Nicole

My phone keeps on ringing. Even after it stops once the voicemail gets it, the ringing just starts again. Lucy's dead. Mark sent that secretary, or whatever, of his after her last night. And he was gone this morning when I woke up. The terrible realization that Lucy might've been right about him, that he's a psycho serial killer, is coiling around me like miles and miles of heavy chains, squeezing so tight I can't even breathe, let alone move.

"You should get that, Nicole," Sam says, his words the only reasonable thing shooting through my brain. I walk to my desk, answer the phone without a second thought.

"Nicole? You alright?" Mark asks breathlessly.

I'm so far from being able to answer his question, I might as well be mute. My thoughts are nowhere near reaching my voice.

"Nicole, say something," he urges, and it's more of a request, but all I hear is an order.

"Lucy's dead, Mark," I whisper.

"You know about that?"

Every fiber of my being wishes I could say no. To both the question he voiced, and the one hidden beneath it, where he thinks I suspect him.

"You still at the office?" he asks, his voice firm again.

"Yes," I manage.

"I'm coming up," he barks and hangs up, my no lost in the silence.

I turn to see Sam looking at me from the doorway of his office. He's already wearing his coat and clutching his briefcase under his arm.

"Come on, Nicole, let's go home," he says, flipping off the light in his office and walking towards me.

But I can't, because then he'll meet Mark, and find out we're more than just friends. It's even more important now that Sam doesn't find out about our relationship. But, why? I should be telling Sam all I know, how Lucy researched Mark, how she had all that incriminating evidence on him, how she warned me I might be next on his list of victims. Hell, I should be calling the police and telling them all that.

"You go ahead," I tell him instead. "I just have something to finish up."

Because deep down, where it matters, I know Mark didn't do any of those things. That he would never hurt me.

Sam stops by my desk, studying me over his glasses. "Maybe you shouldn't be alone tonight. I mean, Lucy was your friend…"

The knot in my throat expands, grows painful.

"No, I'll be fine," I manage to say anyway. "Don't worry about me."

I won't be alone, because Mark's coming.

"Alright," Sam says and heads for the door. "Don't work too late."

I start stuffing my things into my bag as soon as the sliding door hisses shut behind him. Meeting Mark is not a good idea tonight. Not until I can figure out what happened to Lucy, learn more about him and his past. My chest hurts like a huge chunk of my heart has broken off as I make that very logical decision. But it is the right one.

When I look up, Mark is standing in the hallway, staring at me through the glass doors. He can't get in, you need a keycard for that. The very air around him is fluttering, that's how intense his gaze is. If he were a panther or some other wild animal, I'd say he was ready to pounce.

And I'm stuck. The pull to run to him and fall into his arms is painful, mostly because I won’t do it.

So I collect my things, get my coat and walk out of the office very slowly, my legs shaking.

"Mark—" I start to say once the door opens, but the rest of my sentence is cut off as he hugs and kisses me, holding me so tight I can't get a breath in.

I drop my things, brace myself against his chest, try to push him off, but it's no use. He's kissing me with a blind frenzy, and there's such fire in it, such desire, all my objections are going up in smoke.

"Mark, we should talk," I say breathlessly as soon as I'm able.

"I didn't kill her," he says, still holding me tight. "Do you believe me?"

Pure, stark honesty is staring back at me through his eyes. I'm looking at the Mark I used to know, the one I fell in love with years ago. I want to believe him—I do believe him—but I can't be sure.

"I don't know," I answer honestly.

"That's not good enough," he says, and kisses me again, the touch of his lips sending white-hot sparks through me. My body's responding even as my mind's screaming I need to get away. That he's dangerous.

Yet I can't. It's like he's a magnet, and I'm stuck to him, unable to break free.

"I won't let you go…I can't," he whispers into my ear, right before he starts kissing my neck.

My heart's pounding, from fear and desire in equal measure. He's lifting up my skirt, the other hand fumbling with my tights.

"Not here, Mark," I whine. The cleaners will be here at any moment. There are cameras too, I think.

He stops and pulls me along the hallway, then through the stairwell door. I'm not sure I want this. But I'm also certain I can't stop him.

He pushes me against the door as soon as we're inside, pins my arms above my head and kisses me even deeper, more needy than before. I stop struggling against his grip. I'm wet, my whole body screaming for him to take me.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to twirl me around and push me against the door. His hands are rough as he pulls up my skirt then yanks down my tights. The sour smell of the paint covering the metal door is burning my nose as he holds me in place by my neck. His zipper rasps open.

I brace for the intrusion I know is coming, but it doesn’t. It's like he spent all his blind passion out in the hallway, because he pushes his cock in slowly, passionately, pulling it all the way out before sliding it back in. He's kissing my neck as he does it, equally slowly and tenderly. Like this is the last time he'll get to have me, and he wants to savor it. Sharp pain erupts in my heart at the thought, mixes with my orgasm that his slow strokes have coaxed out, brings tears streaming down my face.

