THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 12
The cool, damp air of the midnight garden offered little solace. Jessica paced the manicured paths, the scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy and cloying, failing to mask the bitter taste of humiliation and confusion that lingered from Amanda’s assault and the terrifying confrontation. She’d run from the gun, from Amanda’s venom, from Scar’s terrifying, lethal rage – even though it had been wielded in her defense. The image of him, cold and absolute with the pistol aimed at Amanda’s head, was seared into her mind. It wasn’t fear *of* him, but fear *for* him, for the darkness that Amanda could provoke.
She finally returned to the penthouse, the silence now thick with unspoken aftershocks. Pushing open her bedroom door, she found him immediately. Not waiting, not pacing, but kneeling beside her bed, his broad shoulders slumped, his head bowed. In the dim light from the hallway, he looked not like the feared kingpin, but like a man utterly broken. He didn’t look up as she entered, but his posture spoke volumes – a silent plea for forgiveness, an embodiment of the guilt and anguish he’d voiced earlier.
"Jessica," his voice was a raw scrape in the quiet. "Please…"
She stood frozen for a moment, the sight twisting her heart. The part of her that still ached from Amanda’s words, that felt bruised by the secrets, warred fiercely with the overwhelming love and empathy she felt seeing him like this. He had chosen her. He had defended her with terrifying ferocity. Yet, the emotional storm inside her was still raging. She needed space to breathe, to process, to quiet the echoes of "gutter rat" and the crack of the gun.
"Scar," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I… I need some time. Please. Just… give me some space tonight."
He flinched as if struck. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he raised his head. His eyes, usually so commanding, were pools of raw pain and utter defeat. He searched her face, finding no anger, only a profound exhaustion and a plea for distance. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his knees. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t argue. He simply bowed his head again, a gesture of absolute surrender, and walked silently out of the room, closing the door with a soft, final click. The sound echoed Jessica’s loneliness.
***
The next morning, Amanda was gone. Vanished. Like a poisonous mist dispersed by the dawn. William confirmed it tersely; she’d been escorted to the airport before sunrise, under firm instructions and the lingering threat of Scar’s promise. The penthouse felt emptier, cleaner, yet the tension didn’t dissipate. It shifted, solidified into something colder: Scar’s absence.
For two weeks, he became a ghost in his own home. He skipped breakfast, leaving before Jessica rose. Dinner was taken in his study, the door firmly closed. He returned late, often well past midnight, slipping silently into his own room. When their paths did cross – Jessica heading to her study nook, Scar striding down a hallway – he would freeze for a fraction of a second, his expression shuttering instantly into an impenetrable mask, then he would turn and walk the other way. The warmth, the possessiveness, the easy intimacy – all gone, replaced by a chilling, deliberate distance.
Jessica felt the void like a physical ache. The luxurious penthouse became a gilded cage of silence. Her studies felt hollow. She replayed the scene in her bedroom that night – his kneeling form, the utter defeat in his eyes, her own request for space. *Was I too harsh? * The question gnawed at her. He had faced down his past, his dangerous ex-fiancée, for *her*. He had chosen her publicly, violently, irrevocably. And how had she repaid him? By pushing him away when he was most vulnerable, when he came offering his shattered heart.
Guilt, sharp and corrosive, joined the loneliness. She remembered his whispered confessions of love, the way he’d clung to her after Amanda’s arrival, the desperation in his pleas outside her locked door. He had fought for her, bled for her emotionally, and she had turned him away. *I went too far in my hurt, * she realized with a sickening jolt. *He gave me everything, defended me against everything, and I pushed him into this cold exile.*
The resolve solidified within her. She couldn’t let this stand. She had to fix it. She *needed* to fix it.
***
The day she decided to bridge the chasm stretched endlessly. Jessica was a bundle of nervous energy. She paced, she tried to read, she stared out the window, her mind racing with scenarios. Would he reject her? Would the wall he’d built be too high? Was the damage irreparable? Anxiety twisted her stomach into knots. By the time the familiar sound of the penthouse door announced his return at 11 PM, her heart was pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She heard his footsteps, heavy with fatigue, move down the hall towards his room. The click of his door closing was like a starter pistol. Taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm her nerves, Jessica slipped out of her room. The hallway felt vast and intimidating. She stopped outside his door, her hand trembling slightly as she raised it. She knocked – a soft, tentative sound.
