Lips of the Enemy

Aria's POV

“ Hmmm….. your lips are so soft “ came a rasped breath from Ethan as he grabbed my thighs and grabbed me up while he placed me on the wash basin inside the rest room. The cold, sterile porcelain shocked my bare skin for a brief second before the fierce heat of his body pressed against me.

The red gown I wore, so carefully chosen to be both elegant and a little scandalous, was pulled up my legs. I had practiced this moment in my head a thousand times. The feel of his strong hands, the brush of his expensive suit against my dress, the dangerous hunger in his eyes. It was all a part of the plan. My legs, now wrapped tightly around his waist, were a trap. A beautiful, deadly trap.

Our tongues kept locking on each other while I held his head, my fingers tangling in the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss was not soft. It was raw, urgent, and all-consuming. It was a physical fight for control, a dance of power disguised as passion.

I could taste the expensive whiskey on his lips and the subtle, clean scent of his skin, and my stomach twisted. This man, the son of the man who had stolen everything from me, was a perfect copy of his father in so many ways. The same cold gray eyes, the same sharp jaw, the same air of a man who believed the world was his for the taking. I had to make him believe I was just another one of his conquests, a pretty face with no substance.

"You're making me go wild handsome,” I said, the words a breathless whisper against his lips. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but the sound of it, the effect it had on him, was a victory. He groaned in response, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through my bones. His hands tightened on my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin. It was painful, but I welcomed it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. This was all a performance, a very convincing lie.

His kisses became more frantic, more desperate. He broke away from my lips and began to trail a line of kisses down my jaw, his warm breath on my neck a stark contrast to the cold ceramic beneath me. I tilted my head back, giving him full access, and let out a small, breathless sound that I hoped he would take for pleasure. He bit my neck seductively while my back ached as I grabbed his suit, my fingers digging into the fabric. My heart was a drum in my chest, a war drum beating a rhythm of revenge.

It was at that moment, with his lips on my neck, that the dam broke. A memory, so sharp and vivid it could have been the present, rushed over me. It wasn't a dream. It was real. It was the moment my world ended, and the woman I was now was born.

The smell always came first.

It was not soft or slow. It wasn't like flowers or food. It came sharp. Fast. Like it had been waiting. Like it had teeth. It was thick, wet and metallic. It was the kind of smell that crawled down your throat and stayed there. It was blood. That smell was always blood.

Even years later, I could feel it. Taste it. Breathe it in. And no matter how hard I tried to bury it deep, that smell would always find a way back.

I was fourteen again, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor behind the long heavy curtain in my father’s office. I still remember the way that curtain smelled. It smelled dusty. Like old books. It was like secrets no one was supposed to hear.

Outside, the rain fell hard. It was a stormy night, the kind that made the windows rattle and the wind scream like it was alive. The chandelier above was swaying just a little, and the glass caught the flashes of lightning. The room was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It was quiet like the world was holding its breath.

And then it started.

The voices were heard. It was my mother’s voice that was the first to break the silence. I still remember the way she sounded. She sounded so scared. But strong.

"Please, Norman, don’t do this. We trusted you."

Her voice cracked at the end. Like something inside her broke.

Then my father’s voice came, very louder, and angrier. "You bastard. We gave you everything. You were family. My children played with yours."

He was standing near the desk. And I could see his shoes from where I hid, the black leather shoes, polished like always. His legs were stiff. Like he was frozen.

I didn’t understand everything they said that night. Not the business deals that were mentioned. Not the betrayal. But I remember the look in Norman Malcovich’s eyes when he stepped into the light.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t shaking. He was just calm and still. Like he was made of stone. His suit was dark gray, sharp at the edges. His tie was perfect, like he had dressed for a meeting, not a murder.

"You shouldn’t have crossed me," he said as his voice came soft. Almost too soft. Like he wasn’t talking to people but to numbers on a page.

"You ruined us," my father said, stepping forward. "You framed me and you know that….. Norman, you stole the company. You think I won’t fight back?"

Norman didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His hands were inside his coat.

My mother stepped in front of my father, her arms were spread wide. Her nightgown clung to her body, and wet from the open balcony doors behind them. She wasn’t crying. But I could see her chest rising and falling fast. Too fast.

"Think of my daughter Norman, think of Aria," she said. "Please. She’s just a child."

He didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t say anything.

He just reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun.

It was a simple gun. Black in color. Just small. But silent.

My heart started to pound hard against my chest. I bit my lip. Bit it so hard that it bled.

Then came the sound. Not loud like in movies. Just a soft pop. Like a balloon being stepped on.

The first bullet hit my mother.

Her body jerked. Her mouth opened. But no sound came out.

She dropped to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut. Her blood spread so fast. Red and thick. It touched my father’s shoes in seconds.

He screamed her name. Not loud. Not long. Just once.

Then the second shot came.

My father fell to his knees first, then collapsed beside her. His hand reached for her fingers but stopped just before touching.

And then silence again.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move.

I stayed behind the curtain with my fingers clutched around the fabric like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. The thunder roared again outside. Lightning flashed. But the room stayed frozen.

Norman Malcovich stood over their bodies. Calm and Cold. Like he had just closed a deal. Then he turned and walked away. His shoes clicked against the marble floor as if they were marking time. He didn’t look back. Not once.

That was the last time I saw my parents.

That was the night I died too. At least, the part of me that believed in kindness, In safety, In family died with my parents.

The world I knew ended behind that curtain.

And now, here I am. In the arms of his son. The memory was not a dream, but a searing, waking remembrance, a fuel for the fire in my veins. My body went rigid for a moment, a flash of setback that was almost enough to break my facade. Ethan, feeling the sudden tension, pulled back slightly, his gray eyes searching my face with a flicker of confusion.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and concerned. "You went still for a second."

I forced a tight, seductive smile. "I'm more than okay," I whispered, my voice dangerously husky. "You're just... taking my breath away." I pulled his head back down to my neck, burying my face in the curve of his shoulder.

My mind was a whirlwind of rage, grief, and the cold, hard resolve of revenge. I was not that scared little girl anymore. I was a weapon. I was a beautiful, deadly weapon. And Ethan Malcovich was my target.

He bit my neck seductively while my back ached as I grabbed his suit. " hmmm…. Hold me tight “ I groaned as my eyes rolled in pleasure.