His movements become slower, but more focused. Each stroke brings me nearer and nearer until I can’t hold it back and I’m caught in that storm for the second time. He groans, and with one last deep thrust, his body shudders into mine.

***

My previous post-sex experience has left me unprepared for being in Harris’s arms. I’m used to cleaning up and getting out of bed and, more often than not, facing the anger or shame of the person I’ve just been with. Then, when I was finally alone, facing my own anger and shame.

There is none of that with Harris. He excuses himself to dispose of the condom, but when I try to crawl out of bed, he pulls me back under the covers and slips his arms around me.

“You aren’t leaving yet,” he grumbles.

“I thought this would be the awkward part.”

“There is no awkward between us,” he says, and kisses my forehead. He takes my hand and kisses it.

“That was....” I shake my head, unable to find the words.

“I feel the same way,” he assures me.

“I didn’t know it would feel so good.” I look up to see if he thinks I’m being silly, but he simply nods.

“It should always feel good,” he says. “If I ever don't make you feel good, I’m doing it wrong.”

“I’ve always  had to fake before.”

He lifts my chin with this finger. “No faking with me ever. If you’re not into it ,or if it doesn’t feel good, let me know.”

“Does that mean we’re going to do it again?”

He chuckles. “Eventually, but not right this second. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Which is fine with me. I could stay here in his arms forever. We’re silent for a few minutes, but then my hands get itchy to touch him, and I stroke his back and his chest. I trace one of his scars.

“Do they bother you?” he asks.

“No, not yours. Something of mine bothers me. I wish I could get rid of it,” I say.

“You have a scar?”

I lift up on my knees and turn so my back is to him. “He marked me.”

I don’t have to tell him who He is. It’s a black “M” right above my hip bone. I’m surprised he didn’t see it that day when we performed for Mike on the webcam. But he was probably focused on other things at that time.

He runs a finger over it. “Bastard. I could kill him for that alone. Marking your skin.”

“I’m lucky I was one of the older girls. He branded the new ones.”

He nods. He would know, of course, working as closely as he did with him.

I look over my shoulder, trying not to be self-conscious that he’s basically looking at my ass. His head tilts a bit, and he traces the M again.

“You know, the upper part of the M is rounded,” he says.

“So?”

“I’m thinking, instead of getting it removed, why don't you have it made into something else? I think it could easily be turned into a butterfly.”

I don’t look at my ass a lot, but I remember the tattoo. I know exactly what it looks like. “A butterfly? I like that.”

“And symbolic. Of you breaking away. Becoming something new. Being revived.”

I turn around and pull him up so he’s on his knees, too. “I had no idea you had a poet’s soul, Caden Harris.”

He laughs, but then I kiss him, and we fall back to the bed. And together, we both become something new.

EPILOGUE

One Month Later

I’ve almost decided it’s ridiculous for me to have my own apartment. I spend all my free time at Harris’s house. He insists, though, that it’s important for me to have my own space and part of me sees his point, so I humor him.

Tonight is a big night. He’s invited his boss and his wife over for dinner. It’s the first time we’ll entertain as a couple, our first double date. And I can’t hide that I’m just a little nervous.

We talked about it last night as we sat in his backyard. I told him there was no need to bring his boss over. He adamantly stated he wasn’t going to hide me, that I was part of his life and he wanted me to meet the other people in his life.

I didn’t have a comeback for that.

I rush to his house after work. My clothes are already over there, and I want to take a quick shower before I start dinner. I’m humming as I turn onto his street. It’s a habit I picked up from him, and it makes me happy.

My hum dies on my lips when I pull into his driveway. He’s already home, and he shouldn't be for another hour. I try to tell myself it’s nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s happened.

My suspicion is confirmed when I step inside. He’s sitting on the couch, a worried look on his face, and though he tries to smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Come sit down with me.”

“Oh, God. It’s Vicki, isn’t it?”

“Athena, come sit down.”

I knew it. I knew she’d wind up dead. And it’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself that last day, she might be alive. I’m fighting back tears as I take a seat beside him, and he puts his arms around me. But the words he says aren’t the ones I was expecting.

“Mike’s surfaced,” he says.

“Is he dead?”

“We should be so lucky.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Scotland.”

The air rushes out of my lungs. Scotland. Interesting. When I thought of him, I still pictured him in Vegas. And if not here, at least still in the United States. I’m delighted he’s out of the country, but there’s something else Harris isn't telling me.

“What’s the rest of it?” I ask.

“We picked up his trail because our international counterparts noted him using his passport.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Was he trying to leave the country?”

He’s hesitating, but finally says, “No. He got married.”

“Married? To who? Satan?”

His smile is small. “No. Vicki.”

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