Chapter 1: The Glow of a Star
“You’re the best girl in all of Danger City,” a client says to me.
I know I’ve seen him before, but it’s the same as seeing a star. The name hardly matters—just the soft glow and the promise that I’m not alone. The man is always nice, calls me his “sweet girl,” but the emphasis is on his. I’ve been noticing more like that after talking with Asami and River.
But Asami is slipping. I see her worrying over things when we cross paths. There’s a ghost haunting her—whether it’s her own feelings or those of another. She’s tethered, chained, and I’m sure it’s to Liam. She doesn’t say his name, and he doesn’t seem to haunt her steps the same way lately, but his touch lingers on her.
“My sweet girl?” the man asks.
I pull the sheet around me and look down with a practiced grace that always makes a man think I’m blushing. “You’re so nice. I’m sure there are better girls than me. Smarter, wealthier, gentler, and all that.”
He cups my face, lifting it. He’s not too old—definitely older than me, but not old enough to be my dad. He studies my face. “And you’re too sweet to be a doll. Too smart, too gentle, too innocent.”
A man who calls a woman innocent after fucking her and letting every dirty thought leave his lips or brand her skin as a gift from his hands may as well be calling a streetlight the moon. It’s ridiculous. False promises, praises that don’t line up.
But his brow furrows as he studies my eyes. “Do you have any idea what a gem you are? If you were in the Core, men would kill for you, die for you, and call it love.”
“Would it be?” I ask softly.
“A kind of love,” he murmurs, as if questioning himself. “A love of all the things they’ll never be able to claim for themselves… except by claiming you.”
“I’ve heard that about flowers,” I say with another practiced smile—dreamy and warm. “About flowers in Vespera. They grow wild there, and there are so many. They cover hills and cracks in concrete. But in the Core or even here in the Fringe, they’re impossible to find.”
“Then you’re my flower, an orchid. Rare, beautiful, soft, yet determined to grow,” he says. He kisses the top of my head, as so many of my clients do, then turns around. “And like a wildflower, you’d wilt in captivity.”
Chapter 2: The Space Between Fingers
I realize exactly what River and Asami have been trying to teach me. If I give in to a man, if I give them even a hint that they could keep me as their own, then their desire dies. Just like this man is sure I’ll wilt in captivity, my roots unable to find soil, a man’s desire fades once he catches what he wants.
Maybe that’s why, in the books I’ve found through Shadow Traders, the vases of old always picture the moment right before a man catches the woman he “loves.” Desire is most intense in the space between fingers, right before the moment she succumbs, when it’s still a maybe, and every fantasy lives.
Once they give in, what is there left to do but settle into a calm?
After the happily ever after is shown in a kiss, a brush of hands, a marriage, the story ends because all that’s left is to get to know one another. Desire is craving. Love is complacency. Even if I think complacency and stability sound sweeter, more enduring, can anyone tolerate it for long without returning to old neighborhoods and patterns?
Even if Dom did want me regularly, if he wanted to see real pleasure across my face, he only wants more because he knows he can’t have me. Some part of him knows that other men get a taste of me, and his goal is to make me forget that, so there is only him.
I remind myself of that as days pass.
“You seem better,” Asami comments when I share a booth with her. She’s scrawling something across a napkin with clear determination. “Less… entangled.”
“I’ve figured it out,” I answer. “Desire is the height of a man’s ecstasy. Stability is the height of our pleasure. It doesn’t match, and that’s the problem. No man can be a moon and my tide…”
“Your tide is your own to control,” Asami fills in.
She finally looks at me, and then I hear a low, clear laugh. One that ripples across my skin and tugs at every hair. I just said no man is my moon, but Dom’s laugh is so free and potent. It fills every seam of my body.
“But it is easy to mistake a spotlight for a moon, a lighthouse for safety, and we are all moths in search of a flame, willing to endure the burn if we get that moment of satisfaction,” Asami murmurs.
