Chapter 4: We Want The Same Thing
1420 Words
The apartment had been scrubbed clean.
New locks. New windows. No trace of blood in the grout, no sign of anyone who even looked close to the intruder.
But Anika still checked the windows. Three times. Every night.
She barely slept.
The news called it a home invasion. A botched robbery. No arrests. No leads. The man Stefan had put down disappeared before the cops arrived — like a ghost. Like he was never real.
Stefan hadn’t stayed.
Just long enough to watch her breathe. His knuckles were scratched, his shirt torn at the collar. He didn’t speak about what she’d said. Didn’t answer the question that still hung between them like smoke.
He just looked at her — dark, unreadable — then left.
That was six days ago.
Not a word since.
She’d tried. Emails. One burner call. No reply. No trace.
By the third day, Anika started wondering if he’d been real at all. A hallucination wrapped in cologne and bruises. Maybe her mind had snapped, built a savior out of smoke and shadow.
Until now.
A black envelope sat on the countertop — hand-delivered, thick paper, no return address. She opened it with a knife.
Inside, was a photo.
Her. In the apartment.
Taken through the window.
Timestamped two nights ago.
A single red dot hovered over her heart.
She turned it over.
On the back was a set of coordinates.
Below that, in clean, precise script:
‘Come armed.’
No address. No time.
Just a test.
Anika didn’t hesitate.
She slipped on the dress that made men drop their guard.
And slid a knife into her coat.
She drove herself.
Didn’t trust cabs, or the subway.
Didn’t trust much of anything these days.
The coordinates led her to the edge of the city — old industrial district, all cracked concrete and rusted metal. Not abandoned, but forgotten.
She pulled up to a warehouse with no sign, no lights.
Just a single security camera blinking red above a steel door.
The second she stepped out of the car, it opened.
No creak. No warning.
Just Stefan.
Leaning against the frame in a black turtleneck and tailored slacks, like this was a gallery opening and not a trap.
Anika didn’t smile.
Neither did he.
“You came armed?” He asked.
She lifted her coat slightly. Showed the glint of the blade at her hip.
His eyes flicked to it. Then to her face.
Approval.
Maybe something darker.
He stepped aside.
She walked in.
The air was warm. Scented — not with food, not with candles, but cedar and smoke.
A single table waited near the center. Two chairs.
And between them — a closed file.
She didn’t sit.
He didn’t offer.
“Why now?” she asked, voice low. “You ghosted me.”
He studied her momentarily, like he was deciding what version of the truth to give.
“Because I had to know if I wanted to see you again. And if you’d show up.”
A beat passed — not silence, but the weight of something else pulling taut in the air.
Then, stepping closer—
“Did he deserve it?” Stefan asked. No judgment in his tone. Just interest, like he already knew the answer and was asking to hear how she’d say it.
Anika looked away — not in shame, but in memory.
Then finally, she sat. Back straight. Her hands rested on her thighs like she was bracing for the next cut.
Her voice came quietly, flat. “What do you think?”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her with something too calm to be judgmental.
“You did it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Was it hard?”
“No.”
“Would you do it again?”
She met his eyes. “In a heartbeat.”
He exhaled like he was impressed. Or maybe turned on.
Then he circled the table.
Anika didn’t move.
Her shoulders stayed back. Her spine was straight.
But her fingers curled once under the table.
When he stopped behind her chair, the space between them thickened.
“You wear violence well,” Stefan said, voice low.
His hand brushed the back of her chair. Just that—not her. Not yet. But it was enough to feel the heat run across her shoulders.
“I want to know more than that,” he continued.
Her gaze met his then. Cool. Controlled. “Why?”
A silence stretched. Thick. Loaded.
Stefan didn’t blink. “Because I think we want the same thing.”
He moved behind her — not threatening, but present. Voice low now, warm against her neck.
“You didn’t just kill him, Anika. You ended the version of yourself who allowed it.”
She scoffed. “You say that like you know the exact reason I did.”
He looked down at her. Voice calm. “I know everything there is to know about wanting someone erased.”
A breath passed.
Then he reached out — not to grab her, not to force. Just a hand, firm on the back of her chair, tilting it just enough to close the space.
She didn’t move back.
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said softly, but there was no real protest in her voice.
He knelt down — eye level now. “Don’t I?”
She held his gaze for a beat longer.
“I’m pregnant.”
“I know.” His smirk was brief. “And you knew before you invited me into your home.”
He leaned in.
“I want what you are. Not cleaned up. Not softened. And I want what we can do together.”
Her hand moved — not to push him away. To guide.
Fingers in his collar. Pulling him closer.
Mouth brushing his, not a kiss—not yet. Just breathe. Shared.
“It was about Aisha, wasn’t it?” he said. “Your husband.”
His eyes searched hers. “The same reason you kept coming onto me. You want revenge.”
Anika didn’t answer. Because she didn’t know the answer.
Because her body was louder than her mind.
He kissed her, not softly. Not slow.
A bite.
Her lips parted — not in surprise. In welcome.
His hands moved, but they never touched her stomach. They framed her hips, her waist, her back — reverent, but never delicate.
Like she wasn’t breakable.
Like he wasn’t afraid.
“Is this still revenge?” he asked, his voice low, breath rough, mouth against her jaw.
Then she kissed him again. Harder.
He stood, pulling her with him. Their bodies flush now, heat rising fast — past sense, past doubt.
She let her coat fall.
He watched it drop, eyes dragging down her body like he was memorizing a secret.
Then his mouth was back on hers — bruising, searching — and her hands were already under his sweater, nails scratching skin, testing limits.
There was no bed.
Just the wall behind her and the war inside them.
He pressed her against the concrete, his hands on her thighs, lifting.
She wrapped around him — not out of need. Out of choice.
His breath stuttered.
“Not yet…” he murmured. “I need you first. I need you to make someone pay.”
His words were close. Heated. Heavy with a different kind of hunger.
“Can we help each other?”
Anika didn’t speak at first. Her fingers dug into the collar of his sweater, pulling him closer. Her lips hovered by his ear.
“You tell me,” she whispered.
And that was it.
Whatever restraint he had left snapped.
His mouth was back on hers — rough, claiming, like language had failed and this was all that was left. Hands sliding, gripping, her legs still around him as he carried her — not to comfort, but to purpose.
He laid her on the table.
The one meant for strategy. For plans. For vengeance.
But all it held now was her breath.
Her body.
His need.
His hand brushed under her dress — slow, deliberate. No rush. No apologies.
“You’re soaked,” he said roughly, like it surprised him.
It didn’t surprise her.
She tilted her hips into his palm, lips brushing his ear. “Then don’t waste it.”
That broke something in him.
His mouth crashed into hers again — hotter now, darker. Tongue and teeth and something close to violence.
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