4 : Deadly touch
Evelyn
Later, much later, when the initial shock had mellowed into a simmering, unsettling acceptance of my predicament – trapped in a sprawling, shadowed house with an attractive, dangerous stranger whose name I barely knew – I found myself in a lavish kitchen. It wasn’t the type of kitchen one might expect in a place that felt so utterly isolated, so quietly ominous. No, this was a space of gleaming black granite and dark, polished wood, where ancient light fixtures cast an almost theatrical glow, making dust motes dance like tiny, forgotten spirits. I sat at a heavy, ornate table, a silken cloth spread beneath an elegant breakfast, picture-perfect, like stolen stills from a high-end Instagram feed or a painstakingly curated Tumblr aesthetic. This surreal tableau was, I knew, entirely my own fault. My own recklessness had led me down this tangled path, so I swallowed the rising panic and tried to project an air of calm I was far from feeling.
Raphael, the enigma himself, had prepared the meal. Or perhaps, more accurately, commanded its preparation, for I found it hard to imagine those long, elegant fingers dicing strawberries, though the thought sparked an unexpected, odd flicker of domesticity in my mind. The spread was a dizzying assault on the senses: golden-fried eggs, crisp strips of bacon, thick slices of Greek toast perfectly browned, and French butter croissants, still warm and flaky, their scent a buttery invitation. Beside them, a towering stack of waffles, adorned with ruby-red strawberries and a decadent drizzle of dark chocolate syrup, beckoned. My own cup, a delicate porcelain, held a cappuccino crowned with a cloud of whipped cream, an artful dusting of cocoa forming a tiny, perfect leaf. It was a waking fairy tale, one spun from flour, sugar, and an overwhelming sense of dread. For a moment, all the fears that had been gnawing at my periphery were drowned out by the sheer, ravenous hunger that consumed me. My stomach, long neglected by the turmoil, rumbled a desperate counterpoint to the thrum of anxiety in my veins, and I could barely think straight for the primal urge to eat.
“Well, the food seems to satisfy you,” his voice, a low current that always seemed to find its way under my skin, drifted across the table. I didn’t even need to look up to know the exact curve of that smile, the way his lips would hint at amusement, at a kind of dark satisfaction. It was a knowing smile, one that saw right through my carefully constructed composure to the beast of hunger I was desperately trying to tame.
When my gaze did finally lift, drawn by an invisible tether, I found him already immersed in his own plate. He had curated his favored items with an almost ritualistic precision: a generous portion of bacon, a fried egg, a wedge of golden toast. He then took a large, glistening bundle of croissant with his right fork, not quite savouring it, but devouring it with an intensity that was disturbingly captivating. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he cut a piece of egg and bacon, not hurrying to bring it to his lips, but rather, watching me. My breath caught, lodged somewhere between my throat and my chest. I swallowed hard, the rich cappuccino suddenly tasting like ash.
The view was unsettlingly normal. It was the kind of intimate, unguarded tableau one might witness at a boyfriend’s house after a night spent tangled in sheets, seeing him half-naked, again without a shirt, his dark hair tousled and artfully messy, screaming, “Just woke up!” – perfectly undone. But this wasn’t a boyfriend, and last night had been anything but good. This was Raphael, a man whose presence hummed with a dangerous energy, whose eyes held a depth that promised both salvation and ruin.
I wasn’t tied up. I wasn’t locked in a cobweb-filled room like in the horror movies, awaiting the morbid creativity of a deranged murderer in a creepy, abandoned house. I could leave at any time; we both were acutely aware of that silent, unsettling truth. Yet, the invisible chains felt stronger than any physical restraint. Every instinct screamed for flight, but something held me fast, an inexplicable pull that warred with my common sense.
Even other clothes had been provided to me since I’d stumbled out of bed, guided by some unseen force. They were simple: a pair of soft, gray leggings and a fitted black T-shirt. But the fabric, the cut, the very feel of them, whispered a silent, infuriating truth: they definitely belonged to a woman. And that thought, that simple, benign observation, ignited a flare of unfamiliar anger within me, hot and sharp, burning away the last vestiges of my forced calm. I didn't even know why. It felt like a perverse twist of jealousy, ridiculous and illogical given my situation, but it was potent, undeniable.
Raphael, as if sensing the shift in my mood, finally spoke, his gaze piercing mine. "A little more comfortable now, I trust? The other attire… proved unsuitable." There was a faint emphasis on "other," a subtle implication I couldn't quite decipher, but it only fueled the strange, unbidden resentment swirling inside me. He watched me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – amusement, perhaps, or a predatory satisfaction. "I assure you, no other woman has graced these walls for a very long time, little bird. These were merely... a contingency. A forgotten acquisition." His words were smooth, laced with a possessive undertone that vibrated through the air, claiming not just the clothes, but me, in some unspoken way.