"I love you, Nicole," he whispers into my ear, burying his cock deep inside me.

"I know," I sob, because I'm crying for real now. Doing this with him is so wrong, yet I've never felt more right, more alive, more wanted in my entire life. "I love you too, Mark."

He pulls his cock out and zips up, brushing my skirt back down over my hips. I turn, his face fuzzy through my tears.

He wipes them away with his thumb, his face serious, yet boiling with intensity underneath.

"Do you trust me, Nicole?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically shaky and quiet.

Another sob escapes me, but I nod, wiping the rest of my tears away. He hugs me again, and I just rest against his chest, thinking of nothing as I listen to his strong heartbeat slow.

* * *

"Let's get out of here," he says after awhile.

The second he lets go of me, all my fears and reservations return with a whoosh. But I follow him into the hallway obediently anyway, trying not to think about anything. He picks up my things off the floor where I dropped them, hands me my coat and leads me to the elevator. The cleaning lady is making her way towards us, and she's frowning like maybe she doesn't think me being with Mark is a good idea. Though that's probably just my own fears coming to the surface, coloring all I see. I smile at her, but the elevator door opens before she gets close enough to say hello.

Mark's quiet and he’s not even looking at me. Everything I want to say is a rapidly growing snowball in my mind, rolling down the hill, gathering speed. From the corner of my eye I can literally see his face loose all that honest boyishness he showed me before, becoming an unreadable mask once more.

"You sent someone after Lucy last night," I finally say, speaking barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, you know I did," he says, his eyes fixed on the floor numbers flashing down.

"I do know," I say, not sure why I'm being this cagey. But I need him to tell me again that he didn't hurt Lucy. Need him to make me believe it. So why isn't he even trying?

I fall back once we exit the elevator, but he waits by the front door, holding it open for me. The cold wind is rustling the sign-in sheets on the receptionist's desk, but the nighttime guard that usually mans it at this hour is nowhere to be seen.

Out on the street, the wind's even worse. Mark’s sports car is parked right in front, and he walks to it once I'm outside, but I'm rooted to the spot by the door. He turns once he reaches the car, and I watch his wide chest heave as he stares back, sees me not following.

He closes the distance between us in a few long strides, people moving out of his way.

"Are you coming?"

Really, that's all he has to ask me? I just look at him, my mouth hanging open.

"Nicole, I want you to come with me back to the hotel," he says, his voice stern, though I'm not quite sure he's actually giving me a command. "Will you?"

And that confirms it. He's not ordering me to do anything. I can say no if I want to.

The wind's beating my hair to and fro, but I don't bother catching it, or rolling it back behind the collar of my coat.

"Lucy found out some pretty bad things about your past, she was gonna print it all," I say, again stopping right before I make an accusation.

He nods, looking deep into my eyes, but I can't read a thing in his.

"And you're right, I was gonna stop her from printing it," he says finally, not taking his eyes of mine. "But I didn't kill her, or have her killed. You know me, Nicole."

"Do I?" It just comes out, I wasn't going to say it.

"As well as anyone…better than most," he says. "Won't you just trust me?"

And the Mark I used to know is standing before me, my best friend, the boy I spent most of my days with from the time I was six years old until I was sixteen.

Yes, I do know him. And I want to trust him.

"OK," I say instead.

He squints at me like he's not really sure I mean it.

"I'll go with you to your hotel," I say more firmly.

He doesn't say anything more, just wraps his arm around my shoulders and ushers me to the car. And despite my logical mind's warnings, in my heart I know I'm making the right choice.

* * *

Mark

I'm still nauseous as I drive off from the curb. Everything that happened in the last hour since I learned Nicole found out about her friend's death is a blur, not something I remember participating in. But Nicole's still here. And I think she wants to be here. So it's getting better.

Not sure what's gonna happen once she sees how her friend died.

I felt like throwing up looking at it, and I've seen people blown apart, limbs flying everywhere.

I couldn't protect her friend, but I will protect Nicole. Whatever it takes.

But despite Nicole's soft, trusting presence, the darkness is quickly swallowing everything.

Because I couldn't protect any woman that stumbled into my life. Not my wife, not even a random escort. Or my mom.

I'm an idiot to think Nicole's safe with me. Or that she ever could be. A selfish bastard for dragging her back into my life and forcing her to stay. Because whenever I let myself go in love and desire for a woman, bad things happen. I lose control. Don't know when to back away, or how. Keep pushing until nothing but darkness and despair remain.

But if Reynard really is the one behind the murders hounding me, he won’t stop until he has Nicole. By now, he must know how much she means to me.

It's too late to turn away.

Whatever happens now, happens to both of us. If she dies, I die.

* * *

Nicole

He offered me his arm once we exited the car, and I took it. I don't let go even after we're already in the room. The turmoil of whatever he's processing in his mind is causing a painful knot in my stomach.

He finally pries my fingers off his arm once we're by the sofa. I take his hand, hoping it'll make him look at me, but it doesn't.