I blink at her. “Are you writing poetry?”
“A song,” she whispers. “I haven’t done that in so long. I realized we need hobbies, time for ourselves, if only to remind us that true happiness isn’t found in another person, but in ourselves.”
“Oh?” I ask.
“Because happiness in another person gives them power over us. It’s temporary. Do you want a high only gifted to you by another, or the support of routine you can gift yourself?” she presses.
There’s a right answer to this question, making it a test, not a conversation. Maybe I’m passing so far. If so, I’m about to fail. “I want both.”
Asami’s brow furrows. “We’re dolls. We don’t get both.”
“We could,” I whisper.
“That’s romantic thinking, Lacy. It won’t do anything but hurt you,” she warns softly.
Chapter 3: The Weight of a Dress
“Then it’s good that Lacy here likes a little pain,” Dom says as his hand moves over my shoulder. “Cam isn’t here. Just me. Three hours.”
“A lot can happen in three hours,” Asami says, then dips her head, writing more down.
“You know the rate,” I say to him.
He strokes my cheek, and my blush greets him, obvious between his dark fingers. His thumb traces my bottom lip. “We’re going to have plenty of fun. I want your time, this blush, your smile. I’m going to be greedier and say I want your authenticity too, Lacy.”
Asami’s eyes try to distract me, try to pull my attention. Her gaze is direct and unyielding, but Dom’s is so sweet. His dark eyes have so much affection in them. He’s not dangerous. He’s not a man from the Core who wants to cage me and show me off like some rare flower. He understands our positions, makes it clear that he can’t have me.
He’s safe. He is. He’s a Shadow Trader.
When his hand slips over my neck, I take it willingly. He leads me from the bar, and my eyes don’t slip to Asami’s at all. Dom keeps me close to him. “You were having an intense conversation.”
“Asami’s an intense person. Most dolls are,” I say with a shrug. Then I smile a real smile. “Even if we don’t show it.”
“Oh, I know exactly how intense you are,” he says.
“I could say the same about you. Duct tape, heavy hands, sharp words,” I tease.
He chuckles. “Is it intense because you like it or because you’ve never had a man talk to you like that?”
Dom doesn’t lead me to a hotel room. Instead, he takes me to a back-alley market. He motions for me to look as we talk. We both avoid truths while revealing other things. I realize it when he asks me how I grew up, and I say “like everyone,” just for him to chuckle. He tells me the streets taught him plenty, and he found safety in foreclosed buildings and holes in walls.
Every half-conversation we don’t let ourselves dive into gives each of us space to fill in the blanks about the other. When I stare at a beautiful, simple white dress for too long—one that reminds me of paintings of the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece—Dom buys it.
I catch his arms in mine when he starts to pay. “No.”
“Yes,” he disagrees. “You’ll wear it for me and me alone. That’s the deal.”
Our eyes hold as he pays for it. My throat tightens. Once he pays, he presses the dress against my chest. “You won’t give me a kiss, so give me this.”
“Wasted on a doll,” the vendor says.
Dom’s response is immediate. He grabs the man’s shirt and jerks him halfway across the table. “Apologize.”
“She’s a doll! Doesn’t even have the money or validation to get the eyes! There’s nothing to apologize f—”
Dom’s thick hand moves to the man’s neck. His face is unforgiving and expectant. “I didn’t ask for your fucking excuses. Apologize.”
I see the man’s face going red as his eyes bulge. “Dom, I’m not worth—”
“You’re worth more than this man’s life,” Dom snarls.
The man wheezes out a half-apology, but his eyes brand me, as if I’m the one choking him, as if I have the reins here. Dom demands a portion of the money back. I don’t say anything as he finally leads us to a hotel.
I wear the dress for him, dance for him, then we dive into our favorite kinks together. He has me keep the dress on the whole time, even if he adjusts it so he has me the way he wants.
