Chapter 7: The Kiss (R18+)
Joshua’s fingers trembled against the trigger, slick with sweat and desperation. The barrel wavered between Keres’ chest and Asteria’s pale face, his eyes darting wild and unfocused.
Time seemed to fracture—each second stretching into an eternity as Asteria watched the tremor in his hands, the way his knuckles whitened against the grip.
She didn’t think. She couldn’t afford to.
Asteria gathered every ounce of strength left in her drugged body and lunged forward. Her shoulder crashed against Joshua’s arm with a force that surprised even herself, sending the trajectory of the weapon skyward.
The gunshot exploded through the hallway—a deafening crack that left her ears ringing. Plaster rained down from the ceiling where the bullet buried itself in the wall.
Joshua stumbled backward, cursing, his balance compromised.
Keres didn’t hesitate.
The retort of her own weapon came sharp and immediate—a clean shot that tore through Joshua’s thigh. The sound of it was wet and visceral. He screamed, a high, animal sound that echoed off the concrete walls, and collapsed backward onto the floor.
His gun clattered away, spinning across the polished marble until it came to rest against the baseboard.
Asteria’s legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor, her knees hitting the cold tile with a jarring impact that traveled up her spine. She whimpered, the sound small and broken, and curled inward—arms wrapping around her ribs, head tucked against her chest.
The world tilted above her, a blur of motion and violence as bodies collided, fists meeting flesh with sickening thuds.
"You fucking bitch!" Joshua howled, clutching his leg with both hands. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and spreading fast across his tailored trousers. His face had gone ashen, sweat beading along his hairline. "You fucking—"
Keres crossed the distance between them in three strides. She didn’t run—she prowled, her weapon still warm in her grip. Without breaking stride, she drove her boot into his face. The impact was brutal, efficient. His head snapped back, blood spurting from his nose across the pristine floor.
"You’re lucky," Keres said, her voice dropping to something almost conversational. She crouched in front of him, the barrel of her gun tracing a lazy line along his jaw. "You’re lucky I didn’t hit your femoral artery. If I had, you’d be bleeding out right now, feeling your life drain second by second."
Joshua’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with pain and terror.
Keres leaned closer, close enough that he could smell the gunpowder on her skin, the faint trace of expensive perfume beneath it. "Don’t provoke me again, Joshua. Next time, I won’t waste a single thought on whether you live or die."
The words were spoken calmly—soft, even—but they landed with the weight of a sentence. Everyone in the hallway felt it. Keres was known for many things in the underworld: her precision, her ruthlessness, her empire built on blood and secrets.
But above all, she was known for her brutality. She didn’t simply kill her enemies; she dismantled them. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly. Always completely.
The remaining chaos dissolved within seconds as Keres’ bodyguards flooded the corridor. They moved faster—disarming Joshua’s men, securing the perimeter, their faces impassive behind dark sunglasses despite the hour.
Sandro, Keres’ main henchman and the only one who dared approach her in moments like this, materialized at her elbow. He didn’t speak, merely waited for orders, his massive frame casting a shadow over the scene.
Keres straightened, holstering her weapon with practiced ease. Her gaze swept the hallway and found Asteria.
The girl was still on the floor, curled into herself like a child hiding from a storm. Her dress—some expensive thing that had probably cost more than most people made in a month—was torn at the shoulder, smudged with dust and what might have been blood.
She was trembling violently, her breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches that suggested she was either fighting tears or shock or both.
"Why did she save me?"
The thought surfaced like unwelcomed. Keres studied Asteria’s small frame, the way her fingers clutched at her own arms hard enough to leave marks. It made no sense.
And yet she’d thrown herself into the path of a bullet.
Keres took a step toward her, then stopped. She could feel the eyes of her men, of Sandro, watching. If she acknowledged this—if she showed softness, showed that the girl’s sacrifice had meant something—it would be interpreted as weakness. In her world, weakness was blood in the water.
"Fuckin’ bitch," Joshua muttered from the floor, spitting blood onto the tile. His voice was thick, nasal from the broken nose. "That Auclair girl is dead meat to me. I’ll make her—"
"No."
The word cut through the air like a blade. Keres didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to. She turned slowly and her expression was unreadable.
"You won’t touch her," she continued, each syllable was final. A verdict. "You won’t look at her or even think of her name."
Joshua opened his mouth to argue, to threaten, to bargain—Keres would never know. She didn’t give him the chance.