"You can tell me what's bothering you," I say anyway. "I can help. I want to."

He does look at me then, his eyes dark and deep like I'm looking into a well that’s been dry for a very long time. "You want to help?"

The dark intensity behind his words makes me shiver, cold sweat erupting along my spine. I swallow against the lump in my throat and nod.

"By offering sweet words of comfort?" he asks, the edge of his lips curling up into something that resembles a snarl more than anything else.

I run my hand up his arm. "Yes, if that's what you need."

My words do wake a fire in his eyes, but it's a distant one, just a speck at the far end of a vast barren field.

He pulls me to him, presses his body against mine. "You can help. But not by talking."

He releases me just as abruptly as he grabbed me, my legs so shaky I'm surprised I don't tumble to the ground.

"Go take a shower," he says, walking over to his desk. "We're going out for dinner."

I automatically look down at what I'm wearing. He's grinning at me when I look up.

"Your clothes will be here soon," he tells me, emptying his pockets onto the table, the coins making a lot of noise as they bounce against the wood.

"My clothes?" I stutter. "How?"

"Someone will bring them from your apartment." He says it like it's the most logical thing.

My mind's stuck in a loop, logic warring with the dreamy sense of belonging his presence always wakes in me.

"You sent someone to get my clothes?" I manage to say despite it all.

"You are staying, aren't you?"

I nod before even thinking.

"So go take a shower now."

I'm all out of questions, and all out of objections, so I do as he tells me. He's the cold and commanding Mark again, no trace of the conflicted, passionate one who met me at the office left. There will be no arguing with his wishes tonight. Which is good, because my thoughts are such a jumbled mess right now, I hardly know my own name.

* * *

I took my time showering, hoping Mark would come and join me, but otherwise not thinking about anything at all. I know he loves me, and I know he needs me. Beyond that, I don't think I have to know anything else. Naive much? Yes, but I've always trusted my instincts, and they're telling me to stay. I'm not about to go ignoring them now when I'm on the brink of getting what I longed for all these years. A partner. Someone to share my life with. Love.

Once my fingertips start puckering up, I finally admit defeat and get out of the shower.

Mark's sitting on the sofa, his shirt undone, only a white tank top covering his chiseled torso. I want to go sit in his lap, enjoy his closeness and his smell, let his warmth envelop me. But he stands up before I reach him, and points to the row of suitcases by the door.

"Your things are in there," he says. "Get dressed."

My eyes are bulging, but I don't even try and stop them. "Is that all my clothes?"

He shrugs. "And your other personal stuff."

My head's spinning again, the ground wobbling beneath me. It's been happening a lot lately. But when I agreed to come here, I meant for tonight, not indefinitely.

"And if I said I wasn't coming here with you?" I ask, avoiding the other more burning question.

"Then you'd have a lot of suitcases to unpack tonight," he replies, not a shred of emotion on his face.

"You'd let me go?" It just comes out, but it's laced with unspoken accusations. He only shrugs.

"What's going on, Mark?" I ask emphatically, shaking my head so my towel turban comes loose. I yank it off my head. "I thought I was coming here just for tonight, not forever."

"We'll discuss it later," he says in that cold, cutting tone.

"But I can leave if I want to?"

"You want to leave?" A spark of the fire from earlier shoots from his eyes.

"No," I mutter, feeling the intensity of his gaze in my stomach. "Yet you won't even speak to me? How can I be here for you, if you won't talk to me?"

That dangerous gleam I've come to associate with punishment crosses his eyes, his chest heaving a little as he probably imagines it, plans it. "There's other ways you can help. Better ways."

I'm frightened and looking forward to it at the same time, neither emotion dominating the other, both equally intense.

"Wear the gold dress," he commands, heading for the bathroom. "Don't bother with underwear."

He doesn't even wait for me to agree before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

I want to break through to the Mark I met back at the office so badly I'm shaking. But going about obeying his order is easy too. Because that other Mark is on the other side of this, an a very loud part of my mind is looking forward to the crossing.

* * *

My outfit draws the eyes of the few patrons at the club as we enter. I'm acutely aware that each step I take in this dress pretty much reveals that I'm naked underneath, the frills it's made out of rustling to and fro, shimmering in the soft overhead lights. But this is my third time here, so it isn't as intimidating as it was in the beginning. All the women are practically naked, I'm just one of them. I cast a glance at the couples eating, but Mark leads me straight to the silver door at the back.

"We'll eat later," he tells me, reading my unspoken question correctly.

There's such a cold force behind his words, it takes my breath away.

All the doors on the other side of the silver one are closed this evening, no sounds escaping into the hall. Probably because it's still so early. Yet somehow I still hear the echoes of screams, feel them like a cold breeze along my back. Mark ushers me into the first room we pass, shuts the door with a bang and locks it, the sound making me shiver.

"Are you ready?" he asks. The room is bathed in a soft red light, and empty, the naked walls black in the absence of light. A pair of shackles is suspended off the ceiling near the far wall, which is illuminated by a white light. It's covered by whips, canes, ropes, and gleaming metal things I can't name.