No answer.
Gathering every ounce of courage, she gently turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked. She pushed it open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind her.
The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp. The air held the faint, clean scent of his cologne. And then she saw him.
He stood framed in the open doorway of the en-suite bathroom, bathed in the brighter light spilling from within. A white towel was slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, tracing paths down the powerful contours of his chest, over the defined ridges of his abdomen, catching the light on his dark skin. He was a vision of raw, masculine beauty – tall, perfectly sculpted, water-darkened curls clinging to his forehead. He looked like a figure from a myth; a god carved from night and strength.
He had frozen mid-motion, a second towel in his hands paused over his damp hair. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto hers. Shock, then a flicker of something guarded and wary, passed across his face before it settled into careful neutrality. He didn’t speak. He simply watched her, waiting.
Jessica’s breath caught. Shyness and confusion warred with the overwhelming surge of love and longing that seeing him like this ignited. Words tangled in her throat. How could she start? How could she bridge the weeks of silence?
The sight of him, the sheer magnetism, the vulnerability she sensed beneath his guarded stance, broke her hesitation. Without a word, she crossed the room in quick, determined strides. Before he could react, before he could retreat behind his walls, she threw her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the cool, damp skin of his chest. She held on tightly, as if anchoring herself to him.
For a heartbeat, he remained rigid. Then, a shuddering breath escaped him. His arms came around her, slowly at first, then crushing her to him with a force that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing and relief. The towel fell from his hands, forgotten. He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. "Jessica," he breathed, her name a ragged prayer.
The dam broke. All the distance, the coldness, the aching loneliness evaporated in the heat of their reunion. They came together not just with passion, but with a profound, desperate hunger, like two halves finally made whole after a cruel separation. It wasn't just physical; it was a fierce reclaiming; a deep communion of souls starved for connection. They devoured each other with kisses that tasted of salt tears and unspoken apologies, with touches that mapped familiar territory with new reverence. Scar worshipped her body with a slowness that bordered on agony, relearning every curve, every sigh, every sensitive point, as if imprinting her on his soul anew. Jessica met him with equal fervor, her own hands exploring the powerful planes of his back, his shoulders, tangling in his damp curls, pulling him closer, deeper. Time lost meaning. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the slide of skin on skin, the gasps and whispered pleas, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly consumed and cherished. It was love-making as healing, as desperate affirmation, as a vow renewed in the most primal language.
Later, tangled in the sweat-slicked sheets, limbs entwined, Scar stirred. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his eyes dark with emotion. "Jessica, about before… I need to tell you… I’m so sorry I didn’t—"
She silenced him not with words, but by placing her fingers gently on his lips. Then, she replaced them with her own, kissing him with a tenderness that held the weight of her own regret and forgiveness. "Shhh," she murmured against his lips, her voice husky with spent passion and deep affection. "No more apologies. Not tonight." She traced his jaw, her eyes holding his, luminous in the dim light. "Just… make love to me again, Sebastian. I’ve missed you… missed *this*… so much."
He needed no further invitation. The hunger, momentarily sated, flared anew, deeper, sweeter this time. They moved together in a slow, sensual rhythm, a dance of reconnection, of promises whispered through touch, of wounds beginning to knit closed in the shared heat of their bodies. It was tender, passionate, a reaffirmation of the bond Amanda had tried, and failed, to break.
Exhausted, sated, wrapped in the profound peace that follows the storm, they finally drifted towards sleep. Scar held her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his arms locked securely around her waist. Jessica nestled into his embrace, her hand resting over his where it lay protectively on her stomach. The silence now was warm, comforting, filled only with the sound of their synchronized breathing. The distance was closed. The sanctuary, though scarred, was reclaimed. They slept, entwined, the shadows of the past two weeks finally banished by the undeniable force of their love.
TO BE CONTINUED...
THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 12
The cool, damp air of the midnight garden offered little solace. Jessica paced the manicured paths, the scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy and cloying, failing to mask the bitter taste of humiliation and confusion that lingered from Amanda’s assault and the terrifying confrontation. She’d run from the gun, from Amanda’s venom, from Scar’s terrifying, lethal rage – even though it had been wielded in her defense. The image of him, cold and absolute with the pistol aimed at Amanda’s head, was seared into her mind. It wasn’t fear *of* him, but fear *for* him, for the darkness that Amanda could provoke.
She finally returned to the penthouse, the silence now thick with unspoken aftershocks. Pushing open her bedroom door, she found him immediately. Not waiting, not pacing, but kneeling beside her bed, his broad shoulders slumped, his head bowed. In the dim light from the hallway, he looked not like the feared kingpin, but like a man utterly broken. He didn’t look up as she entered, but his posture spoke volumes – a silent plea for forgiveness, an embodiment of the guilt and anguish he’d voiced earlier.
"Jessica," his voice was a raw scrape in the quiet. "Please…"
She stood frozen for a moment, the sight twisting her heart. The part of her that still ached from Amanda’s words, that felt bruised by the secrets, warred fiercely with the overwhelming love and empathy she felt seeing him like this. He had chosen her. He had defended her with terrifying ferocity. Yet, the emotional storm inside her was still raging. She needed space to breathe, to process, to quiet the echoes of "gutter rat" and the crack of the gun.
"Scar," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I… I need some time. Please. Just… give me some space tonight."
He flinched as if struck. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he raised his head. His eyes, usually so commanding, were pools of raw pain and utter defeat. He searched her face, finding no anger, only a profound exhaustion and a plea for distance. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his knees. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t argue. He simply bowed his head again, a gesture of absolute surrender, and walked silently out of the room, closing the door with a soft, final click. The sound echoed Jessica’s loneliness.
***
The next morning, Amanda was gone. Vanished. Like a poisonous mist dispersed by the dawn. William confirmed it tersely; she’d been escorted to the airport before sunrise, under firm instructions and the lingering threat of Scar’s promise. The penthouse felt emptier, cleaner, yet the tension didn’t dissipate. It shifted, solidified into something colder: Scar’s absence.
For two weeks, he became a ghost in his own home. He skipped breakfast, leaving before Jessica rose. Dinner was taken in his study, the door firmly closed. He returned late, often well past midnight, slipping silently into his own room. When their paths did cross – Jessica heading to her study nook, Scar striding down a hallway – he would freeze for a fraction of a second, his expression shuttering instantly into an impenetrable mask, then he would turn and walk the other way. The warmth, the possessiveness, the easy intimacy – all gone, replaced by a chilling, deliberate distance.
Jessica felt the void like a physical ache. The luxurious penthouse became a gilded cage of silence. Her studies felt hollow. She replayed the scene in her bedroom that night – his kneeling form, the utter defeat in his eyes, her own request for space. *Was I too harsh? * The question gnawed at her. He had faced down his past, his dangerous ex-fiancée, for *her*. He had chosen her publicly, violently, irrevocably. And how had she repaid him? By pushing him away when he was most vulnerable, when he came offering his shattered heart.
Guilt, sharp and corrosive, joined the loneliness. She remembered his whispered confessions of love, the way he’d clung to her after Amanda’s arrival, the desperation in his pleas outside her locked door. He had fought for her, bled for her emotionally, and she had turned him away. *I went too far in my hurt, * she realized with a sickening jolt. *He gave me everything, defended me against everything, and I pushed him into this cold exile.*
The resolve solidified within her. She couldn’t let this stand. She had to fix it. She *needed* to fix it.
***
The day she decided to bridge the chasm stretched endlessly. Jessica was a bundle of nervous energy. She paced, she tried to read, she stared out the window, her mind racing with scenarios. Would he reject her? Would the wall he’d built be too high? Was the damage irreparable? Anxiety twisted her stomach into knots. By the time the familiar sound of the penthouse door announced his return at 11 PM, her heart was pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She heard his footsteps, heavy with fatigue, move down the hall towards his room. The click of his door closing was like a starter pistol. Taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm her nerves, Jessica slipped out of her room. The hallway felt vast and intimidating. She stopped outside his door, her hand trembling slightly as she raised it. She knocked – a soft, tentative sound.