I didn’t entirely believe him, yet a small, treacherous part of me wanted to. I was genuinely sure he wouldn't hurt me, not physically at least, but I knew, with an unsettling certainty, that he didn't intend to let me go. And even stranger, amidst the terrifying allure of his presence, I felt a peculiar sense of safety, even protection, within the confines of his ancient, shadowy house. This feeling was utterly foreign to me, a discordant note in the symphony of my life, but something, some primal instinct or perhaps a dangerous curiosity, compelled me to stay, to listen to the soft, purring cadence of his voice, to unravel the mystery he embodied.
Creepy house? Yes. The strange, almost fantastical things that had happened at the gate the previous night – the way the very air had warped, the impossible silence, the sense of ancient power – would have sent any normal person fleeing in a blind, terrified sprint. But I was still here, sitting opposite him, eating breakfast as if nothing in the world had been fractured. My mind was a whirlwind of questions, pressing, unanswered, dangerous questions that I knew, deep down, I might not want the answers to. I had to be more careful, I told myself, clutching the porcelain cup as if it were a fragile anchor in a tempest. But caution felt like a whisper against the roaring storm of Raphael's presence, against the dark, seductive pull that held me captive.
"Why am I still here?" The breathy whisper escaped my lips, a question I hadn't even consciously formed, yet it hung in the air, thick with the silence of a house that wasn't mine. My mind, a frantic tangle of fear and confusion, hadn't prepared me for the audacity of voicing such a thought aloud. Even the aroma of the rich, unfamiliar food before me couldn't banish the suffocating query.
I was already halfway through the elaborate breakfast when the words slipped out, amazed at the fierce hunger that had driven me, a primal need overriding everything else. But at my spoken thought, the clinking of silverware ceased. Across the polished mahogany table, Raphael’s fork froze mid-air, a perfectly ripe, crimson strawberry impaled upon its tines. He was already at dessert, a fact that seemed to mock me and my slow consumption. His eyes, the color of stormy sands in the desert, snapped to mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. I saw them flash – not with anger, but with something far more unnerving, a predatory glint that stole the air from my lungs.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hand, the strawberry still suspended for a beat before he set it gently beside his plate. His gaze drifted to my now-empty plate, a silent assessment that made my skin prickle. A heavy sigh, barely audible, escaped him before his attention, heavy and palpable, settled back on me.
"Perhaps we'll talk later," his voice was a low murmur, smooth as dark velvet, yet it held an undeniable undercurrent of command. "When you've truly eaten something first. Then," he paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, "I'll answer all the questions you so desperately crave."
It might work, I thought, a sliver of desperate hope piercing through the dread. It might, if he didn't lie. So, I quietly, obediently, began to eat again, picking at a piece of toasted bread I hadn’t noticed before. My heartbeat accelerated, a frenetic drum against my ribs, as his eyes remained fixed on me. He resumed his own meal, a casual grace to his movements, yet the weight of his stare never lifted, a constant, possessive presence. Each bite felt like a surrender, each swallow a concession.
A strange eternity later, when both our plates were finally cleared and I felt an uncomfortable fullness, Raphael rose. He commanded me with a mere dip of his head, and I found myself trailing him, a moth drawn irrevocably to a dangerous flame, into what I presumed was his office.
The room was vast, an oppressive testament to his power. Walls lined with ancient, leather-bound books that seemed to hum with forgotten knowledge, a massive desk of dark wood dominating the center. He settled into the high-backed chair behind it, an almost regal air about him, while I sat opposite, feeling small and utterly exposed. He watched me for a long moment, his gaze unwavering, dissecting, and it made my skin crawl. My tongue felt thick, my throat dry, and I instinctively licked my lips, a nervous habit.
"Are you going to start telling me something, or are you just going to keep staring?" The words were out before I could censor them, a defiant spark born of sheer discomfort.
Raphael’s lips curved into a slow smile, a dark amusement flickering in his eyes as if I’d uttered the funniest thing he’d heard all week. The urge to call him an idiot, to lash out at the condescension, swelled within me. But just as the thought formed, his smile vanished, wiped clean from his face as though it had never been there. The air in the room seemed to congeal, thick and cold. Oh no. That was not a good sign.
"What, precisely, were you thinking," the words were deadly calm, each syllable weighted with an icy control, "when you chose to break into my property?" There was a terrifying curiosity behind them, a predatory glint that hinted my answer would not merely satisfy his question, but perhaps dictate my very fate. It felt as if he was waiting for my response to understand how best to proceed with me, like a hunter studying its trapped prey.
His question shocked me out of my simmering defiance. For a mortifying moment, I felt my cheeks flush crimson, the heat spreading to my ears, turning me into a human tomato.