Am I ready?

I don't know.

The danger in his eyes now is more toxic than inviting right now.

"Do I get a safe word?" I ask. I'm supposed to. I read about it. Something I can say when I've had enough, when I need him to stop.

He chuckles, the sound so bereft of merriment it makes the hairs on my back stand up.

"You want a safe word?"

I nod, swallowing hard like that will get rid of the bile rising in my throat.

He grins. "Sure, you can have a safe word. But I thought you trusted me."

"I do…I just meant…there's supposed to be a safe word." My voice is so faint I'm not sure he heard any of that.

"What word would you like?" he asks, sounding amused now, so I relax a little. "How about 'snow', or better yet, 'ice'? That has a nice terminating kind of ring to it."

"Ice? OK." It describes him well when he's in this role, should be easy to remember because of that.

"Go stand over there," he says, pointing to the spot under the shackles.

I do as he says, tripping a little on the way, but not hard enough to stumble. There are no felt lined fasteners this time, only cold steel chains wrapping around my wrist as he ties me up.

Once I'm shackled, he pulls on a rope attached to the chain. I gasp as my arms are pulled up. He doesn't stop until my arms are high above my hand, my stomach and back completely taut, my feet barely touching the ground.

He goes to the wall, and picks up a coil of rope, then comes back and leans against my back while preventing me to move by wrapping his free arm around my waist. His cock is rock hard as it presses into my back and, for a second, desire pierces right through my discomfort.

His hand slithers in amid the frills of my dress, his fingertips brushing lightly across the stretched skin of my stomach. But the soft pleasure is cut short as he forces my legs apart with his knee, then bends down and uses the rope to fix my ankles to metal hoops in the floor that I didn't even notice before.

He stands back, circling me as he admires my suspended form. Under his gaze, my vulnerability in this moment becomes something we're both enjoying. He strides over and lifts my chin up, stares into my eyes. "I'd like to use the whip tonight."

It's a request and an order rolled into one, and the skin on my back prickles at the thought of obeying, telling him he can. But I'm frightened, and this time that's the predominant emotion.

"OK," I mutter anyway, biting down on my lower lip, telling myself that whatever we can have lies on the other side of this. And that Mark will never truly hurt me. My exhale is lost in his as he kisses me hungrily, urgently, his lips pressed against mine so hard it almost hurts.

He gropes for the zipper of my dress and yanks it down. The dress slithers off me on its own. I'm naked, save for the sheer stay-ups, which offer no protection at all. He's by the wall again, picking out a whip and my heart is racing so hard I'm seeing double.

He chooses a slender, long one and looks at me, his eyes glowing red in the overhead lights. Ice. I think it, but I don't say it.

He walks behind me, disappears from view. The tension in my arms is mounting, my shoulders starting to throb. He runs the whip along my naked back, bringing the fact that my skin and muscles there are stretched to capacity into sharp focus.

I hear the swish of the whip right before pain explodes all along my back in a billion tiny pinpricks. They fade, but not before a new set erupts as he hits me again. And again, a whimper escaping this time. He pays it no heed, as he lands another slash right across my shoulder blades, sending a whole new quality of pain through me.

My nipples are tingling and my pussy is throbbing. It’s my body's way of begging for this pain to stop, for pleasure to come and balance it out. Yet that desire only comes out of my mouth in whimpers and sighs, shrieks, gasps and yells, as he hits me over and over, giving me no time to adjust to the pain between lashes, the burning pinpricks of shooting pain exploding all over my back, ass, and thighs. The chains are digging into my wrists, the rope burning my ankles as I try to move away, but I can't. I'm bound too tight.

He's losing control, I can tell from the way the lashes get fiercer. Yet his breaths are deep and hoarse, loud like this is hurting him too. So I won't use the safe word. I can take this pain. It's nothing compared to the love I'll receive later.

The whip makes a sound like a whisper as it hits the floor, but I hear the message loudly nonetheless. It's over.

And then Mark's holding me, his clothes waking the pain all along my back, but his soft caresses along my stomach, my breasts, my pussy, are taking it all away.

I hear his zipper open, gasp as he kisses my neck, and pushes his cock in slowly, tenderly, my body opening up to receive him. It's an even pressure, but filling nonetheless, my whole mind so focused on the velvety warmth of pleasure inside me I forget all about the burning pain elsewhere.

He bottoms out, then pulls out just as slowly, his lips soft and hot on my cold skin, his cock waking ever growing waves of soft warmth, until this pleasure is all there is. My orgasm comes on a flood of warm waters, so thick and deep I forget where we are, who I am. He comes too, at the same time, his semen filling me, his teeth nipping at my neck.

The sharp pain in my back returns with the emptiness as he withdraws his cock. He unfastens my wrists and legs, holds me upright until I can stand on my own.

"How do you feel?" he asks, and I lean against him a little more, not yet able to speak.