Chapter 4: Glass Promises
We lie in bed together after. He strokes my hair, playing with my curls, then traces my puffy lips. “So pretty.”
I hide my face behind my hand, leading him to trace my back over the unbuttoned dress. He hums softly. “The dress belongs on you.”
“You shouldn’t have threatened him because of me,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. “If I didn’t, he wouldn’t have dropped the price. It’s not real silk. He jacked it up the second he clocked you as a doll.”
“So you did that to lower the price?” I ask.
Dom’s eyes finally meet mine. His calloused palm slides to the small of my back. “Not just because of that, Lacy.”
“It’s okay,” I insist.
I get up and walk to the bathroom. I let the dress fall around my feet, suddenly disgusted by it. It’s a leash, an ownership, no matter how pretty—and worse, it was one he insisted on getting a discount for. I close my eyes and brace my hands on the counter, more comfortable with my own nakedness than Dom’s ridiculous claim on me. How could I have been so stupid?
To believe that just because he wanted me again, he felt anything more than lust. That an hour of talking, laughing, wandering through a market was more than foreplay. No wonder River and Asami check in with me so often. They see what I don’t. They see what the men in the Core see—a woman out of her depth.
Here, I thought I’d covered that with fake innocence and semi-fake sweetness.
“Lacy,” Dom says, suddenly behind me.
His fingers gently rub my hips, and his lips brush my ear. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“You can’t read my mind,” I say simply. “Three hours is almost up.”
“Do you have another client?” he asks, almost surprised.
“I’m a doll, Dom,” I say, pushing his hands away as I go to the shower and turn it on. “I know what I am. You know what I am.”
“That doesn’t change that you’re… you,” he argues.
I step into the shower. “Thirty minutes left. If you’d like to join me, put me on my knees—”
“Don’t do that.”
I freeze. His voice is sharp and commanding, like it was only a few minutes ago, leading me to pleasure. My eyes meet his through the glass. Dom shoves the door open. “Don’t you dare commodify what we have or write it off as a normal client relationship. Don’t do it in front of me or when I’m gone.”
He steps into the shower and stares down at me. I back against the wall and swallow.
His fingers weave through my hair, and he pulls me against him. “While you’re with me, you’re mine. My girl to spoil, my girl to fuck, to please, to make smile. Shadow Traders don’t get the real thing when watchdogs could destroy us at any moment. So don’t you dare—”
“Yes, Dom,” I whisper.
Pausing, his hands soften. I hug him. I know what he wants. What every man wants. Forgiveness, acceptance, warmth. I’m plush and soft when the rest of the world is sharp. He strokes through my hair and sighs.
“I’m clumsy with my words. I know that. I should be better, considering my job. Cam does the talking.”
“Cam is better at it,” I murmur.
Dom chuckles. “There you are. Exactly as I need you.”
I kiss his chest. He rubs my back and, unlike my other client, he doesn’t wash me. He watches me wash myself while slowly stroking his cock. I look back at him shyly. “You’re making me self-conscious.”
“You’re gorgeous. I’d love to see that dress go see-through in the water, see you walk out of a pond like a damn princess or nymph,” he pants. “And choose me.”
My eyes flit from his cock to his face. “Choose you?”
“Out of every other client and future laid out in front of you. I want you to choose me,” he says.
My throat stays tight until he leaves. He gives me the room for the night, saying it’s better than wherever I go normally. I bask in the luxury, but my mind keeps swirling—half on fire, half icy. How much are both of us playing pretend when we’re together? I pretend he’s my only. He pretends he actually likes me and that there’s no shame in it.
I want to like him. I want to let myself feel safe doing that, but I can’t.
It’s ridiculous.
Chapter 5: The Cost of Canvas
But our next three visits don’t feature Cam, and I notice a few clients eyeing me without approaching. It’s confusing. I brush it off and accept more offers from men I normally wouldn’t. They’re rougher, past Dom’s level, but it’s good money, and it’s necessary.
