The text came late, almost midnight. I saw a blur of emojis and exclamation marks from Jess.

Come to the Halloween party tomorrow night!! Everyone’s dressing up. No excuses.

I almost ignored it. Work had been hell, my brain was fried, and I hadn’t planned to do anything except sleep. But something about the timing, the date, the restlessness under my skin made me pause. Halloween night. Maybe I needed to let loose.

The next day, I found myself in front of my mirror surrounded by open drawers and discarded clothes, torn between hesitation and impulse. If I was going to go, I might as well go all in.

To match my mood, I embodied Lilith, first woman, shadow of Eve, creature of hunger and defiance. The name itself felt like a spell.

Black lace bodysuit under a sheer mesh dress that shimmered like smoke when I moved. A belt of silver chains at my waist, glinting when I turned. Fishnet stockings climbing my thighs, heels sharp enough to wound. I went heavy on the makeup – kohl-black eyes, blood-red lips, cheekbones carved sharp. My hair fell in dark waves down my shoulders, glossy and wild.

I looked powerful. Dangerous. Almost unrecognisable.

When I stepped into the party, bass rolled through the warehouse floor like thunder. Strobe lights painted bodies in silver and blood. People moved like they were half-possessed. There were devils, angels, monsters of every kind; all drinking, laughing, colliding.

Jess found me in the crush, squealing, glitter smeared across her cheekbones. “You look insane,” she shouted over the music, shoving a drink into my hand.

I smiled, sipping my drink and scanning the crowd. It was chaos. For once, I let it wash over me in an effort to forget the week. That’s when I saw him.

At first, just a shape moving through the dancers. Tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, all in black. He was wearing a matte black, skull-faced mask. The bone lines painted white so they gleamed under the strobe; the lower jaw dripping like wax.

He didn’t look at me immediately, but when he did, I felt it. The weight of his gaze cut straight through the noise. The air seemed to thicken between us.

He moved closer.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The music filled the space where words might have been. His hands found my hips with a sure grip. I let the rhythm pull us together until I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric between us.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and our bodies moved in sync with the music, a jolt of electricity shot up my spine. I had no idea who this stranger was but I let myself get lost in the fear and thrill of the night.

I spun away from him, a teasing twirl just out of reach, letting the music carry me for a heartbeat on my own. When I turned back, ready to find his eyes again, the space behind me was empty.

I turned, searching the crowd but he was gone. Only the echo of the bass remained, vibrating through my skin.

---

Days went by and the memories of the masked man slipped away. I buried myself in work, in routine, until the edges of it blurred.

By the time Friday rolled around, I’d almost forgotten.

The flowers were on my doorstep when I came home from work.

A small bouquet of roses, left on the doormat outside my flat. No card, no delivery slip. Just the blooms, stems bound tight with twine, petals so dark they were almost black.

I frowned, bent to pick them up, and stood in the hall staring like an idiot. Probably left at the wrong door. Had to be. Still, they smelled rich and heady, cloying in the small space. I muttered to myself, “Not for me,” and set them just outside the door.

My feet ached, my head ached, and all I wanted was a shower. I peeled off my clothes as I walked, dropping them in a trail behind me until the bathroom tiles chilled my toes. The water hissed on, hot and soothing, steam curling thick and fast against the glass.

By the time I stepped out, my skin was pink and damp, hair dripping down my back. I wiped the fogged mirror and caught my reflection. I admired my strong features and curved shoulders. Long, thick waves of hair sticking to my collarbone, cheeks flushed.

After drying off, I slipped into one of the few indulgences I owned: a silk night slip the colour of midnight. The fabric slid cool against my skin, a luxury I rarely allowed myself. I padded barefoot into the kitchen, fixed something light to eat, and curled onto the sofa, not sparing another thought for the roses in the hall.

The next evening, I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.

Work dragged. The bus was late. By the time I shoved my key into the lock, my mind was on nothing more exciting than tea and pyjamas. But when I pushed open the door, my stomach dropped.

Another bouquet. Bigger this time, spilling across my bed in a riot of dark petals. Someone had taken care with them: the stems trimmed, the thorns carefully removed. A plain white card lay on top.

You didn’t like my gift?

My blood turned cold. I spun so fast I nearly tripped over myself. “Hello?” My voice rang out, too loud, too desperate. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

The apartment pressed in on me, too quiet, too still. I stalked room to room, heart hammering, throwing open doors, peering into shadows like a fool. Nothing.

When I circled back to my bedroom, the flowers were still there. Watching.

This time I didn’t strip down so easily. I stayed in the armour of my work clothes, shoes still on, every creak in the floorboards making my skin prickle. My gaze darted to the balcony door, the windows, the locks. All suddenly too flimsy and too easy to breach.

I stood in the centre of the room, pulse racing, trying to convince myself I wasn’t losing my mind.

The days that followed were torture in their own quiet way.

No more flowers. No notes. Nothing out of place when I came home from work. Just silence.

