more to life than this office and our homes, right? I mean, I don't usually do the whole nightlife thing, but I think we could both use a night off. Just to unwind and forget about stuff. It's been tense in this place lately, have you noticed?"

I study him, surprised by his offer. "Ethan, you hate going out. You once described the club scene as ‘a Venn diagram of loud music and poor life choices.'"

He laughs awkwardly. "I did say that, didn't I? But I also said I wanted to try new things this year. So what do you say? A night out in Greycliff. Our choices are the one nightclub or the one dive bar. It might be ... fun?"

The idea of Ethan in a social setting is amusingly out of character, but his genuine concern is touching. "Okay, Ethan, let's risk some poor life choices together. But if we end up in a techno rave, I'm holding you responsible."

His grin is infectious. "Deal! It'll be an adventure. We deserve a little fun."

As he settles into his chair, I'm left with a feeling of warmth. Ethan, in his earnest and slightly awkward way, is trying to pull me out of my shell, to offer some normalcy amid the chaos of my life.

And maybe, just maybe, a night out is exactly what I need.

At the end of the workday, Ethan and I hover at the crossroads of Greycliff's nightlife, the vibrant nightclub on one side and the low-key dive bar on the other.

"So your pick," I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.

He glances at the nightclub, then at the dive bar, and finally says, "Let's start with the dive bar. Ease into the whole ‘wild night out' concept."

My lips curve at his tight voice. It's more than charming that he wants to cheer me up in the face of his own anxiety. I loop an arm through his, Ethan's well-worn plaid shirt soft and comforting against my hand.

And nothing like cold black tactical clothing.

I bat the unwelcome comparison away. Not tonight.

The Leaky Dinghy is cozy and dimly lit, with a jukebox playing soft rock classics in the background and crooked nautical decorations on the wood-paneled walls. We pick a booth at the back and order a couple of beers. I find myself relaxing, and the laughter and chatter around us are welcome distractions.

Ethan leans forward on the scratched, wobbling table, and asks, "Hey, so, are you enjoying working at Pulse?"

Light laughter escapes me before I can stop it. "Sure. Are you going to ask me about the weather next?"

His cheeks turn pink under his freckles.

"Oh—shoot, sorry." I reach out in apology. "I just meant that it feels like we're on a blind date, and I found it funny. I'm terrible at jokes. I should know better than to try to make them."

"Wait, so you're actually bad at something?" Ethan gives a lopsided smile.

That gets another laugh out of me. "I'm bad at so many things. Don't let my killer computer skills fool you."

"Oh really? Like what? I can't picture you struggling at ... anything, actually."

"I'm pretty sure my oven has a restraining order against me. The last time I tried to roast a chicken, it came out looking like a prehistoric fossil."

Ethan bursts into laughter, his glasses reflecting the lights above and obscuring his green eyes. "That's nothing. My culinary low point was attempting a ‘romantic' dinner. The pasta was so undercooked, I think it still remembered the field it grew in."

I have to lower my beer before I accidentally laugh into it. "Pasta with a backstory, I like it."

"I took it as a sign. Some of us are destined for culinary greatness, while others are destined to support local takeouts."

"Cheers to that."

We clink our bottles together. I forgot how much I enjoyed that sound. Glancing down, I notice mine is empty—a testament to how comfortable I've become in Ethan's company.

"It feels like ages since I've had a conversation this easy. No pretense, no subtext," I say, appreciating the moment. No apprehension and fear.

Ethan nods. "It's nice, isn't it?"

I glance at my empty bottle, then back at Ethan with a smile. "What's your poison? Another beer, or should we live dangerously and try the house special?"

Ethan peers at the chalkboard menu behind the bar, squinting slightly. "House special, huh? Is that the Fisherman's Regret or the Dockside Dregs?"

I snort. "Knowing this place, probably both in one glass. Come on, let's risk it." I call to the bartender, "Two Fishermen, please!"