But he sets me back, picks up my dress and hands it to me. "I'll wait in the hall while you dress."

Then I'm alone in the room, the pain in my back making it nearly impossible to move. I took all those lashes, endured the pain, yet I still did something wrong. I know I did. Yet again.

* * *

I'm fighting down tears as I meet him in the hallway a few moments later. He's so far from noticing my sadness I might as well not be here.

Once we exit into the main part of the club, he leads me to a table and pulls out a chair for me. My ass protests as it hits the rough velvet of the seat, but I bite down on my lip to stop a whimper.

He calls over the waitress, orders vodkas for both of us, asks for the menu. My throat is burning from unshed tears.

"You should use your safe word," he says after awhile, eyeing me over the menu. The waitress didn't even bother bringing me one. "That's why you have it."

That's not even why I'm upset. The orgasm he gave me after all that pain was so maddeningly all-consuming I still feel it's ripples coursing through me.

"I didn't need to," I say back as defiantly as I can manage, then have to wait for him to place the order before he looks at me again.

"You need to stop me when you've had enough, Nicole. I can't promise I'll always be able to stop on my own."

I'm gawking at him now, I know I am, but I can't help it. I thought this was about me giving him what he wants, submitting to satisfy him. Yet he's completely honest in his request. He needs me to stop him. But how can I do that?

He reaches for my hand and holds it gently in both of his. The warmth from his touch mixes with the ripples, intensifies my longing. "I don't want to hurt you."

Maybe this is my chance. I can stop this here and now.

"Then why do you?" I ask, surprised to hear myself speak since I haven't even decided to yet.

"Because I need to." The stark honesty in his voice, the way his eyes loose the icy edge, become pools of clear water, as he says it take my breath.

He releases me, leans back in his chair and I grip my tumbler to prevent myself from groping after him. Give him space, Nicole. And time. Those words are looping through my brain, going faster and faster. But I've never been a patient person, and I don't know, if I can be now.

"Why?" I finally breathe when the noise inside my head gets too loud, too overwhelming.

It takes him ages to answer, until I'm practically sure he didn't even hear me. But the air between us changed after I said it, became this liquid hopelessness laced with longing, so I know he did.

"It's a long story," he finally says.

My heart's pounding in my chest again like it's urging him on, willing him to say more.

He grins at me. "I hardly understand most of it myself. And I definitely don't want to relive it by talking about it."

The food arrives, two plates of stakes with potatoes, and I suddenly realize I haven't eaten since this morning. And even then it was just a piece of toast. I'm famished, but I don't start eating. Neither does he.

"All I will say is that it’s better in a controlled environment such as this club," he says and drapes his napkin across his lap. I move my arm to do the same with mine, but freeze as the full implication of his words hits me. Controlled environment? What happens when it's not? Lucy?

That dangerous gleam is back in his eyes, no sign of the softness left. He cuts a large piece of his stake and brings it to his mouth.

"That scares you?" he asks, biting down on the meat.

It petrifies me. I'd get up and run away if my heart, all the butterflies in my stomach that never sleep when he's next to me, weren't screaming that I have nothing to fear. That I need to be here, to stay, for him, because by his side is the only place I've ever truly belonged. Irrational? Maybe. But it's the only thing I've been certain all night.

I cut a piece of my own meat, and slather some of the gravy over it. "To be honest, Mark, yes, it does scare me. But not enough to make me run."

I'm the one grinning at him now, right before I start chewing, and he's the one staring back with soft disbelief. But I know I'll never have to use my safe word. He'll always stop on his own long before he hurts me. As for whatever's bothering him so much he can't even speak about it, we'll figure that out together.

* * *

He stops at a drug store on the way to the hotel, tells me to wait in the car, and comes back holding a small brown bag a few minutes later. My back's smarting, and all the twists and turns, bumps in the road are making it worse.

I sigh in relief as he takes my coat off once we're in the hotel room. He unzips my dress right after. As much as I'm literally always aching for his touch, all I really want is to lie down and sleep. He seems to understand as he leads me to the bed, and tells me to lie down. I do so. On my stomach, because I know I can't take any pressure on my back.

His hands are gentle as he removes first my shoes and then my stay-ups, so much so that I'm beginning to reconsider just how tired I am. Maybe I could come one more time, that would be the perfect end to this night. The paper bag he got at the pharmacy rustles as he pulls it from his coat pocket, and I turn my head to see what he's doing.

He brings out a small white container and shows it to me. "A cream for your back."

His thoughtful gesture is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I hide them though, rest my forehead on my arms. This is classic Mark, caring and gentle at the core, however rough around the edges. And if this side of him is so close to the surface, I won't have to wait much longer until it's all I ever see.

I sigh as he begins applying the cool cream onto my back. His touch is so soft it almost tickles. When he's done my whole back feels like it's wrapped up in healing bandages, and I roll onto my side, watch him undress down to his boxers. I make room for him so he can get into bed, then rest against his side. I'm fine now, the pain in my back receding farther and farther away as his even breaths, his steady heartbeat become all that I know.

