[The Rapist’s POV]

I storm into my warehouse hideout, slamming the heavy metal door behind me with enough force to rattle the rusted hinges. The cavernous space echoes with the sound, a hollow boom that perfectly matches my mood. Shadows dance along the graffiti-covered walls as I stomp past rows of empty shipping containers, each step punctuated by the jingling of the bells sewn into my costume.

“Fuck!” I scream, my voice bouncing off the corrugated metal ceiling. A family of pigeons takes flight, startled by my outburst. Their wings flutter frantically as they escape through a broken skylight.

I reach my office, a rickety structure cobbled together from scrap wood and sheet metal, and throw myself into my shitty office chair. The worn springs creak in protest, threatening to give way entirely. I spin around, facing the wall of monitors I’ve salvaged from various heists. Most of them are cracked or flickering, displaying a fragmented view of the city’s security camera feeds.

My painted lips twist into a scowl as I replay the events in the stairwell in my head. That stupid boy, Luke, slipping through my fingers like sand. And then that leg-less bitch, left behind like yesterday’s garbage. What a waste of a perfectly good razor wire trap.

“This is fucking stupid,” I mutter, crossing my arms and slouching further into the chair. My wild green curls fall into my eyes, and I blow them away with an exaggerated huff.

Just as I’m sulking, a cold hand suddenly grips my shoulder from behind. I let out a startled yelp, nearly toppling out of my rickety chair as I whirl around to face the intruder.

“Where the hell did you come from, boss?” I gasp, my heart pounding like a jackhammer against my ribs.

Mind Mistress looms over me, her impaling purple eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. The dim light of the warehouse casts eerie shadows across her face, accentuating the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the tight set of her jaw. Her long black hair seems to writhe and coil around her shoulders like living shadows.

“You fucked up, Rapist,” she says, her voice as cold and cutting as a steel blade. Each word drips with barely contained fury, sending shivers down my spine.

I shrink back in my seat, suddenly feeling very small and very, very vulnerable. The usual manic energy that courses through my veins evaporates, replaced by a primal fear that turns my blood to ice. My painted lips tremble as I struggle to form words.

“I’m sorry, boss,” I manage to squeak out, my voice barely above a whisper. The words sound pathetic even to my own ears, a far cry from my usual boisterous bravado.

Mind Mistress’s eyes narrow, the purple irises seeming to glow with an otherworldly light. I can feel the weight of her disapproval pressing down on me, as tangible as a physical force. The air around us grows thick and oppressive, charged with an energy that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“You overstepped,” she says, each syllable precise and measured. Her voice carries a finality that brooks no argument, no excuses.

I watch, frozen in place, as Mind Mistress turns and glides towards the door of my makeshift office. Her movements are fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey.

At the threshold, she pauses. Without turning back to face me, she delivers her parting words:

“Don’t do it again.”

The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds more final than any slam could have. I’m left alone in the flickering glow of my salvaged monitors, the weight of her warning settling over me like a shroud.

The bells on my costume jingle softly as I shudder, a discordant melody that seems to mock my predicament.

*****

[Luke’s POV]

The day after the attack on Star Tower, Skye and I stroll hand-in-hand through the bustling streets of Boston. The city pulses with life around us, a symphony of honking horns, chattering pedestrians, and the distant wail of sirens.

I shake my head in disbelief, still processing the events of yesterday. “I can’t believe Sarah’s still alive,” I muse, my voice barely audible above the city’s chaos. “After everything that happened... it’s like a miracle.”

Skye squeezes my hand gently, her touch grounding me in the present moment. She’s dressed in casual clothes, faded jeans, a loose-fitting t-shirt, and a Red Sox baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Dark sunglasses complete her incognito look, almost hiding those striking emerald eyes from view. It’s strange to see her like this, so... normal. Yet there’s still an unmistakable aura of power that surrounds her, like the calm before a storm.

“Our healers are quite advanced,” Skye replies. “What might seem like a miracle to you is fairly routine here.”

We weave through the crowd, Skye effortlessly guiding us past slow-moving tourists and harried businesspeople alike. It’s funny how different yet familiar this version of Boston feels.