"Umm..." I stammered, completely at a loss. He was right, utterly and completely. I had trespassed, violated his space, and now, for the first time, the full weight of my predicament crashed down on me. Was I to be arrested? Imprisoned? My head dropped in shame, my gaze fixed on my lap as I desperately tried to escape the crushing truth of my actions.
My hands, usually hidden, were clasped tightly in my lap, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable. My body stiffened, a jolt of icy terror racing through my veins. My gaze had fallen, not to the fabric of my leggings, but to my bare hands. They were exposed, uncovered by the gloves that were meant to be on me all the time. The shock was absolute, so profound it stole my voice, leaving me utterly speechless. How could I have forgotten them? How could I have been so careless?
"Evelyn?" Raphael's voice was barely a whisper, a low rumble that cut through my spiraling panic. But I barely registered him calling me by name, or the searing question of how he could possibly know it. My head snapped up, my eyes wide with a terror more primal than any I’d felt before.
"You... you touched my hands?" My voice was a choked gasp, laced with a raw, visceral fear that made me tremble. Why did I only just remember now? My touch... my touch kills everything!
He frowned, a tiny crease forming between his dark brows, making his gaze even more piercing. "What do you mean?" he asked, though his eyes seemed to glint with an unnerving comprehension, as if he knew more than he let on.
I almost choked on my own panic. "You touched my hands while I was unconscious?" The thought made bile rise in my throat, a horrifying wave of nausea. But even as the fear threatened to overwhelm me, I scanned him frantically for any sign of injury, any discolored patch of skin, any mark. There was nothing, only the intricate, ancient scars on his upper body that I’d vaguely noticed before, healed lines that bespoke a long-ago, dangerous life.
Raphael’s eyes flashed again, a dangerous, almost triumphant light in their depths as he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. There was a profound curiosity radiating from him, yes, but beneath it, I detected something else – a strange, almost pleasant excitement, an unsettling thrill that made no sense.
"Yes, Evelyn," he confirmed, his voice now a low, intimate rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "I had to change you, to heal you. You were quite broken yesterday. Your leg, shattered in several places, and a litany of scratches – on your hands, your face, your legs..." He exhaled heavily at the end of his explanation, a sound that might have been a sigh of concern, or perhaps just a performance. Yet, despite his careful delivery, the possessive glint in his eyes lingered, making me wonder if my pain had truly pained him, or if he merely savored the intimacy of my helpless state. My mouth opened, trying to form a response, but the words withered and died in the thin, charged air. I had completely, utterly lost my language.
Looking at my hands again, then back at him, I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, an attempt to anchor myself against the emotions threatening to consume me. My palms felt cold, clammy, despite the strange heat emanating from his presence. His eyes, fixed on me with an unsettling intensity, seemed to strip away my defenses layer by painful layer.
"I warned you that I was dangerous. Don't you get it?" My voice was barely a whisper, a ragged plea more than a statement. I traced the faint, almost invisible lines on my fingertips, each one a testament to the silent devastation I carried. How could I make him understand the absolute, existential threat I posed? It wasn't a game. It wasn't a choice. It was a curse.
A slow, predatory smile stretched across Raphael’s lips, a sight that turned my blood to ice. His eyes, already too bright, seemed to ignite with a new, terrifying spark, like twin embers catching flame in a shadowed hearth.
"Dangerous?" he purred, the word a silken caress that prickled my skin. "Tell me, how dangerous? Can you elaborate further, little bird?" There was no fear in his tone, only an insatiable, chilling curiosity that twisted my stomach into knots.
I turned away sharply, my vision blurring. The tears that always threatened at the corners of my eyes, those unwelcome specters of my lonely existence, clamored for release. I fought them back with every ounce of willpower, desperate not to show the extent of my terror, not to give him another weapon. My breath hitched in my throat. This was it. The only way out.
"I’ll go," I choked out, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Thank you for… for taking care of me, but I’ll go so I don’t bother you anymore." The lie felt like ash on my tongue. "Bother" was hardly the word.
"Destroy." "Annihilate." Those were closer to the truth. I stood up from the chair and spun around quickly, presenting him with my back, praying he wouldn't see the silent battle waging on my face. My mind raced, conjuring the horrific visions I saw in my nightmares: bodies writhing, faces contorted in agony, the slow, agonizing decay from the inside out that my touch inflicted. If he touched me, if he felt it… I couldn't bear to think of him, powerful and arrogant as he was, brought to his knees, begging for a release I could not offer.
I took a hesitant step toward the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat of escape. But before my foot even landed, his voice, deeper and more resonant than before, froze me where I stood.
"You're not going anywhere."
My breath hitched. My eyes squeezed shut, willing the words to be a figment of my panic-stricken imagination. It couldn't be. This wasn't happening.
"Excuse me?" Disbelief, thick and cloying, laced every syllable, making my voice sound alien even to myself. I turned back to him, my eyes wide, searching his face for any hint of a jest, a cruel joke.