When I wake up it's still pitch black outside and I'm alone in the bed. I jerk up, scanning the room, waking all the pain in my back, which feels more like knife cuts now. Mark's sitting at his desk, the bluish light of his computer screen casting eerie, surreal shadows across his face. He looks up at my gasp of pain.

"Why are you up?" I say to hide it.

"Go back to sleep, Nicole."

"Come back to bed," I urge, because I'm not sure I can go back to sleep without his warmth beside me, not with this new pain radiating through my back.

His chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as he stands up without another argument, probably responding to the naked plea in my voice. Once he's beside me again, all is well, and I drift off again almost immediately.

* * *

When my alarm wakes me at six fifteen, Mark's already dressed, staring at his computer again. And I know we didn't sleep together, I'm certain he got back up as soon as I drifted off.

"Don't you ever sleep?" I ask, wincing as the skin of my back pulls tight, and wakes the pain again. But it's not sharp anymore, just a dull ache.

"I get about four hours a night. If I'm lucky," he says and closes his laptop. "Last night I got two."

And there he goes again with a statement that tells me loud and clear he wants to talk. But if I ask, he'll just shut me down.

I slide off the bed, wrapping the sheet around me.

"I'm here, if you want to talk," I mutter, unable to stop myself.

"Noted," he says and gets up. I know guys don't want to talk about their feelings, for the most part, but he's taking it to a whole new level of iciness.

He adjusts his tie and picks up his coat off the back of the sofa. How he manages to keep his clothes wrinkle-free when he just tosses them off and leaves them where they land is beyond me. But somehow he always looks impeccable, like he has some army of wardrobe assistants following him around the way movie stars on sets do.

He walks over, and I'm already leaning over, ready for the kiss I know is coming. But he just twirls me around and looks at my back. "You need more cream."

Oh, yeah, now he's worried about that. I turn my head to glare at him. "I can apply it myself."

He grins, showing me his teeth, then pulls me to him, kissing my neck. His rough clothes wake the pain in my bruised back as the sheet falls away.

"You're a very forceful woman," he whispers into my ear, pinching my nipple hard. "Maybe you need another lesson in humility."

He squeezes my ass, which is not as bad as my back, but awakened pain from the welts there still rips through me like a knife slash.

"No," I whisper, the word just slipping from my thoughts, because I can't take any more pain than I'm already in.

"No?" he asks, equally quietly, but with an edge of something very sharp. Yet he doesn't slap me like I'm already bracing for. Instead he brings his hand around to the front, sliding his fingers across my clit, making me sigh. He's holding me tight, his other arm wrapped around my neck, and the pain in my back is growing in pitch from the pressure.

The soft, warm pleasure rising in my pussy from his skilled touch stands in opposition to the pain, not mixing with it, not chasing it away. My body's in a strange stand off between pleasure and pain, neither backing down, both intensifying, rearing for the final showdown.

I whimper as he slides two fingers into my pussy, starts massaging my clit with his thumb, doing the same with the special spot inside me. He's going slowly, gently, and the battle of pain vs. pleasure grows so intense I scream out. Just as I think I can't take any more, pleasure wins, and an orgasm so powerful it hurts rips through me. He releases his grip on me and kisses my neck, as he slides his fingers from my pussy. I stumble forward, but manage to regain my balance before I fall.

"I'd prefer you to take the day off today," he says in his cold voice that brooks no argument.

I whip around, and even though my mind is still reeling from the orgasm, I'm mad. My job is my life, he can't order me to give that up. I won't let him.

"No," I say simply, wondering if I should use my safe word now. But that's for other things, not everyday stuff.

His eyes are black, unreadable pools of danger. He's not saying anything, so I shake my head and repeat myself, because I'm not giving in on this one.

"Alright," he finally relents. "But one of my men will be with you all day. You don't go anywhere without him, is that clear?"

This is so weird. "Why do I need protection?"

"Just do as I say," he barks and walks over to his desk, collecting his briefcase.

"I don't need a bodyguard."

"No arguing on this one, Nicole." He's already at the door. "He'll meet you outside when you're ready to leave."

And then the door is shutting behind him, my mind exploding with questions and warnings with no hope of relief.

* * *

The guy Mark left to guard me is a burly, silent type who'll stick out anywhere I go. He gets in the passenger side of the car that came to pick me up. The driver is new too, and he's about twice the size of the previous one, which I don't think is a coincidence.

Mark thinks I'm in danger, and I'm regretting not being more persistent in asking him why. But he wouldn't tell me anyway.

At least it proves he really didn't harm Lucy. I think. Or is he only doing it, so I'll think that? Or maybe he's just afraid I'll run. When I'm with him, all that would seem preposterous, but now, in the cold light of dawn, surrounded by military-type guys who do his bidding, I'm scared.

"I'll be in front of the building all day," the guard tells me once we reach my office, and I actually sigh in relief that he won't be coming up with me. "If you need anything, call me."