As we round a corner, the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar wafts through the air. A quaint churro stand comes into view, manned by a cheerful elderly woman whose wrinkled face crinkles with a perpetual smile.

‘Did my Boston have churro stands?’

Skye notices my reaction and cocks her head to the side. “Do you want one?” she asks, gesturing towards the stand.

I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to be a bother. “No, it’s okay,” I start to say, but my traitorous stomach chooses that moment to rumble again, louder this time.

Skye’s eyebrow arches above her sunglasses, and I can practically feel her amused gaze. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, and I quickly backtrack. “Wait, no, can we?” I ask sheepishly.

Skye’s lips curve into a wide, manic smile that sends a shiver down my spine. Her teeth gleam in the sunlight, impossibly white and sharp. “Let’s share one,” she says, her voice low and intense.

The sight of that unhinged grin stirs something deep within me. A bittersweet ache blooms in my chest as memories of my Skye, my lost wife, flood my mind. The way her emerald eyes would dance with barely contained madness, the electric thrill of her touch that always carried an undercurrent of danger. For a moment, the busy Boston street fades away, and I’m lost in the echoes of a love that defied reason.

“I would love to,” I breathe, my voice thick with emotion.

Skye’s grin softens slightly, a flicker of understanding passing across her face. She steps up to the churro stand, fishing out a crisp bill from her pocket. The old woman’s eyes widen slightly at the denomination, but Skye waves away any attempt at change.

With the warm, cinnamon-dusted treat in hand, Skye guides me to a nearby bench. We sit close, our thighs touching, as she holds up the churro between us.

“Open up,” Skye commands softly, her voice carrying a hint of that familiar, delicious madness.

I part my lips obediently, my heart racing as she brings the churro to my mouth. She watches intently as I take a small bite, her gaze fixed on my lips. The pastry is perfect, crisp on the outside, soft and warm within, the sugar and cinnamon exploding across my taste buds.

As I chew, Skye brings the churro to her own mouth. Her tongue darts out, running along the length of the treat in a slow, deliberate motion that’s almost obscene in its sensuality. My breath catches in my throat as she takes a bite, her teeth sinking into the pastry with a predatory grace.

Skye closes her eyes, savoring the taste with an exaggerated moan that draws curious glances from passersby. Her head tilts back, exposing the long line of her throat, and I watch, mesmerized, as she swallows. When her eyes open again, they’re dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with food.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The display is aggressively arousing, a perfect encapsulation of the complex, dangerous woman before me. It’s so reminiscent of my Skye that, for a moment, the lines between past and present blur completely.

Skye’s fingers brush against my lips as she feeds me another bite of the churro, the touch sending sparks of electricity through my body. The sweet cinnamon-sugar coating melts on my tongue, mingling with the lingering taste of Skye’s kiss. I watch, entranced, as she takes another bite herself, her movements slow and deliberate. Her tongue darts out to catch a stray granule of sugar, the gesture deeply sensual.

“Skye, honey,” I murmur, my voice low, “I love how erotically you’re eating the churro.” My eyes roam over her face, drinking in every detail, the way her lips curl into a wicked smile, the faint flush on her cheeks, the intensity in her gaze even behind her dark sunglasses.

I lean in closer, my breath hot against her ear as I whisper, “And of course, I’d love to go into an alley and stir you up real quick...” I feel her shiver against me, her body tensing with anticipation. “But first,” I continue, pulling back slightly to meet her eyes, “we gotta get me a phone, okay?”

Skye’s grin turns positively evil. It’s a smile that promises both pleasure and pain, a reminder of the dangerous power that lurks just beneath her casual facade. “Yes, yes, fine,” she purrs, her voice dripping with barely contained desire.

As we stand, brushing off stray churro crumbs, I can’t help but ask, “Do they have Androids here?” It’s a natural question, born from the familiarity of my old world and the lingering uncertainty about this new one.

Skye’s reaction is swift and vehement. She scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “No husband of mine will dare to send me green text messages,” she declares, her tone brooking no argument.

