Whisper of Ink.
The midnight silence was dense, the room cast in deep shades of blue, and the faint scent of paper and ink filled the air. Her fingers brushed the edge of the open book, tracing the curve of a sentence. As her gaze glided over the page, a voice cut through the stillness—not in her head, but close, too close, as if the words themselves had been spoken against her skin.
“You kept me waiting.”
His voice was low, smooth like velvet but edged with something darker. She froze, the book slipping in her grip as her gaze darted around the room but nothing stirred beyond the faint hum of the night.
"You’re... you’re just words on a page," she whispered, her voice catching. The denial sounded weak, even to her own ears, and she hated how her heart thudded in response, as if already answering his call.
He chuckled—soft, dangerous. "Is that what you believe?"
She swallowed, resisting the pull of his voice, her fingers gripping the edges of the book tighter as if it would anchor her to reality. “You don’t belong here.”
"Don't I?" he murmured, and a shiver ran down her spine as the ghost of a hand drifted along her arm—a touch too vivid, too familiar to be imagined.
"You like the thrill of dancing with danger, don't you?”
The words curled around her, lingering like smoke in the dark. And then—he was gone, his presence slipping away as if he had never been there.
But she knew—This wasn’t over. He’d be back. And next time, she wouldn’t be able to resist.