Raphael slowly rose from his armchair, a languid, unhurried movement that belied the sudden shift in the atmosphere. He moved like a predator surveying its trapped prey, every muscle rippling.
He wasn't just standing; he was looming.
"You heard me," he stated, his voice a low, steady current in the suddenly silent room. "You are not going anywhere. You cannot leave this place when you are here now." He explained it with a chilling calmness, as if remarking on the pleasantness of the weather, discussing a triviality. But his words struck me like a physical blow, and my heart, already a fluttering bird, stopped dead in my chest.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from deep inside me, a sharp, broken sound that echoed mockingly in the ornate room. "You're kidding, aren't you? Say this is just one big joke because I feel like I hit my head or something." My voice rose, cracking with the force of my escalating terror. "Do you understand what you're saying now? You don't even know what you're up to!" I gestured wildly, my hands trembling.
A slow, utterly sexy, yet profoundly sinister smile spread across his face as he watched my unraveling. It was the smile of a cat playing with a mouse, confident in its absolute superiority. "Oh no, darling," he murmured, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "You're the smallest threat to me here, because the biggest problem is right in front of you. You can't do anything to me, but I feel honored if you try." His gaze never left mine as he began to circle his massive mahogany desk, moving with an unnerving grace that brought him steadily in my direction.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against a closed door. "Don't come near me," I warned, attempting to inject a commanding tone into my voice, but the fear was a persistent tremor, shaking every word. My body screamed at me to flee, but I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by his unwavering stare, by the sheer, unyielding force of his presence.
"No, no, no." Raphael’s smile widened, a flash of pure white against his tanned skin. "Go ahead. I give you my permission." He was almost upon me now, and my heart threatened to leap out of my chest, a desperate escape attempt. He stopped just a few millimeters from my outstretched wrist, his gaze dropping to my trembling hand. My eyes, wide with panic, silently pleaded with him not to do something stupid, not to test a power he couldn't possibly comprehend. But he just looked intently at me, his eyes burning, challenging me to make a move, to fulfill my own threat. I knew I couldn't. I couldn't condemn him.
I instinctively tried to yank my hand back, hide it behind my back, but his reflexes were far swifter. In a blur, his hand shot out, grasping my arm in a grip of iron. A cry of pure shock tore from my throat as he didn't just hold it, but forcibly applied my palm to his chest, right where his heart beat a steady, powerful rhythm beneath his muscles.
Time stretched, warping into an eternity. I waited for the moment, the inevitable, horrifying moment when my poison would begin to flow, seeping from my skin into his, spreading through his body like a dark, relentless tide. That view was always the worst, the sight of life draining away, so I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself against the agony I was about to inflict, the screams I was about to hear. His grip remained unyielding, but I couldn't bring myself to fight against it, against him, knowing what it meant for him. And then, at another moment, his other hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me even further, cementing the terrifying truth: we were skin to skin now, pressed intimately together, my destructive touch in full contact with his vital core.
Seconds stretched into a deadly silence. My ears strained, waiting for the gurgling cries of torture, the frantic howls of a victim succumbing to an agonizing death. There was nothing. Only silence. Confused, a sliver of bewildered hope piercing through my terror, I opened one eye to peek. Raphael was still standing. Tall. Powerful. Unharmed. There wasn't a single injury on his skin, not a trace of the decay that should have begun.
His eyes, now fully open, flamed like never before, a molten gold that seemed to consume everything they touched. When my gaze finally met his, I found myself even closer, drawn forward as if by an invisible, inexplicable magnet. My body arched instinctively toward his, a terrifying, involuntary pull.
"What… what the…" I whispered, my voice raw with disbelief. "It's not possible. My touch kills everything alive." I waited, my breath held, for Raphael’s face to contort into questions, into confusion, into anger at my strange words. Instead, he simply closed his eyes, a profound sigh of relief escaping his lips.
"God, you're back. That's really you," his words were low, raspy, ancient—a sound that vibrated deep in my soul. He lowered his forehead to mine, his skin warm against my own, and I held my breath completely, lost in the overwhelming surge of emotions, the dizzying confusion.
What in the blazes was going on?
"Welcome back, my queen. Even after many centuries, I did not lose hope of seeing you again." Raphael's eyes opened, piercing me with their intense gaze, and he gave me a smile that was both tender and utterly possessive, a predator's joy at reclaiming his prize.
I had so many questions, a torrent of them, but one above all others clawed its way to my lips. "Who are you?"
Raphael gently stroked my cheek with his rough thumb, his touch sending an unsettling shiver through me. "I am your best chance for survival. I am called Phoenix, but to you, my darling, I am a king who has been longing for his wife."
Jesus. It was just great. This man was a psychopath. And I, the girl whose touch brought death, was utterly, terrifyingly, at his mercy.