Chapter 29: The Afterglow of Control.

The air throbbed heavily still with the ghost of last night eerily. Sherry lay curled on silk sheets, her body throbbing viciously in hitherto unsuspecting places, utterly bereft of prior delight or distress.

Dim red light from a corner sconce glowed faintly still, bathing the room in hellish warmth with a somewhat eerie, gentle radiance.

The scent of worn leather and the sweat of ownership clung heavily to her skin like invisible bruises beneath the rumpled fabric.

She blinked slowly and heavily as if her body was still lagging behind from revelry the night before. Enzo lay on his back quietly beside her.

One arm rested limply across his chest, and the other lay snugly across her hip as if still holding on tightly in slumber.

His chest heaved slowly up and down with eerie stillness beneath tangled threads of worn fabric on his torso. His face appeared remarkably serene and unusually gentle.

For someone she'd thoroughly dissected just hours before, she seemed remarkably composed now and still utterly inscrutable somehow. She slipped out quietly from under his arm with stealthy precision.

She glided stealthily across the room, not wanting to disturb him. She felt as though merely exhaling with excessive vigor could potentially rouse a perilous entity from its dormant state quietly.

Bare feet slapped cold stone, and she winced pretty badly. Each step eerily recalled memories of their past deed very vividly.

Her thighs throbbed painfully beneath tense muscles, and her stomach muscles contracted spasmodically with intense discomfort.

She felt achy pretty much everywhere, surprisingly, except in places she had anticipated being sore after that ordeal.

Something else nagged at her far more intensely, though.

It was the echo he'd left behind. His voice was in her ear. His hands gripped her skin. The weight of his control. And maybe worst of all, the way she had wanted it.

She collected his robe off the chair and wrapped it around herself. The robe smells like him: clean, warm, expensive.

She walked slowly through the house, down the halls still thick with the memory of last night. Every corner whispered things they'd done.

She didn't know what she was doing. She just needed to move. Sitting still felt like drowning. She couldn't stop replaying it all, how he'd touched her, pushed her, changed her.

The villa was silent. The air was cool. Outside, the sea crashed against the rocks. That sound was steady, almost comforting. It reminded her the world was still there. Real. Normal.

She wandered into a hallway she hadn't noticed before. The light was dim. Old photographs lined the walls, faded and yellowed with age. Pieces of Enzo's life he never talked about.

One photo pulled her in. A tall man in a dark suit. Sharp eyes, cold. He looked like he owned everything around him.

Beside him, a woman stood straight and still. She was graceful and dressed well. Her face turned just enough that Sherry couldn't see it clearly.

But something about her cheekbones, the way she held herself, struck a nerve. Sherry leaned in. Her heart sped up. She knew that face. Not from memory. From somewhere deeper.

A flash. Red walls. A scream. A small voice crying for someone who never turned around. Her chest tightened. She wasn't sure what it meant. But something inside her had just cracked open.

She reached out to touch the frame.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice was low and sharp. Behind her.

Sherry was startled, spinning around to find Enzo standing shirtless in the hallway, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them. His jaw clenched as he took in the photo, then her hand hovered too close to it.

"I wasn't-" she began.

He stepped forward. "You were snooping."

"I wasn't. I was walking. Breathing." Her voice rose. "Trying to remember what the hell you did to me last night."

He didn't flinch. "You begged for it."

Her eyes burned. "And you gave it to me like you were trying to erase me."

A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Maybe I was."

Silence yawned between them like a chasm.

Sherry crossed her arms over the robe. "Who is she?"

"No one."

"Don't lie to me. I felt something when I looked at her. I remembered something. Red walls. Screaming-"

"You're not ready to remember," he snapped. "You think answers will fix this? You won't survive what's buried."

"And you think hiding will protect me?" Her voice cracked. "Or is it just easier to keep me in the dark, like everyone else you control?"

Enzo's eyes flashed. He closed the distance between them in three sharp steps, grabbing her by the shoulders, his breath hot on her face.

"I control things because when I don't, people die."

"Bullshit. You control things because it's the only way you know how to keep people from leaving you."

Her words hit like a slap. His grip tightened, just slightly, then eased. His jaw twitched.

She pressed. "You don't love. You possess. You fuck the truth out of people, then hide behind your wealth and power like a fucking goddamn coward."

A dangerous silence fell between them.

Then, his voice, low and trembling with fury: "You think you know what I feel for you?"

"I think you don't let yourself feel anything."

He lunged savagely with his mouth rather than with fists. Their lips smashed together in a violent, messy kiss, with fury and ragged gasps for air erupting wildly between them.

Sherry wrestled him, furiously pushing at his chest hard, but he yanked the robe off her shoulders roughly, letting it slither down onto the floor.

His mouth roamed roughly down her neck with punishing intensity, and her legs locked instinctively around him as tears finally began falling.

They didn't speak.

There were no sweet nothings, no apologies.

Just desperate and angry for hot fuck that early morning.

He began sucking her nipple and playing \`with it.

Just then, he entered her hard, like a weapon, and she took him like a curse she couldn't shake. Their bodies crashed, again and again, the air thick with ragged breath and broken moans.

Her nails raked down his back. He gripped her thighs like anchors, pressing her harder into the wall as if he were trying to merge the wall and her into one.

It wasn't sex.

It was a surrender, war and worship.

When she came, she cried out like a confession. After the hot fuck, he didn't kiss her. He just held her there, pressed his forehead to her and closed his eyes, as if he were afraid to speak or make a speech.

They collapsed on the floor eventually; the hallway was spinning in their eyes.

Neither of them said a word.

That night, long after the wine had been poured and the silence stretched thin between them, Sherry sat moved to the edge of the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, as Enzo stood at the window, shirtless and distant.

"I saw her eyes in mine," she said softly, breaking the stillness. "That woman. In the photo."

Enzo didn't turn around. "Don't go looking for ghosts, bambina. You won't like what you find."

"I'm already haunted."

He glanced over his shoulder. His gaze was unreadable.

Sherry hesitated. "You said people die when you lose control. Who died, Enzo?"

His jaw tightened. But before he could speak, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She frowned. "It's late..."

She picked it up. One message. No number.

She opened it.

And froze.

The text was short. Cold. Chilling.

You're not the first. And if you stay, you won't be the last.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The phone slipped from her hand.

She looked up and her eyes were wide, but Enzo was already moving toward her, his voice low and sharp.

"Sherry, what is it?"

She didn't answer.

He picked up the phone from the floor and read the message.