Sleeping with the shadows
977 Words
The cold air of the mansion wrapped around Lyra like silk dipped in steel. It had been two days since the kiss—two days since the floor was painted in blood and her lips had crushed into Elvis’s like war itself. She hadn’t spoken to him since. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she didn’t trust what her voice would sound like if she did.
He was healing, slowly, stitched together like shattered armor. But it wasn’t the wound on his shoulder that seemed to weaken him—it was her silence. Every time she passed his room, she felt it. That weight. That hunger. That question in his eyes: “Was it real?”
She didn’t give him answers. She wasn’t ready to break again.
But inside her… the flame refused to die.
On the third morning, the silence shattered.
A knock on her door. Not his usual soft one. It was firm. Purposeful.
She opened it.
A man in a black suit stood there. Not from Elvis’s guard. Someone else.
"There’s a situation," he said.
Minutes later, Lyra stood beside Elvis in the grand meeting room, her arms crossed. He was pale, seated on the arm of a leather chair, bandaged, but looking as dangerous as ever. Still, his eyes never left her.
“An old associate of Johnny’s,” he said, “someone worse—has shown signs of movement. We don’t know what he’s planning, but he’s watching.”
Lyra’s lips pressed tight. “You think he saw the attack?”
“He saw the kiss.”
That shut her up.
“He thinks we’re together,” Elvis continued, his eyes on her, unreadable. “That you’re my weakness.”
Lyra scoffed. “I’m no one’s weakness.”
“No,” Elvis said. “You’re my fire.”
She looked away.
“We need to play into it,” he said. “Publicly. Appear as a couple. Disappear from the spotlight together—just for a few days. We’ll act like we’re taking a ‘romantic escape.’”
Lyra raised an eyebrow. “You want me to fake being in love with you.”
“I want them to believe you already are.”
She stared at him for a long second. “And what if I say no?”
He leaned in slightly, voice softer. “Then I bleed again. Alone.”
She hated how her chest clenched at that.
She didn’t answer. But hours later, she packed a bag.
They took the back car, quiet and sleek, disappearing into the night like shadows slipping into each other. The house they reached was deep in the countryside—a villa surrounded by trees and silence. No guards. No enemies. Just space.
And one bed.
The villa had been staged perfectly. Photos of them on the walls—images from the auction, their bodies too close. Notes from a fake engagement. Perfume on the pillows. And a single bedroom.
Lyra walked in and stared at it. “You’re kidding.”
“We’re lovers,” Elvis said, standing behind her. “Lovers don’t sleep apart.”
She turned. “We’re pretending.”
His voice dropped. “Are we?”
She said nothing.
That night, she changed behind the bathroom door, slipping into a black silk camisole that barely reached her thighs. It wasn’t for him—it was all she had. But when she stepped out and saw him shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, the wound wrapped, eyes heavy but hungry… her breath caught.
“You can sleep first,” she said.
“I don’t sleep when you’re beside me,” he murmured.
She slipped under the sheets, keeping her back to him, her breathing controlled.
And then he whispered, “You never said why you kissed me.”
Her fingers tightened against the pillow. “You were bleeding.”
“I’ve bled before.”
“It was just a kiss.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, voice sharp.
She turned then, facing him. “You’re the one lying. About needing me here. About it all. You just want me close.”
He moved slowly, leaning over her, his hand resting beside her head. “Yes,” he said. “I want you so close it hurts.”
Their faces were inches apart. His breath hit her lips.
“I see it, Lyra,” he whispered. “You want me too.”
She shook her head, but her voice trembled. “I can’t want you.”
“Why?”
“Because wanting ends in pain.”
He kissed her. Not rough. Not forceful. Just… real.
And this time, she didn’t stop him.
Her hands tangled into his hair, pulling him deeper, her body arching into his. His lips dragged down her jaw, her neck, then returned to her mouth like he couldn’t survive without it.
The kiss was slow, endless, like they were trying to memorize each other.
When it broke, she whispered, “This changes nothing.”
He smiled, brushing a finger against her cheek. “It changes everything.”
They slept, tangled in silence, but not in distance.
The next day, they acted. Held hands in the garden. Laughed in front of the cameras hidden in trees. He kissed her forehead. She leaned on his shoulder. Enemies were watching. But so were her walls.
At night, he touched her again. Slower. Hungrier.
They made love like war—soft and sharp, desperate and silent. She kissed his scars. He traced her back like it was a map to his salvation.
And when it ended, she whispered, “You still don’t know me.”
He answered, “But I know what I feel.”
And maybe… so did she.
Because she stopped pretending.
For the first time… she just stayed.
To be continued...
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