I can’t help but chuckle at her intensity over something as trivial as text message colors. It’s so quintessentially Skye, passionate, a little irrational, and utterly captivating. “iPhone it is, then,” I concede with a smile, reaching for her hand.

*****

The phone store is a sleek, minimalist space bathed in cool white light. Gleaming displays showcase the latest devices, their screens flickering with enticing animations. The air hums with the faint buzz of electronics and the murmur of excited customers.

As we approach the counter, a young clerk with a bright smile and perfectly coiffed hair greets us. Her name tag reads “Amber,” and her eyes light up as they land on me.

“Welcome!” Amber chirps, her voice syrupy sweet. “How can I help you today?”

Before I can respond, she leans in closer. “Let me guess,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “You strike me as an iPhone boy.”

I feel Skye stiffen beside me, her hand tightening around mine. Amber, oblivious to the danger, continues her sales pitch.

“We’ve got the latest model right here,” she says, reaching for a gleaming device. “It’s got three amazing cameras, perfect for capturing all those special moments.” Her eyes flick to my face, a flirtatious smile playing on her lips as her hand gently touches my arm. “And I bet you have plenty of those, handsome.”

In a blur of motion too fast for my eyes to track, Skye’s hand shoots out. Her fingers wrap around Amber’s wrist, gripping with a strength that makes the clerk’s eyes widen in shock and pain.

“Lay off my fiancé,” Skye growls, her voice low and dangerous. The air crackles with tension, and I can feel the barely contained power radiating from Skye’s body.

Amber’s face drains of color, her earlier confidence evaporating in an instant. She tries to pull her arm back, but Skye’s grip is like iron.

I feel a familiar mix of fear and excitement course through me. It’s a scene similar to what I’ve witnessed before, with my Skye from my original world. I know from experience that any attempt to intervene will only make things worse. Instead, I lower my head and step closer to Skye, pressing myself against her side in a gesture of submission and loyalty.

Amber’s eyes dart between Skye and me, realization dawning in their depths. She forces out an awkward laugh, her voice trembling slightly. “Ma’am,” she says, trying to keep her tone professional despite the fear evident in her eyes, “I assure you, I meant no disrespect. I was simply trying to provide excellent customer service.”

Skye’s grip tightens fractionally, and Amber winces. “Your customer service could use some work,” Skye says, her voice dripping with venom. “Now, why don’t you ring us up for the latest iPhone? Without the unnecessary commentary.”

Amber swallows hard. Her earlier flirtatious confidence completely evaporated. With trembling fingers, she begins typing on her computer terminal, the rapid clicks of the keys punctuated by nervous glances at Skye. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to buzz louder in the tense silence, casting harsh shadows across Amber’s now-pale face.

“So, um,” Amber begins, her voice barely above a whisper, “did you want to start a new plan for him, or...” She trails off, her eyes darting between Skye and me, clearly unsure how to proceed without incurring more of Skye’s wrath.

Skye’s emerald eyes narrow behind her sunglasses, her lips pressing into a thin line. Without breaking her gaze from Amber, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a sleek, matte black wallet. The movement is smooth and deliberate, almost predatory in its grace.

“Can you add it to this?” Skye asks, her voice deceptively calm as she slides a card across the counter. The card gleams under the store’s lights, its surface adorned with an intricate design that seems to shift and change as it catches the light.

Amber’s hand shakes slightly as she reaches for the card. As she holds it up, her eyes widen, darting between the card and Skye’s face. The realization dawns on her features like a slow-motion car crash, her mouth falling open in shock.

“Oh my God,” Amber breathes, her voice a mixture of awe and terror. “You’re Super Star.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as Skye’s posture stiffens. Her emerald eyes flash dangerously behind her sunglasses, and I can almost feel the barely contained power radiating off her in waves. The air crackles with an unseen energy, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Skye leans forward, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. When she speaks, her voice is low and filled with a quiet menace that’s far more terrifying than any shout could be.

“Yeah,” Skye says, each word dripping with venom, “and you just hit on my boyfriend, Amber.”