I told myself it must have been some weird prank, a wrong delivery. I was being paranoid.

But I still jumped at every noise. Left more lights on than usual. Double-checked the locks, then checked them again before I crawled into bed. The silence stopped being reassuring. It felt like holding my breath, waiting for something I couldn’t name.

By the fourth night, exhaustion won out. I fell into bed and sleep took me fast, heavy and dreamless.

Until the weight of something dragged me back.

My eyes blinked open in the dark.

I froze.

A dark figure sat on the edge of my bed. Black clothes and a mask; that mask. Blank eyeholes caught the streetlight seeping through the curtains, empty and merciless. My breath hitched, lungs locking in my chest.

I tried to move. Tried to scream. His hand clamped firm over my mouth.

“Shh.” The voice was low, steady, rough enough to scrape over my skin. “Quiet now, little one.”

My pulse hammered against his palm.

That’s when I felt it — the cold kiss of metal sliding against the bare skin of my thigh. He dragged the edge of a knife, slow and deliberate, up and down the inside, never breaking the skin. Just teasing.

Every nerve in my body screamed with fear. But underneath, tangled and hot, something else unfurled.

The mask tilted, watching me. His voice dropped to a whisper that made the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

“I’ve been watching you.”

I must have dreamt it because when I woke up properly, the masked man had gone.

---

Over the next few weeks, the nights were quiet again. But then came more gifts.

Another bouquet of roses, this time a deeper red, the stems stripped clean, almost surgical. A silk scarf the colour of spilled wine. A pair of lace panties folded like a secret in a small black box. Each one felt heavier than the last, as if every offering carried a heartbeat of its own.

Every time, the gifts were left in the same place on my bed.

At first, it turned my stomach. I was paranoid,  double-checking the locks, shoving a chair under the handle of the front door, I kept a kitchen knife under my pillow. Sleep came shallow and restless.

But then… nothing. No break-ins. No shadowy figure at 3 a.m. Just the quiet apartment and the gifts that grew more personal with each passing week.

Slowly, shamefully, my fear shifted.

Lying in bed at night, I found myself thinking about the masked man. About the way he’d held me still like he owned me. The way the knife had traced my skin, never breaking it, but leaving fire in its wake.

I hated myself for feeling something. What the fuck was wrong with me?

The vibrator I'd bought years ago started calling my name. More nights than not, I found myself using it, slipping it between my thighs, pretending it was his glove instead of my own hand. Pretending it was his rough voice that told me to spread my legs wider.

When I came, shuddering and flushed, I bit down on the pillow to smother the sound—half afraid he was listening, half wishing he was.

The fantasies grew bolder. I started wondering what he looked like under the mask, whether his mouth would taste as dark as his words. Whether he’d ever let me touch him.

It was madness. But the truth was undeniable; I was starting to crave the masked man.

---

I didn’t go out often, my life was fairly mundane but tonight was special. My mother had been in touch, inviting me to dinner with her and her new husband - some fancy restaurant downtown apparently.

I sat on the floor in front of my mirror, curling my hair and carefully applying my makeup. I noticed my reflection had changed slightly, eyes darker than they used to be, lips fuller from biting them.

I stood and chose a black dress I hadn’t found an excuse to wear yet. Corset seams shaping my waist, satin skimming over my soft hips, slit high enough to flash my thigh but still - technically - dinner appropriate. Black heels. A slash of lipstick.

Halfway through unpinning my last curl, the air shifted.

He was here.

I saw him in the mirror first, a dark shape leaning against the balcony door, mask pale and blank. I whipped around to face him, my stomach dropped so hard it almost made me double over.

“Where do you think you’re going, little one?” The question rolled out low, rough.

My spine stiffened. “Who the fuck are you? What do you think you’re doing?!”

He pushed off the doorframe, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps. I took a cautious step back, assessing my next move.

“Shh.” His voice was quiet, almost indulgent. “Careful, there are better ways to use that mouth.”

I froze, heart hammering. Instinct told me to run. Instead, I darted toward the bed, fingers diving beneath the pillow for the knife I’d been sleeping beside all week but it was cold and empty.

My stomach lurched. When I looked up, he was already holding it. The same one I’d kept hidden, believing it would keep me safe.

He turned it lazily between his fingers, the blade catching the lamplight. “Looking for this?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

He closed the distance between us, slow and certain, until my back hit the mirror and his shadow swallowed mine.

The blade glinted as he brought it to my cheek. Cold metal kissed my jaw, slid down, slow and deliberate, a silent threat. My pulse thundered under his thumb.

Then, with one smooth motion, he caught a lock of my hair, held it taut, and cut. The strands slid over my shoulder, landing in his palm. He curled it like a trophy, tucking it away.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even swallow.

He leaned in, mask inches from my lips, breath warm. “You belong to me now.”

Before I could speak, he was gone; slipping through the balcony doors like a ghost.

I stood there, chest heaving, staring once again at the empty space he’d been.