Asami seems to approve of my detachment, but that’s because Liam and River and her own clients take up her time.
Our time isn’t our own. Our time is either income or a lack of income. Nothing else. Is there any room for joy in this life? Is there any opportunity for us to embrace our desires, our wants, no matter how fleeting or ardent they are?
With some of my income, I purchase things to paint and carve out a night in my own room. I paint slowly—a nymph trying to hide behind a waterfall takes center stage. My hand isn’t as steady as it was. It’s marred with the imprints of unkind fingers, but that’s something I can ignore.
And I do ignore it as I paint. I see my clients, I paint. I market myself along the street, I paint. I see Dom and give him smiles, give him as much of myself as I can without crossing a line, and then I paint.
Painting is what I do for myself, to love myself for something more than my body and my ability to please others. Painting is mine and mine alone… until it’s not.
Banging on my door makes me drag my brush across my canvas. I gasp and drop it. I stand slowly and walk to my door.
“Now!” Dom’s voice calls.
I flinch at that kind of brutality. I open the door, and he stumbles in. Dark blood coats his arm, and he kicks the door shut, lying back and panting. I blink at him. “Dom… what…”
“I need gauze, alcohol, any medical shit you have, Lacy,” he growls.
I hurry to help him, not sure what else to do. I know a bullet wound when I see one. He walks me through removing the bullet, his voice shaking yet determined. Then he tells me I have to burn it shut to stop the bleeding. I have my curling iron—an older version that scorches. I let it heat and meet his eyes.
“Do it,” he growls.
I press it to his skin as he bites down on his belt. The sound that leaves him is full of vengeance and violence. He finally nods, and I pull it away, stumbling back to unplug the curling iron before the smell of burnt skin can truly fill my nose.
I sit by the wall and watch Dom swim in and out of consciousness. When he’s unconscious, I approach, binding his arm, cleaning it, making sure he’s okay. When he’s awake, I retreat, not knowing what version of him I’m going to get. The one that will choke a man for a cheaper price or the one who refuses to let me hide away. The him that’s shockingly gentle and purrs secrets into my hair, or the him that spanks me for speaking without permission.
Chapter 6: A Fragile Feast
Rather than leaving him on the floor, I lay him in my bed and go to my kitchen. He’ll need to eat. When I plate the simple pasta dish, I freeze. I don’t remember the last time I cooked for someone. I don’t remember the last time I helped someone without being paid to be a therapist, a stuffed animal to cuddle, or a doll to fuck.
This is too much. He’s not supposed to have this side of me. It’s too valuable. He can’t afford it. Asami would tell me to call a friend and get them to come here, to have some backup just in case.
“Lacy,” he groans.
I freeze. “Dom.”
“You’re too far away, baby. Come here,” he croons.
My shoulders are stiff. “I made you food.”
The silence between us is as inflexible and fragile as glass. If he touches me, he’ll break it. If he speaks, it shatters. That’s what our relationship is—glass. Pretty and shiny, but able to cut and kill if handled badly. My whole body trembles.
His arms wrap around me, the gauze rubbing my shoulder. “I knew your sweetness was real,” he murmurs before kissing my temple softly. “Thank you.”
“It’s…” I want to tell him not to get used to it. I want to tell him that this isn’t real.
Instead, I look at him. He lifts my chin and kisses me. It’s soft, nothing lusty or hot about it. His lips mold to mine without the protection of duct tape between us. His forehead presses to mine as he exhales.
“I promise not to get used to it. I promise not to make you get used to this,” he swears.
“What happened?”
Dom takes the food I offer him, making sure to feed me plenty of it as he explains his run-in with watchdogs. He was running information, as he does, and unfortunately took a wrong turn. He tells me not to worry—the watchdog he left alive won’t find him. Fear laps at my chest all the same. Harboring a Shadow Trader is a good way to disappear.