He hands me a piece of paper with his number on it. But he holds on to it as I try to take it. "Do not leave the office without me."

I nod, my knees actually weak from the intensity of his order.

Sam's the only one there at the office. He's reading the morning paper, but looks up as I enter. "Nicole, how was your night?"

Weird and painful. But enjoyable too. Very much so. Which makes me feel guilty now, because Lucy is dead, and I barely spared her any thought. But her death seems so unreal, and I'm still thinking she’ll come in later, right before the morning meeting. However late she was, she never missed that.

"Fine," I say, hanging up my coat.

He walks over and hands me the paper. "Lucy's death is covered on page three. It's just a small article."

I take the paper and try to read, but the words are dancing before my eyes.

"You want some coffee?" Sam asks, heading for the kitchen. I nod and sit down at my desk, taking a deep breath before plunging into the article. But all it says that a woman was found dead in the park by maintenance guys in the early hours of the morning, and that the police are looking for her killer. They are also requesting that anyone with information come forward. Whenever I read a request like that in the past, I always hoped someone would come forward. This time that someone is me. I have information. But should I take it to them?

My stomach cramps up at the thought, the pain in my back intensifying.

"Lucy emailed me on the night she died," Sam says, depositing a cup of coffee on my desk. "Said she had enough information to write that story on Mark Cross, and that she'd tell me more in the morning. She also said the two of you were working on it together. Is that true?"

I nod and take a sip of my coffee, scalding my tongue.

"Did she share her research with you?" he asks, eyeing me rather intensively. Or maybe I'm just imagining that, because I'm about to lie.

"Some," I mutter. "Not a whole lot. And her story’s not really something I want to put my name on, if you know what I mean."

There's no mistaking the questioning look in his eyes now. "Lucy seemed pretty sure of her findings. It's not like her to push for a story, if she's not sure. She was always careful like that."

I set my coffee down and look at the paper to avoid his gaze. "She got ahead of herself with this one. I mean, it seems to have a lot of meat on the surface, but when you dig deeper, there really isn't much there. At least not as it relates to Mark. Cross."

I add that last belatedly and it's obvious.

"Show me what she showed you," Sam says, pulling up a chair from the next desk over and sitting down.

My heart's pounding in my throat, my vision all blurry. I take out my computer with shaking hands, trying to think. Mark won't like it if I just show Sam everything. As if to make that thought clearer, the pain in my back erupts yet again, sharper and harder to ignore this time. But I need to do all I can to hang onto this story.

I sift through my files pretending to look for the stuff Lucy sent me.

"Sorry," I say, finally looking up at him. "I must've left it all on a flash drive at home."

It's such a lame excuse, right up there with the dog ate my homework. But it's the best I can do.

Sam shows no signs of not believing me as he gets up and straightens his pants. "Alright, look into it some more and send me what she gave you this evening, along with your own research. I think we should run this story. If for nothing else than to honor Lucy's memory. Maybe look over her desk too, see if she left anything here. The cops will be in later today to do the same, so you better hurry."

I look up at him with a gasp. "We should leave it all as is. I mean, maybe it'll help them find her killer."

I won't expose Mark’s connection to Lucy, but that's as far as I’m willing to go. I won't temper with evidence.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Sam says sheepishly and I think maybe he really just didn't think of it that way.

The others start arriving and Sam drifts back to his office. From the merry way they're all talking, I don't think they know about Lucy yet. I'm not about to inform them. Sam'll do it later, I'm sure.

I have a huge decision to make. Because if I don't write this story on Mark, Sam will assign it to someone else. I recognized that set look in his face when he told me to do the research. He gets it every time he's not willing to let a story go, no matter what. But if I take it, my relationship with Mark will just become a lot more complicated. And I'm not sure we can handle that.

* * *

Sam did tell everyone about Lucy at the morning meeting, and the mood's been quiet and subdued since. They've also been casting sidelong glances at me all day, but I've been working and ignoring them. The competition between the people in this room is something that's always palpable. No one is friends with each other. Lucy and me came the closest to being friends, until she stabbed me in the back, repeatedly, because I was new and naive. I'm not anymore.

Rather than do research, I've spent the day rewriting the email Lucy sent me, making it even more evident that Mark isn’t that involved in any of it, and that printing the story as Lucy envisioned it would amount to slander. Out in LA, they have finally formally charged the man accused of the escort's murder. That's the only fact I checked. They're seeking the death penalty, so their evidence must be solid. I merely glance at the evidence they released, but the stuff Lucy already sent me is the most probative, so I don't dig deeper. As it is, I've been fighting the urge to call Mark and ask him what I should do. Which is insane thinking. I've been a journalist for almost six years. I don't need his advice.

Two detectives came at around noon and searched through Lucy's desk. Keeping what I know from them made me physically sick with guilt. But I told them I know nothing. Whatever they find on her connection to Mark, and what they make of it, is out of my hands.