The shot rang out, clean and sharp. A single hole appeared in Joshua’s forehead, perfectly centered. His eyes went blank instantly, the life leaving them before his body had time to register the trauma.
He slumped backward, skull cracking against the marble with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Keres didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Blood had sprayed across her cheek, a fine mist of it, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. She stood there for a moment, watching the light fade from his eyes, ensuring he was truly gone.
"Sandro," she said, not looking away from the corpse. "Clean this garbage up. Make sure it’s disposed of properly—no traces, no loose ends. I don’t want him found, ever."
"Yes, boss." Sandro’s voice was gravel and respectful. He gestured, and two men stepped forward to begin the work of making a body disappear.
Keres finally turned away. She approached Asteria, her boots clicking against the floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous hallway.
From above, Asteria looked even smaller—fragile, broken, a bird with clipped wings. Something twisted in Keres’ chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome again.
She sighed, the sound barely audible, and crouched down. Her hand hovered over Asteria’s shoulder but she hesitated. Physical touch had never been her preference—too vulnerable, too intimate, too many opportunities for a blade in the ribs. But Asteria had saved her life. And Asteria was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.
Keres made contact. Her fingers curved around Asteria’s shoulder, feeling the sharp bone beneath thin silk and thinner skin.
"Hey," she said, and was startled by the softness in her own voice. She cleared her throat and tried again. "He’s gone. Open your eyes."
Asteria didn’t respond. She was deep inside herself, curled tight, her breathing ragged and wet. Keres could hear the panic in it—the way each inhale hitched, the way her ribs expanded too fast and shallow.
"Fuck," Keres muttered. She shrugged out of her long coat—the heavy wool that cost a fortune—draped over Asteria’s shoulders.
At first, Asteria flinched violently, a full-body recoil as if expecting a blow. But then the warmth registered, the weight of it, the faint scent of Keres’ cologne and gunpowder enveloping her. She lifted her head, blinking slowly, her eyes focusing with obvious effort.
Keres didn’t wait for permission. She slid one arm beneath Asteria’s knees, the other supporting her back, and lifted. Asteria felt impossibly light—too light, as if she were made of paper and glass rather than flesh and bone. Keres frowned, adjusting her grip, pulling the girl closer to her chest.
What happened to you? she wanted to ask. What did they do?
"Can you hear me? Can you tell me what he did to you?" Keres asked instead, her voice low.
Asteria’s head lolled against Keres’ shoulder, her breath hot through the fabric of Keres’ shirt. "Uhm... I... I don’t know." Her words slurred together, thick and clumsy. "I think... H-He... He drugged me."
Keres’ jaw tightened. She began walking, carrying Asteria away from the scene, away from the blood, the body, and the stench of violence.
She turned down to the secondary corridor—less grand, more utilitarian—heading toward the underground wing where the VIP suites were kept.
"Please," Asteria whispered, her fingers curling into Keres’ lapel. "Don’t hurt me."
The plea struck Keres like a physical blow. She didn’t answer—couldn’t trust her voice—but she adjusted her hold, cradling Asteria closer.
Asteria suddenly close her eyes shut and whimper, "I... I’m so dizzy..." She said, her breathing was still shallow, "can we please go to the bathroom?"
Keres still didn’t respond and just walk until they reached the bathroom—a lavish marble walls and gold fixtures, the kind of excess that characterized this particular establishment.
Keres shouldered through the door and kicked open the nearest vacant stall. She set Asteria down with more gentleness than she’d thought herself capable of, supporting her as the girl swayed on unsteady feet.
Asteria immediately bent over the toilet, her body convulsing. The sound of her retching was violent, painful—her whole frame tensing as her body tried to purge whatever poison Joshua had forced on her. Keres knelt beside her, ignoring the indignity of it, the way her expensive trousers pressed against the tile floor.
She reached into her pocket and produced a simple black hair tie—always kept there for practical reasons, though she’d never admit to the habit.
With one hand, she gathered Asteria’s hair, the strands fine, silken, and tangled with sweat. She pulled it back from her face and secured it in a messy ponytail, the gesture strangely intimate.
"Are you okay?" Keres asked, knowing it was a stupid question as she said it. "Can you walk?"
Asteria nodded weakly, using the toilet stall’s wall to push herself upright. She reached for Keres’ arm and used it as an anchor to steady herself.