It doesn't take long to get our new drinks, and it didn't take long to finish them. We're on our second round when the mood shifts, Ethan's open expression a little blurred, but serious.

He leans forward. "I can't believe we haven't done this sooner. You've always been so approachable despite how intimidating you could be, you know, given how you look."

I raise an eyebrow over my half-empty martini glass. "Intimidating? Me?"

If he only understood how easily I gave into the twenty-four-hour surveillance from a man with a fetish for bloodshed.

"Yeah," he admits, a little sheepishly. "When you first started at Pulse, I was kind of terrified of you. Thought you'd be like those girls in school who never gave me the time of day. But in the first team meeting you attended, everyone was throwing around tech jargon, trying to impress the boss. But you—you spoke about the project's potential impact on ordinary people. You had this way of seeing beyond the code, connecting it to real life. It wasn't just genuine, it was refreshingly human."

His honesty catches me off guard. "That's really sweet, Ethan. I had no idea."

Ethan nods, taking a sip of a mostly full drink that sloshes around the edges. My new bestie is a lightweight. "Yeah. I guess we all have our layers, right?"

I huff softly through my nose, glancing sideways. "Yeah. We do."

Ethan pauses in setting his glass down. "Something wrong?"

I return to his face, and the genuine concern I find there brings tears to mine. I want so badly to tell him everything: about my stalker, the terror that surrounds him, and the twisted hold he has on my heart. But to do so would put Ethan in danger too, and I can't bring myself to do it.

I'm not that selfish. Yet.

"Hey." Ethan reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You can talk to me about anything. Whatever it is."

His words are a comfort, a reminder that amid the madness, there are still pockets of kindness.

"Thanks, but it's nothing. I'm probably overthinking it."

No, you are fucking not, Layla.

He squeezes my hand reassuringly, not pushing me to reveal more.

We decide to check out the nightclub next, needing a change of pace.

As we leave the dive bar, the cool air hits us, sobering us up a bit, but not enough to remember the target on my back. Ethan and I are far from graceful when we spill out onto the sidewalk. He's telling me some absurd story about his one and only attempt at skydiving, where he apparently screamed so loud, the instructor thought a bird had gotten caught in the plane engine. I'm laughing so hard that tears are starting to form.

I'm wiping my eyes when I notice Ethan's jacket draped over my shoulders. When did he do that? It's a sweet gesture, and I'm touched by his thoughtfulness. I have to smile when his scent surrounds me—like fruity cereal and energy drinks.

As we reach the curb, Ethan reaches for my hand to steady me, our fingers intertwining naturally.

That's when the laughter dies in my throat.

My skin prickles, an alarm system firing too late. The streetlamps flicker, their light seeming to bend around a slice of night that refuses illumination.

And then he's there.

No fanfare, no warning. One moment empty space, the next filled with his presence. Tall. Immovable. A black hole given form, warping reality to his will.

The Scythe.

"Shiiiiit," I breathe out in a drunken, off-key melody. "I'm in so much trouble."

Ethan stares at our new friend. "Whoa, is Darth Vader in his mercenary era? Damn, I left my lightsaber in my other pants."

"Ethan. We need to leave. Now," I whisper.

The Scythe looms in the middle of the deserted street, a void punctuated only by the eerie glow of his mask's electronic eyes. They pulse with venomous green light, scanning us with cold precision.

His gaze locks onto our intertwined hands, then flicks to Ethan's jacket draped over my shoulders. I'm certain the temperature drops as his scrutiny intensifies.

"Hello, Wraithling," the Scythe purrs.

"Okay, yeah." Ethan blinks. "Definitely not a fellow cosplayer. Unless he's really committed to the whole ‘fear is part of the costume' thing."

I squeeze Ethan's hand hard, silently pleading with him to shut up.

The Scythe's focus shifts to Ethan, his voice a glacial command. "I'll be taking her now. Step aside."

