Chapter Eight: Drown Me Gently
1036 Words
‐Amara POV
“I’m not staying with you.”
The words came out sharper than I meant, all glass and bite, but I couldn’t take them back.
Ciaran didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, didn’t snarl. Just stared at me like I was something under glass. Something he wanted to keep.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he said, voice low.
“Then you can shove it,” I snapped, stepping back. “You don’t get to decide where I sleep just because we share… dreams.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “Dreams? That what we’re calling them now?”
“What would you call them?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me like I was an equation that refused to solve.
I could still smell the blood from the alley. Still see the corpse. Still feel that sick twist of recognition in my gut. And now Ciaran Vale was playing savior like he hadn’t just watched my soul unravel in front of him.
I needed air.
I needed noise.
I needed to feel nothing.
So I turned and walked.
I ended up at some bar in Shoreditch. One of those too-loud, too-dark places where the drinks are overpriced and the lighting makes everyone look a little more beautiful than they are. The music thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. I welcomed it.
I drank.
Not delicately.
Not slowly.
Like I was trying to bleach the inside of my skull.
Vodka. Lime. Another vodka.
My head started to float.
Good.
I didn’t want to feel the weight of memory anymore. Didn’t want to see the paintings in my mind or that poor girl’s faceless body slumped like a broken thing against the concrete.
“Rough day?” a voice asked beside me.
I turned.
Tall. Dark-skinned. Lean muscle under a fitted shirt. A cocky smile and cheekbones like weapons.
He wasn’t Ciaran.
Good.
“Something like that,” I said, swirling my glass.
He leaned in. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” He ordered a whiskey. “You got a name?”
“Amara.”
He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Amara. I’m Jude.”
I didn’t tell him he had a name like a saint and a mouth like a sin.
But I thought it.
He made small talk. I nodded when I was supposed to. Laughed at something I didn’t hear. Let his hand rest on my thigh like it belonged there.
I didn’t stop him.
Because I wanted the noise.
I wanted something.
“Your place or mine?” he asked, about an hour and three drinks later.
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve gone home, taken a hot shower, cried it out like a normal broken person.
Instead, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yours.”
His flat was a high-rise — too clean, too white, like he didn’t really live in it.
The second the door shut, he kissed me. Hard. All teeth and hunger. I kissed him back with everything I didn’t want to feel. I wasn’t here for connection. I wasn’t here for meaning.
I was here to burn out.
He pulled my coat off. Lifted my shirt. His hands were warm, practiced. I let him press me against the wall, let him find the clasp on my bra. His mouth dragged down my throat, nipped at my collarbone.
I didn’t close my eyes.
Because if I did, I’d see him.
Not Jude. Ciaran.
I’d see Ciaran’s hands, Ciaran’s mouth, Ciaran’s fury when I said no.
I didn’t want that.
So I pushed Jude toward the couch, climbed on top of him, and kissed him until I couldn’t breathe.
He groaned into my mouth. “You’re intense.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.”
His hands slid under my jeans, tugging them down. I shifted, helped him. My thighs straddled him, bare and flushed. I felt him hard under his jeans. He tried to speak again.
I shut him up with a kiss.
He tasted like whiskey and distraction.
I ground against him, my underwear damp from want or whiskey or both. His hands gripped my hips. I pulled back, met his eyes.
“Condom?”
“Yeah—uh—drawer.”
I leaned over, grabbed it, tore the packet with my teeth.
He watched, eyes wide, pupils blown.
“f**k,” he breathed. “You’re something else.”
You have no idea.
I rolled it on for him, slow and deliberate, watching him squirm.
Then I sank down on him with a gasp, stretching, full. My head tipped back.
Not because it felt good.
But because it felt like anything.
He moaned, hands tight on my hips.
I moved.
Not romantic. Not slow.
Just friction. Just heat. Just a girl riding a stranger until she couldn’t hear her own thoughts.
He said my name once, then again.
I didn’t respond.
I f****d him until my thighs ached and my lungs burned and my mind went blank.
It was what I needed.
And I hated myself for it.
---
After, I lay on my side, staring at the skyline through his window.
Jude slept behind me. Or pretended to.
I felt hollow.
I felt… used. Not by him. By myself.
The noise was gone. The silence came back.
And with it, the dreams.
My fingers twitched.
The scene played behind my eyes: a stone altar, a dagger, a voice whispering in a language older than time. Blood on my hands. Ciaran on his knees.
Dying.
Because of me.
My chest tightened.
I got up quietly, slipped into the bathroom. Stared at myself in the mirror.
I didn’t recognize the girl looking back.
Eyes glassy. Lips bruised. Neck red where Jude’s mouth had lingered.
I looked like a painting.
A cursed one.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
> I saw you.
My heart skipped.
I opened the message.
> He’s coming for you next.
I didn’t breathe.
Another buzz.
> Don’t sleep.
The phone fell from my hand and hit the sink with a crack.
I stared at the screen.
But no more messages came.
- Writer