Keres looked down at where Asteria’s hand wrapped around her forearm. The touch should have irritated her—should have made her want to shake it off, to reclaim her space. But she didn’t. She let the girl hold on, let her find her balance.
"Get up properly," Keres commanded, her tone shifting back to authority. She stood, brushing off her knees, and turned to leave the stall. "Follow me."
She walked out of the bathroom, expecting Asteria to trail behind like a lost puppy. She waited in the hallway, arms crossed, counting the seconds.
The sound came from behind her—a soft cry, a stumble.
"Wait—!" Asteria called out.
Keres turned, ready to snap, ready to tell her to hurry up or be left behind. But she didn’t get the chance.
Asteria moved with sudden, desperate speed. She crossed the distance between them in staggering steps, her hands reaching out, and then her mouth was on Keres’—hot, clumsy, and insistent.
The world stopped.
Keres’ eyes went wide, her body going rigid with shock. She had not expected this—had not prepared for the softness of Asteria’s lips, the desperation in the kiss, the way the girl leaned her full weight against Keres as if she were the only solid thing in this dissolving world.
For a heartbeat, Keres didn’t move. She stood frozen, Asteria’s hands clutch at her shoulders, the kiss messy and uncoordinated and somehow devastating in its vulnerability.
Then instinct took over.
Keres leaned into it, her arm snaking around Asteria’s waist and pulling her flush against her body. She felt the girl gasp against her mouth, felt the moment of surprise before Asteria melted into it—yielding, opening, surrendering.
The kiss deepened. Keres parted Asteria’s lips with her tongue, tasting her—the alcohol and fear and something uniquely Asteria, something sweet beneath the bitterness of the drugs.
She explored thoroughly, aggressively, not holding back. Asteria met her with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in Keres’ hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, their faces flushed. A thin strand of saliva connected their lips—obscene, intimate—and Keres watched Asteria’s eyes flutter open, dark and dazed and devastatingly beautiful.
Asteria’s arms wrapped around Keres’ neck, holding on as if she might drown if she let go. "Can you..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "Can you make me forget? Everything that happened tonight—can you make it go away?"
She pulled back just enough to meet Keres’ gaze, and Keres saw the tears gathering there, the redness, the desperation.
"Can I please," Asteria continued, each word a struggle, "just this once... choose who touches me? Please?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Keres looked at her—really looked at her—and felt something shift in her chest.
Not disgust. Not the annoyance she usually felt at displays of weakness. Something else. Something dangerous.
Pity, perhaps. Or protectiveness. Or desire so sharp it felt like anger.
She reached up and gently wiped away the tear that had escaped, tracking its path down Asteria’s cheek with her thumb. The skin was soft, fever-warm.
Keres didn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself to.
Instead, she moved. She turned her, pressing Asteria’s back against the wall—trapping her there with her body, caging her in with arms on either side.
Asteria’s breath hitched, but she didn’t try to escape. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat, her eyes falling shut.
Keres kissed her again—harder this time—and then moved to her neck. She found the pulse point, felt the fast heartbeat against her neck and sucked it.
Marking. Possessing.
Asteria moaned, the sound muffled as she covered her own mouth with her hand. Her other hand found purchase on Keres’ back, fingers digging in, holding on for dear life.
They didn’t see the figure in the corner. Didn’t notice the soft click of a camera shutter, the flash disabled, the lens peeking out from behind a decorative pillar.
The photographer smiled behind their mask—a professional, hired by unknown parties—snapped another shot as Keres lifted Asteria’s left thigh, resting it against her hip, opening her up completely.
"Please," Asteria gasped, her head falling back against the wall. "Please, please—"
"I’ll move you to my room," Keres growled against her collarbone. She pulled back, her eyes dark with intent, and scoop Asteria up again.
Asteria buried her face in Keres’ neck, her breath hot and uneven.
"Don’t blame me later," Keres warned, her voice rough with restraint, a smirk playing at her lips despite the gravity of the moment. "If you can’t walk tomorrow or if your body aches."
She carried Asteria down the hallway, away from the bathroom. She reached a vacant VIP room—reserved for her exclusive use—and kicked the door open. The room beyond was dim, luxurious, the bed massive and inviting.
Keres stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind them. The lock clicked with finality.
"Be prepared, because I will surely make you have a taste of pleasure with pain" she whispered against Asteria’s ear, and the girl shivered in her arms—not from fear, not anymore, but from anticipation.
Outside, in the hallway, the photographer checked their camera, smiled at the images captured, and walk away into the shadows.
