Page 8 of Craving Red

Keep the heels on.

“Excuse me?” I tell the mirror.

The mirror has no comment. It does, however, show me the heels in question. There is zero chance I am walking street grime into my home, instructions or not.

I sit on the entryway bench and take off the boots. Then I pad barefoot to the closet and grab the black stilettos at the back, the ones with a five-inch heel, because they go well with my outfit.

Defiance, meet malicious compliance.

My eyes scan the space as I stand up. If she’s leaving breadcrumbs, where is the next one? I walk into the living room and spot the note attached to the wrought-iron lamp I got Jo as a move-in gift: a silent promise that she would always have enough light to read whenever she’s in the mood.

My thumb stills over the paper, a faint knot forming in my stomach.

You are my light. Don’t forget how much I love you.

For a moment, the apartment seems to go very quiet. I read it again, slower, because I am a professional and I don’t draw conclusions from one pass. The first line is simple enough. Sentimental, even. But the second line… I look up, scanning the room as if she might materialize between the sofa and the window.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with the words. Jo tells me she loves me constantly, in a thousand different ways. So why does this feel different? My brain, which has never once let me off easy, starts producing scenarios in the format I know best: probability, impact, mitigation. But my internal risk assessment fails. The impact of losing her is catastrophic and utterly unmitigable.

I have a hand pressed flat against my sternum and no memory of putting it there.

Stop.

I take a breath all the way down to my ribs. Then another. Clearly I am overthinking this.

One clue at a time. That’s what she said, isn’t it?

I leave the paper on the lamp and keep walking, the click of my heels carrying me toward the hallway. Right where the corridor narrows, pressed flat against the drywall, is a third note, the writing smaller and crowded.

The woods get darker from here on out. Just in case I get a little too hungry… your safe word is Red.

My core clenches in immediate response. The note isn’t a warning that I should be afraid of her. It’s a promise that I never have to be. We use this safe word when she takes the reins, when the teasing stops and the demands begin. It’s a reminder that no matter how deep she takes me into the woods, she will always give me a way out.

“Red,” I nod.

My skin prickles with heat as I take the final steps down the hall. The master bedroom door is shut. Resting above the silver handle is the final note.

“You’re really not going to make this easy, are you?”

I already know the answer.

Close your eyes, open the door, and step in.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trusting her implicitly. My fingers tremble as I reach out and wrap my hand around the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, I step blindly over the threshold.

Chapter Six

One step. Two.

The floorboards give way to the rug, and the stilettos sink into it enough to make me wobble. Every curious bone in my body is begging me to disobey and open my eyes. I stop, my eyelids squeezed shut so tight the darkness blooms with faint, colorful static.

“Trick or treat?” I call out into the quiet room, committing to the bit, my voice carrying a desperate tremor I can’t quite hide.

I don’t hear her move. The only warning is the subtle shift in the air before warmth presses flush against my back. Jo’s arms slide around my waist, pulling me into an embrace, and a breath of air leaves me in a rush. Her face tucks into the crook of my neck, and she presses a lingering kiss to my skin.

“You are a treat for sore eyes,” she says.

I melt into her embrace, my hands coming up to cover hers.