Somehow, on trembling legs, I gathered myself. Grabbed my clutch, smoothed down my dress and fluffed my hair. Pretended my heart wasn’t still hammering. And then I went to dinner.

---

The restaurant smelled of polished wood and truffle oil, low jazz humming beneath the clatter of cutlery. My heels clicked against the marble as I followed the host through the foyer, still shaky from the earlier incident but holding myself together.

Mum was already at the bar, smiling like she’d won the lottery. Next to her stood the man she’d been raving about for weeks — my new stepfather. He was exactly her taste: handsome in a silver-fox way, smooth and expensive. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in glossy magazines beside yachts and single malts.

I rolled my eyes internally but couldn’t complain about dinner. A free meal in a place like this? Fine.

He turned as I approached, smiling warmly. For a second something flickered in my chest,  he looked familiar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but not the same height, not the same build as the masked man. I told myself I was just obsessing. Seeing him everywhere.

“Darling,” Mum cooed, kissing my cheek. “Doesn’t he look just like Sean Connery?”

I smiled thinly. “More like someone who’s going to order the most expensive wine on the menu.”

My stepfather chuckled, taking my hand with an elegant ease. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, his voice smooth as cream, “but my son, Finn, is in town. I’ve invited him to join us.”

I blinked. “Oh. Sure.”

And then he appeared.

Finn sauntered up to our little trio with the kind of lazy confidence that turned heads. Glinting blue eyes. A smirk sharp enough to cut. He was dressed in all black — tailored slacks, black shirt pulled taut over the muscles etched in my memory, the faintest hint of expensive cologne trailing after him.

My stomach dropped.

Around his neck, a silver chain caught the low light. Hanging from it, like a sick joke, was a tiny glass pendant with something dark coiled inside.

My hair.

My blood ran cold.

He greeted my mother first, charming as ever, then shook his father’s hand, easy and polite. Then he turned to me.

His hand was at my waist, pulling me in for a polite kiss. His lips brushed my cheek but his voice was at my ear, low and intimate, familiar enough to make my heart stop.

“Would you look at that, little one,” he murmured, the same rough timbre as the mask. “We match.”

The room tilted. My body went cold and hot at once. I felt sick.

I forced a brittle smile for my mother’s sake, but my pulse roared in my ears.

Finn’s thumb stroked a slow circle at my hip before he let go, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Shall we?” he said, as though nothing at all was wrong.

I sat stiffly at the table, my hands folded too neatly in my lap. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the low hum of conversation. Mum and her husband were talking about wine, or holidays, or something that should’ve been harmless, but the words barely reached me. All I could see was Finn opposite me, languid in his chair, the pendant at his throat catching the candlelight.

He looked perfectly at ease, smiling, nodding along. The picture of polite charm.

Meanwhile, my pulse roared like a freight train.

“Darling, you haven’t said a word,” Mum said, tilting her head at me. “Are you feeling all right?”

I forced a thin smile. “Yes. Just—just need the ladies’.”

I pushed my chair back before anyone could stop me.

The bathroom was all marble and gold fixtures, too elegant for the way I was gripping the sink like it might save me. I stared at my reflection, my eyes wide, flushed cheeks, hair still perfectly curled. My chest rose and fell too fast.

What the fuck was happening?

The door opened.

I looked up in the mirror just as it swung shut again. Finn.

He locked it with a soft click.

My stomach dropped. “Get out.”

He didn’t answer. Just crossed the space between us like it belonged to him, the scent of expensive cologne and something darker closing in.

“Stay away from me.” My voice came out sharper than I felt. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it ends now.”

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “You don’t?”

Anger surged, sharp enough to cut through my fear. “You’re insane!” I drew my arm back to slap him.

His hand shot out, fast as a snake. He caught my wrist before my palm could reach his cheek and pushed me back against the counter. The impact rattled the soap dispenser.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You’re making a scene.”

His body was so close I could feel the heat radiating off him, his breath against my temple. I twisted my wrist, but his grip only tightened.

“Let go of me,” I hissed.

He leaned in until his lips were at my ear. “You keep pretending you don’t want this,” he said, quiet but deadly. “But you do. You’ve been waiting for me.”

“I haven’t,” I spat, though my voice cracked on the word.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Liar.”

He fished his phone out of his pocket one-handed, still pinning me with the other.

The screen lit up, and my breath stopped.

It was me.

Me on my bed, on my stomach, the pillow wedged between my thighs, my hips rolling. My face half-hidden but unmistakeable. The sound of my own moans, tinny through the speaker, filled the marble bathroom.

Heat flooded my face, full of shame, fury, a rush of something I couldn’t name.

Finn tilted the screen toward me, watching me instead of the video. “Recognise it?”

I couldn’t speak.

“That’s what I thought,” he said softly, satisfaction curling through the words. He clicked the phone screen to black.

“Now fix your dress, little one. Let’s finish this dinner, shall we?”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stepped away, just enough to give me air but not enough to let me go.

I stayed frozen against...