Amber’s face drains of all color. Her eyes dart frantically between Skye and me like a cornered animal searching for escape. Beads of sweat form on her forehead, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“I... I...” Amber stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing visibly. Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, a strained smile stretches across her face. It’s a ghastly thing, more grimace than grin, her lips quivering with the effort to maintain it.

“You know what?” Amber says, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll add a new number to your plan, and the phone will be on us. Complimentary. A gesture of goodwill from our store to Super Star herself.”

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, the rapid-fire clicking filling the tense silence. The monitor’s glow casts an eerie blue light across her face, accentuating the fear in her eyes.

Skye’s posture relaxes slightly, but the predatory gleam in her eyes remains. She tilts her head, regarding Amber with a mixture of amusement and disdain. “Good,” Skye says, her tone dripping with entitlement. The single word carries the weight of unspoken threats, a reminder of the power imbalance between them.

The transaction concludes in a flurry of nervous movement from Amber. She practically throws the new iPhone at us, along with a tangle of cords and accessories. Her hands shake as she slides the paperwork across the counter, not daring to make eye contact.

As we turn to leave, Amber calls out in a trembling voice, “Thank you for choosing our store, Super Star. We hope you have a wonderful day.” The words sound hollow and forced, a script recited under duress.

We step out of the store and into the bustling street. Pedestrians stream past us, oblivious to the drama that just unfolded, their chatter and the city’s ambient noise creating a comforting cocoon of normalcy.

Skye’s hand finds mine, her grip firm and possessive. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of excitement and lingering adrenaline from the encounter.

Just as I’m about to suggest we find that alley I mentioned earlier, Skye’s phone chimes with a notification. She pulls it out, her brow furrowing as she reads the message. A soft groan escapes her lips, tinged with frustration and resignation.

Skye says, “Ughhhhh,” the sound is drawn out and filled with exasperation. “One of my bosses wants to meet you.”

I blink in surprise, the words taking a moment to register. “You report to someone?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice. The idea of Skye, the most powerful being in this world, answering to anyone seems almost laughable.

Skye shrugs, the movement causing sunlight to dance across her dark sunglasses. “The Super Stars is a business,” she explains, her tone casual but with an undercurrent of annoyance. “Even if I treat it more like a fleeting hobby.”

*****

We step out of the gleaming elevator into a vast, opulent office. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Boston’s skyline. The late afternoon sun bathes everything in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor.

The office itself is a testament to power and wealth. A massive desk, carved from a single slab of dark wood, commands attention at the far end of the room. Behind it, holographic displays flicker with an ever-changing array of data and stock tickers.

As we approach, a woman rises from behind the desk. She’s tall and statuesque, with an air of effortless grace that speaks of years of refinement. Her tailored suit hugs her curves in a way that’s both professional and subtly alluring. Long, dark hair cascades over her shoulders in perfectly styled waves, framing a face that could grace the cover of any fashion magazine.

But it’s her eyes that truly capture my attention. They’re a striking shade of purple, piercing and intelligent. As her gaze locks onto mine, I feel a strange sensation, as if she’s peering directly into my soul, reading my deepest thoughts and desires.

Skye’s arm tightens around my waist possessively as we come to a stop before the desk. The woman’s lips curve into a polite smile, but it doesn’t quite reach those mesmerizing eyes.

“Hello, Luke,” she says, her voice smooth and cultured. “Veronica Vale. It’s nice to meet you. I’m the CFO of Star Enterprise.” She extends a perfectly manicured hand towards me, her movements graceful and deliberate.

Before I can react, Skye lets out an exasperated sigh beside me. “Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all, “Luke doesn’t shake people’s hands.”

I feel a pang of frustration at Skye’s words, so similar to the possessive behavior of my late wife. It’s both comforting and suffocating, a bittersweet reminder of what I’ve lost and what I’ve gained. I force a smile, trying to smooth over the awkwardness of the moment.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

Veronica’s eyebrow arches slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face. She withdraws her hand smoothly as if the aborted handshake was her intention all along. “Of course,” she says, her tone neutral. “Please, have a seat.”