Yet I might be the one alerting the world to that connection, if Sam decides to run the story anyway. My vision blurs, turns black at the edges every time I think of that. So I don’t. I’ll make the decision when I’m facing it.

Martin, one of my co-workers is glancing my way more often than the others are. He's getting up now, looking at me as he approaches. But he stops along the way, talks to someone else.

When I look up again, he's standing by my desk, biting his nail. I quickly close the document I've been working on.

"Ummm, Nicole," he says, but then stops like he's waiting for me to say something. I just look at him questioningly like I'm annoyed at the interruption. Which I am.

"So this shit with Lucy. Sick, right?" he says, his voice more high pitched than usual.

"Yeah, crazy," I mutter. But I don't think that's what he came over to talk about. Though he was on pretty good terms with Lucy. I think they collaborated on stealing other peoples' ideas, stealing my ideas, but it was just a hunch, so I never called him out on it.

He sits down on the edge of my desk, still biting his nail. "Lucy told me a lot about the Cross story. And your involvement with him."

The skin on my face grows so tight I'm afraid it'll rip. His tone is quiet, conspiratorial even, but I hear the threat loud and clear.

"What was that, Martin?" I ask, hoping he'll just back down and leave.

But instead he leans down so his mouth is right next to my ear. "She said you're fucking him, and that you want to bury the story she was preparing on exposing his darker side."

The sour smell of his breath turns my stomach.

When the hell did Martin get so bold?

He straightens up and bites on his nail some more, like nothing happened. Pressure is mounting in my head, my heart beating so hard I feel it in my temples.

"There's no story," I mutter.

"Now, now," he says, not meeting my eyes. "We both know there is. And Sam's assigned it to you. For now. But if you try and talk him out of it, I'll go to him with what I have. Lucy sent me everything she sent you. Just in case, she said."

I should've known she'd go to him, should've suspected it.

"My personal life is none of your business, and if you read what she sent more carefully, you'd realize she had nothing on Cross," I hiss, struggling not to yell it.

He stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, grinning. "There's plenty there, and you know it. Better quit pretending otherwise before it's too late. Think about what refusing to write it will mean for your career. Also, I noticed you didn't tell the cops about it either. That could come back to haunt you too, once they find out you're withholding information. I say this as a friend."

He leaves without waiting for a reply, which is probably for the best. Because I have none to give, my mind blank on all fronts. The only thing I do know is that Martin isn't and never was, my friend.

* * *

I wait for all the others to leave before sending Sam the document with my research on Mark, informing him I did so through the open door of his office. Then I start packing up. Because it's seven o'clock and Mark's been waiting for me to get back to the hotel since five. I know because he sent me a text, telling me to meet him there right away. Which I didn't. Because my career is important, and not something he can order me away from. Though I’m afraid he might do exactly that, as soon as he finds out about this article Sam wants me to write.

"Wait, Nicole," Sam calls out as I'm putting on my coat. "I'll be done reading in a sec."

I place my coat back on the peg and go sit at my desk, trying to ignore the excitement I heard in his voice. My plan didn't work. He'll tell me to write the story.

"Come in here," he calls a few minutes later. I get up very slowly, feeling like I'm walking on a rocky, uneven surface as I approach his office.

"You and Lucy were onto something," he says as I sit down across from him. "It's a bit crude and disjointed, but the core is solid. Women do keep disappearing, or getting killed around Cross. Starting with his mother and now culminating with the murder of a journalist who was digging into his past. And he did change his name, so he's certainly hiding something. Word around town is that he didn't get his money legally either. No one's saying it outright, I've asked around, but many are hinting at it. When Lucy first came up with the story, I thought that would be the better angle on it, but now I'm not so sure."

He's talking in that same breathless way like he always does when he's dealing with a particularly spectacular story. I can literally feel my heart sinking to somewhere very deep in my stomach.

His eyes are bright as he fixes them on mine. "Do more research into his past and what he's trying to hide. Find out about what happened to his mother. She shouldn't be so hard to track down. Especially since you know his family."

"I never met his mother," I mumble. "And his father died last year."

"Even so," he says scanning the screen again. "You're from the same town. Someone there must know something. Get me this story."

I sit up straighter, ball my hands into fists so hard my nails bend painfully. "I don't think we should ruin a man's reputation on so little evidence."

Sam looks up at me sharply. "Then get more. Because I'm sure it's there. Be fair and impartial. This is a Pulitzer-worthy story if done right, Nicole, perhaps the only one you'll come across in your whole career. I suggest you grab it with both hands."

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. He's absolutely right. A high-up corporate guy accused of murder and covering it up. If done right, this story could make my career. Open doors I've only dreamed about seeing. If only I didn't have to trample the man I love to reach them.

Would I even balk at writing this story, if I wasn't in love with Mark?

That's a question I can't answer, can't even chip away at. But Sam won't let this one go. He'll write it himself, if he has to.

"You know what to do then," Sam says and goes back to reading something on his computer.

He couldn't be more wrong.