Ethan glances between me and the Scythe, confusion and alcohol warring in his eyes. "Uh, Layla, you know this guy?"

I open my mouth but only taste the Fisherman's Regret churning in my belly. Words fail me.

Ethan, oblivious to the danger, throws an arm over my shoulders. "Sorry, Mr. Scary Mask. She's with me now."

The Scythe prowls closer, each step a silent threat. "Last warning, Ethan. Walk away."

Ethan, with drunken bravery I never knew he possessed, squares his shoulders. "Ooh, the cyber-ninja knows my name. I'm shaking in my ergonomic shoes."

I hiss at Ethan. "Now is not the time to discover your inner action hero!"

"Listen, my dude—" Ethan starts, and I nearly faint at his casual use of "my dude" to address the human embodiment of death.

"—we were having a great night until you crashed our party. I made Layla laugh. You made her frown. I think the scoreboard's pretty clear here?—"

Ethan crumples to the ground mid-sentence.

"Ethan!" I cry, but the Scythe is already there, his gloved fingers digging into my arm.

"Are you insane?" I scream at the Scythe, lashing out at the arm that just executed some sort of cobra strike on Ethan's throat. "He's just a drunk nerd, not a threat!"

He deflects my strike effortlessly, trapping me against his side with inhuman speed .

"Ethan!" I cry, twisting frantically in the Scythe's iron grip. "Ethan!"

The Scythe yanks me closer, his hot breath a stark contrast to the cold metal of his mask against my skin. I shudder involuntarily.

"He's not worth it," he whispers, voice laced with venom. "No one is."

Fear ignites in my veins as his glowing stare pins me in place. "I warned you to stay in your home."

I struggle harder, but his hold only tightens. "Let me go," I hiss through gritted teeth. "You're hurting me."

"I could hurt you so much worse," he warns, voice dangerously soft. "You're so careless, Wraithling."

He spins us, half dragging me across the road. The cocktails in my system turn my limbs to lead, hampering my resistance.

I whimper, my heart squeezing my lungs. The scent of saltwater and decay fills my nostrils as the wind picks up, carrying with it the eerie whistle of distant ships. The moonlight casts grotesque shadows on the old, crumbling buildings around us.

"You belong to me, Layla," he murmurs, his voice deep and throaty. "Remember that."

"Ethan," I shout, craning my neck to keep his prone form in my view. "Ethan, wake up!"

There's a sharp intake of breath, and my heart leaps as his eyelids flutter open. Ethan sits up and shakes his head groggily.

Emboldened, I turn on the Scythe. "You are the only danger in my life. Everything else is normal except what you've sabotaged. Dawson hasn't breathed a word about what I overheard. And Ethan? He's just a nice guy, not part of your twisted kink."

The mention of all those names makes his grip tighten.

"You speak of other men in my presence," he warns, a dangerous edge to his voice, "when even one is too many, Layla. Their existence in your life is at my discretion."

With an unyielding grip, the Scythe steers me toward a sleek black car hidden in an alleyway. The vehicle is modern and nondescript, almost swallowed by the narrow pool of black between the buildings. I try to pull away, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm, but his strength is overwhelming.

"Get in the car," he orders.

"I'll call a cab. I'm not going anywhere with you."

He leans in close. "Get in the car if you want Ethan to live."

His words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes dart back to Ethan, still on the ground, rubbing his neck and looking around in confusion, searching for me.

Ethan's hurt because I let my guard down. I wanted normalcy when it is so clear my life is far from ordinary.

With leaden steps and a heavier heart, I climb into the car. The Scythe closes the door with an ominous thud.

As we vanish into the night, leaving a dazed Ethan behind, a terrible realization washes over me.

The Scythe's dominance was never just about stalking.

It's about possession.

A claim so all-consuming, so terrifyingly complete, that it threatens to devour not just my freedom but also my very identity.