No answer.
Gathering every ounce of courage, she gently turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked. She pushed it open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind her.
The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp. The air held the faint, clean scent of his cologne. And then she saw him.
He stood framed in the open doorway of the en-suite bathroom, bathed in the brighter light spilling from within. A white towel was slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, tracing paths down the powerful contours of his chest, over the defined ridges of his abdomen, catching the light on his dark skin. He was a vision of raw, masculine beauty – tall, perfectly sculpted, water-darkened curls clinging to his forehead. He looked like a figure from a myth; a god carved from night and strength.
He had frozen mid-motion, a second towel in his hands paused over his damp hair. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto hers. Shock, then a flicker of something guarded and wary, passed across his face before it settled into careful neutrality. He didn’t speak. He simply watched her, waiting.
Jessica’s breath caught. Shyness and confusion warred with the overwhelming surge of love and longing that seeing him like this ignited. Words tangled in her throat. How could she start? How could she bridge the weeks of silence?
The sight of him, the sheer magnetism, the vulnerability she sensed beneath his guarded stance, broke her hesitation. Without a word, she crossed the room in quick, determined strides. Before he could react, before he could retreat behind his walls, she threw her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the cool, damp skin of his chest. She held on tightly, as if anchoring herself to him.
For a heartbeat, he remained rigid. Then, a shuddering breath escaped him. His arms came around her, slowly at first, then crushing her to him with a force that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing and relief. The towel fell from his hands, forgotten. He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. "Jessica," he breathed, her name a ragged prayer.
The dam broke. All the distance, the coldness, the aching loneliness evaporated in the heat of their reunion. They came together not just with passion, but with a profound, desperate hunger, like two halves finally made whole after a cruel separation. It wasn't just physical; it was a fierce reclaiming; a deep communion of souls starved for connection. They devoured each other with kisses that tasted of salt tears and unspoken apologies, with touches that mapped familiar territory with new reverence. Scar worshipped her body with a slowness that bordered on agony, relearning every curve, every sigh, every sensitive point, as if imprinting her on his soul anew. Jessica met him with equal fervor, her own hands exploring the powerful planes of his back, his shoulders, tangling in his damp curls, pulling him closer, deeper. Time lost meaning. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the slide of skin on skin, the gasps and whispered pleas, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly consumed and cherished. It was love-making as healing, as desperate affirmation, as a vow renewed in the most primal language.
Later, tangled in the sweat-slicked sheets, limbs entwined, Scar stirred. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his eyes dark with emotion. "Jessica, about before… I need to tell you… I’m so sorry I didn’t—"
She silenced him not with words, but by placing her fingers gently on his lips. Then, she replaced them with her own, kissing him with a tenderness that held the weight of her own regret and forgiveness. "Shhh," she murmured against his lips, her voice husky with spent passion and deep affection. "No more apologies. Not tonight." She traced his jaw, her eyes holding his, luminous in the dim light. "Just… make love to me again, Sebastian. I’ve missed you… missed *this*… so much."
He needed no further invitation. The hunger, momentarily sated, flared anew, deeper, sweeter this time. They moved together in a slow, sensual rhythm, a dance of reconnection, of promises whispered through touch, of wounds beginning to knit closed in the shared heat of their bodies. It was tender, passionate, a reaffirmation of the bond Amanda had tried, and failed, to break.
Exhausted, sated, wrapped in the profound peace that follows the storm, they finally drifted towards sleep. Scar held her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his arms locked securely around her waist. Jessica nestled into his embrace, her hand resting over his where it lay protectively on her stomach. The silence now was warm, comforting, filled only with the sound of their synchronized breathing. The distance was closed. The sanctuary, though scarred, was reclaimed. They slept, entwined, the shadows of the past two weeks finally banished by the undeniable force of their love.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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