I’m not the kind of woman who can fight off an unplanned attack by a client, let alone by watchdogs. While I stew in my own indecision, Dom looks at my painting. I try to hide it, but his smile is brilliant, honest, and too much. “That’s you, in the dress I bought you, in the water.”
“A nymph,” I whisper.
“With your hair and your lovely curves,” he muses.
“It’s not for sale,” I whisper.
“Good. It shouldn’t be, because it’s so personal. But I had no idea you were so talented,” he praises.
Chapter 7: A Mother’s No
He wraps himself around me from behind. Dom kisses my cheek. “Were you an artist first?”
“I was,” I answer, studying the painting. “An artist and a model. I grew up with artist parents. They were sure that art was a way to connect with others, to reach others. They believed art’s an expression of humanity.”
Dom hums. “What happened?”
“Models only make so much, and more than one artist wanted me to be a doll, said I might as well be one since I only inspired lust and desire,” I admit.
He’s quiet for a long while. “Were you forced into it?”
“A client killed my mother when she said no,” I breathe, then retreat deeper into his arms. “My father turned to drugs. Artists feel too much. Joy is a high, and depression… it consumes. He tore apart the canvases he had of my mother and… and I think he tried to eat them, but couldn’t stomach it.”
“Love is violent and messy,” he replies.
“And grief rips through a person with the force of their lost love. My choices were to survive off meager modeling and my attempts to paint in a world saturated by cheaper art without any family left or…”
“Or?” Dom pushes. Looking at him is dangerous. Feeling anything is dangerous.
“Or to swallow my emotions, save them only for canvas, and do what I was recommended to do. It felt easy. I kept saying I was modeling when my father was lucid enough to ask. He didn’t question it. Clients would paint me on canvases, then paint my skin, turn me into the art they needed to satisfy them. It felt natural.”
“Lacy,” he breathes.
“They still do,” I murmur. “I model what they need—innocence, understanding, warmth, softness. I’m never a threat. I never have power over them. So they never hurt me. It’s easy… most days.”
Dom turns my chin and runs his nose over mine. “You’re worth more than you think, baby. You’re more capable than you give yourself credit for.”
Chapter 8: The Demon in the Canvas
“I’m a terrible cook.”
“You are,” he chuckles and kisses my nose softly. “An astounding artist. Strong enough to save my life. Sweet enough to give me a safe place to go.”
“I’m a doll. There’s no reason to forget that,” I argue.
“There is every reason for me to forget,” he whispers, his hands moving up my sides to my breasts.
“Because you feel more like home than any place I’ve ever known.”
His words are soft, but his dick is hard. I feel it against my back. It doesn’t seem right after sharing so much, but at least it’s honest.
“Have you lied to me?” I ask softly, very aware that this is crossing a line. I’ve told him my past, I haven’t charged him for being here, I’ve kissed him, cooked for him, taken care of him. “Ever?”
“I did when I said I’d ever let Cam touch you again,” he says against my ear. “I hate thinking about other men having the pleasure of your time,” he kisses my neck. “Hearing your moans.” Another kiss, lower. “Getting to touch you, leaving marks on you, having even a taste of your faked pleasure. It makes me want to ruin them for not pleasing you and capture you every night.”
“Capture me?” I ask.
“So I can show you what you deserve, what you should have, and make sure you get something good before you go to sleep,” he pants in my ear before gently biting my earlobe.
“I don’t think sex is a good idea,” I murmur. “Your arm.”
“I’ll be gentle with you.”
We don’t talk about payment; we just fall into each other. He’s safe in ways he shouldn’t be, dangerous in others. I deny him any more kisses but let him have real moans as he focuses on pleasing me. He’s gentle, satisfies me, revels in my attention and pleasure until it consumes me and drags me into sleep that’s so refreshing and safe, I’m sure I’ve been reading him wrong.
