Touch me and burn

Chapter Six: Niall

‐Amara POV

"Niall."

The name tasted strange in my mouth — like something too old to belong to me, something I’d whispered a thousand times in another life. And the moment it passed my lips, the painting bled.

Crimson.

It didn’t drip. It seeped. Thick as molasses, rich as fresh death. From his eyes, down his cheekbones, across his neck — like he’d been slit open and now his ghost wanted me to feel it.

I staggered backward, a scream caught in my throat.

"No... No, no—"

I blinked, once. Twice. The blood was still there. Slower now, as if savoring the shock.

Panic surged through my chest. I grabbed the nearest rag, fingers fumbling, trying to wipe it — but when I touched the canvas… it was dry. Bone-dry. Cool. Like the blood had never been there at all.

I gasped and stumbled away.

I didn’t imagine that. I didn’t. I—

I dragged the sheet off a chair and threw it over the portrait like it could suffocate the thing staring back at me. Ciaran’s face — or his twin, his ghost, his something — stared through the linen like the cloth was transparent. Judging. Watching. Knowing.

I wrapped it. Mummified it. Hauled it behind the armoire like hiding it could make it less real. It couldn’t.

And yet...

Even when hidden, I felt it. Felt him.

The room felt smaller. The shadows heavier. My own skin too tight on my bones.

I needed wine.

In the kitchen, I poured a glass with trembling hands. Then another. Then one more. By the time I reached the bedroom, I was barefoot, flushed, and not nearly drunk enough.

But my body… my body had ideas.

It pulsed.

A deep ache nestled low in my belly, right behind my hip bones — shameful and hot. I’d spent all day ignoring it. Ignoring him. That man from the gallery. Ciaran Vale. Or Niall. Or whatever soul wore that face.

And now, alone, shaken, bleeding somewhere invisible… I was throbbing for him.

I sat on the bed. My robe fell open. I didn’t bother to fix it.

My n*****s were tight, breath shallow. The air against my skin felt indecent. Like I was already being touched.

I hated it. I hated him. I hated how my thighs pressed together on instinct and how my own pulse betrayed me.

I lay back.

One hand in my hair. The other slid between my legs. Hesitant. Curious. Hungry.

The first touch made me moan.

God, I was soaked. I hadn’t touched myself in months. Too tired. Too broken. Too haunted. But now my fingers moved like they remembered everything — like they knew who I was doing this for.

Not for him. Because of him.

Because of that mouth. That voice. That f*****g stare.

I circled slow, hips arching up. My breath caught.

I imagined him behind me, watching. Not touching. Just watching. That scar along his jaw would twitch the way it did when he got serious. Or angry. Or hard.

"f**k," I whispered, breathless.

My fingers moved faster. Deeper.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be screaming. Running. Calling Nia or literally anyone sane.

Instead, I came hard — once, then again — gasping his name into the pillow like a secret, like a sin.

I lay there shaking, chest heaving, thighs soaked.

And for a moment… I wasn’t in my bed.

I was somewhere hot. Bright. Loud. Wrapped in burning linen, hips tangled with his. Ciaran’s breath in my ear. His hands on my hips. The taste of ash and honey in my mouth. Everything wild and impossible.

Then it was gone.

I sat up slowly. The room was spinning. The silence throbbed.

That painting had bled.

He had bled.

And I just—

I couldn’t finish the thought.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time: 4:52 a.m.

Several missed calls. One text from Nia.

“Tell me you didn’t take that painting home.”

I didn’t reply.

The screen dimmed, then lit up again — but not from Nia.

My phone vibrated again.

Unknown Number.

I stared at it like it might burn me. Then answered.

I didn’t speak.

A pause.

Then his voice. Deep. Controlled. Too calm.

“Amara. I need you to meet me.”

My pulse stuttered.

“Where?”

Another pause. Then:

“There’s been another one. I’m texting you the address.”

A second later — a ping. A location dropped into my inbox. East London. South side. Near the docks.

“Be ready,” he added. “It’s bad.”

Click.

He hung up.

I stared at the address, naked under the sheets, still aching with the echo of my own orgasm — and now, something worse.

Dread.

Because I already knew what I was going to see there.