Maybe he does want more. He wants to beat the odds, call me his, and we could carve out something beautiful in a city that prefers to destroy rather than create.
Then I wake up.
Dom is gone, but there’s an alert of money in my account. He paid for four hours. My heart squeezes in my chest. Why does being paid for that make me feel cheaper? I look at my painting and gasp. I touch it and shake my head.
“No, no,” I whimper.
The center part, where the nymph was in the waterfall, has been crudely cut away, stolen. I search my whole house for it, but it’s nowhere to be found. I drop to my knees in front of my painting and try to call Dom again and again, but each time, the call fails to go through. I get the notice that the number is unregistered.
Tears blur my eyes as I stare at my painting—the gaping hole where I should be is gone. It’s been stolen, ripped away from me. I try to fix it, try to replace that section with another bit of canvas, try to remember all the lessons I’ve had. When I repaint it, I can’t bring myself to simply redo what I remember. Instead, the woman is terrified, not playing.
She’s no longer sweet and hopeful. She’s terrified. She covers herself, even with the dress molding to her body. The wayward brush stroke becomes a demon—pure darkness, with stars embedded in his skin. He curls around the canvas, long fingers spread, hand ready to grip the nymph in his palm.
I paint, ignore clients, paint, ignore food and drink, paint, ignore someone pounding on my door saying they need information. I throw myself into the painting until I understand why my father wanted to consume the paintings of my mother.
If she was inside him, no one could hurt her again. If he ate her, she would always be a part of him, and he could save her.
But canvas is hard to choke down, and no painting can be made the same way twice.
Two sharp knocks on my door break my focus. A cold chill teases my spine. I open the door and find Cam there. He looks at me for a long moment.
“I’m not working today,” I say, voice taut. I don’t know how long it’s been since I spoke.
Cam shuts my door anyway, letting himself in. His hand is clenched around something, but I feel so… dull, empty. I walk to my bed and sit, then sigh. “You know the rates.”
“Lacy,” he breathes.
I nod once. “I’m supposed to shower first.”
“Listen to me—”
“I’d rather not talk, please,” I whisper. “I said too much last time.”
He watches me, then takes my chin. He looks like he’s going to say something important. He looks as hollow as I feel, then something catches his eye. He looks at my newly finished painting—still wet, but gleaming.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
He doesn’t move; he just stares at it. I know he recognizes Dom as the demon of night. I couldn’t resist making the demon beautiful and terrifying. Everything is washed in something that no one could call light, but still seems warm. False promises across the page.
“He ruined it,” I whisper. “Tore me out of it. I didn’t belong there. I—”
“He’s dead, Lacy. You know how dangerous successful artists are. They have watchdogs and killers on their payroll. He insisted on going in anyway. He said he had business, with a smile I’d never seen before,” Cam whispers. “Said it was the only way he could come back to his girl.”
I blink a few times. “Who?”
Cam looks at me. “You, Lacy. You weren’t a doll to him. A doll, but more. He was going to give you the choice.”
“What choice?” I ask.
Cam opens his hand and lays the perfect five-inch-by-eight-inch section of my painting back to me. It’s crumpled, dotted with blood, but right back in my possession. Cam’s throat tightens.
“He was trying to get you work as an artist. A watchdog recognized him. Killed him. I took care of that and took this before the artist could. Dom stopped breathing while staring at it, so I killed the artist too when he offered me money for it,” Cam murmurs.
I touch my own happy face, now splattered with Dom’s blood. I curl around my painting, and Cam curls around me. I sob—openly, uncontrolled. “He died for me?”
“Killed, died, ran to you, remembered you, talked about you,” Cam’s throat tightens. “He was going to make being a doll a choice, no matter how dangerous it would have been for him. I’m…”
“Sorry” doesn’t fix anything. Vulnerability makes monsters out of everyone. And now all I have of Dom is the demon of him I painted when he was trying to give a nymph like me a happy ending I don’t deserve.
