The Taste of Guilt
The building stood tall and immaculate in the heart of the city, its reflective glass catching the last glow of the sun as it sank below the skyline. Inside, silence reigned. The corridors were wrapped in velvet stillness, save for the sound of red-soled heels clicking against polished marble.
Lila had never been in a place like this before.
She was used to struggling. Her beauty had opened doors, but none as extravagant or as mysterious as this one. When she was approached earlier that week by a woman named Celeste—sharp-eyed, well-dressed, and speaking in carefully chosen words—she didn't immediately believe what she was hearing.
"You will be compensated handsomely," Celeste had said, sliding a gold-trimmed card across the café table. "Seven days. Discretion. No attachments. You will be safe, fed, and housed. And your bank account will be smiling when it's over."
Lila had laughed. "You want me to be a sex worker?"
Celeste's lips twitched. "We prefer the term companion under contract. You will be paired with one man. You are not to kiss him. You are not to initiate touch. Do not look directly into his eyes unless told. Do not ask questions. And above all… never fall in love with him. That is not a suggestion. It is a rule."
"Why? What happens if I do?"
"You won't survive it."
It sounded like a joke then. A rich man with boundaries. She was no stranger to powerful men who thought they owned the world. And if all she had to do was follow the rules and keep her mouth shut for a week, then maybe she could finally escape the debt choking her.
So she said yes.
Now, as she stepped into the penthouse suite, she wondered if she had made the gravest mistake of her life.
The room smelled of danger and wealth. Dark woods, candlelight, and that haunting fragrance of something ancient. She saw him then—standing near the window, shirtless, his silhouette framed by the last golden hue of dusk.
Azrael.
He turned slowly. And the moment her eyes met his, something inside her stopped breathing.
He was tall, muscular, with skin like carved marble and eyes like shadows. His jaw was sharp, his lips full and unsmiling. He didn't look like a man—he looked like a god wrapped in midnight.
He didn't speak.
Celeste handed her the contract.
Seven days.
The terms were clearly printed:
1. No kissing.
2. No touching unless granted.
3. No staring.
4. No personal questions.
5. No emotional involvement.
6. Do not fall in love.
The warnings were bold, the consequences unclear.
"Sign," Celeste said.
Lila picked up the pen. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her pride wouldn't let her back down. She was broke, desperate, and curious.
She signed.
---
The first night passed in strange silence.
Azrael didn't speak. He didn't beckon her. He simply walked into the bedroom after her, removed his robe, and climbed into the bed.
She watched him—his sculpted chest, his quiet restraint. Then she followed his unspoken command.
He took her slowly at first. No words. No warmth. His hands were steady, roaming her body like he was reading her skin. His lips never touched hers. He entered her with a quiet groan, holding her thighs open with effortless strength. She moaned, gripping the sheets, her body arching as he filled her completely.
He moved with brutal grace—every thrust controlled, timed, silent.
She reached for his shoulder, and he gripped her wrist tightly, pinning it down without saying a word. The message was clear.
Don't touch me.
She nodded, breathless, overwhelmed.
He finished without a sound, pulling away, leaving her aching in a silence heavier than any she'd known.
---
The second night, he arrived at the same hour.
This time, he turned her around the moment she stepped into the room, bending her over the edge of the bed without warning. She gasped as his hands slid over her waist, parting her legs, his breath hot against her neck.
He entered her hard, fast, a low growl escaping his throat. She cried out, clutching the blanket, pleasure and pain blooming at once.
He gripped her hips, thrusting into her mercilessly, his pace furious, unrelenting. Her knees weakened, her voice a tangle of breath and moans.
Still—no kissing. No words. No eye contact.
When he finished, he disappeared into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him.
She lay there, shaking, stunned.
Something in her chest fluttered.
---
By the third night, she had memorized his patterns.
He never said a word. Never touched her unless it was part of the act. He always left immediately after. But still, her body began to crave him. Not just the pleasure, but the way he made her feel—small, powerless, completely consumed.
She wanted more. Not more money. Not more sex.
Him.
That night, he tied her wrists to the bedpost with silk. She didn't resist. Her legs were spread wide. He stared at her for a long time before finally lowering himself between her thighs.
She gasped when he touched her with his fingers, slow and knowing, until she trembled.
He didn't kiss her. But his mouth explored the rest of her—her chest, her throat, the underside of her breasts.
She moaned his name. He didn't flinch.
Then he entered her in one sharp thrust, her body stretching to take him in. Her cries filled the room, his hands holding her hips still as he moved, powerful and precise.
Her pleasure shattered her.
And yet, when it was over, he walked away as if she meant nothing.
---
The fourth day arrived with a sky draped in thick, grey clouds and the air tense with the scent of rain. The penthouse remained as still as ever, but something inside Azrael had begun to shift. He hadn't touched another soul since that night—since the third encounter ended prematurely, violently, confusingly.
He hadn't meant to think of Isabella.
It just happened.
It had come uninvited—her image, her scent, the echo of her voice in his head. Mid-thrust, it had pierced through the walls he had so meticulously built, and suddenly he'd seen her face where Lila's had been. Not with lust. Not with heat. But with softness, innocence… something dangerously close to care.
It had rattled him.
And now, on the fourth evening, Lila stood outside the bedroom door, freshly bathed, wrapped in a robe provided by the housemaid. Her eyes were nervous, lips painted with the faintest pink, and beneath the surface of her poise was the silent plea for his acceptance. She had not been dismissed officially. Not yet. And so she waited. Hopeful. Cautious.
Azrael stood by the window, a glass of something dark in his hand. He didn't look at her.
"You may enter," he said finally, voice cold, distant.
Lila stepped in slowly.
The bedroom was dimly lit, the scent of sandalwood and wine curling in the air. She undid her robe, letting it fall, revealing herself to him with the grace of someone trying not to look too eager.
He turned only partially toward her, his eyes falling over her body like the gaze of a sculpture—appreciative, detached.
He moved forward, undressing himself without flair, without desire. His robe hit the floor, revealing the tight muscle and smooth skin of his chiseled form. He looked like carved stone beneath the faint glow of the chandeliers.
He came to her without a word, guiding her to the bed, laying her down with the efficiency of routine.
He didn't kiss her.
He didn't whisper.
He entered her.
But his rhythm was different tonight. Not the commanding, unshakable force he had been each night before. Tonight, something was fractured beneath his touch. His pace was steady, his body perfectly in control—but his mind wasn't present.
Because Isabella was.
The moment he closed his eyes, it wasn't Lila beneath him. It was Isabella. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her eyes fixed on his face with innocent curiosity. Her lips slightly parted—not in invitation, but in soft surprise, like the first time he had watched her walk into the hospital's cold corridors.
He could feel her breath in his lungs.
Her presence in his chest.
Her name just at the edge of his tongue.
He snapped his eyes open.
Lila moaned beneath him, her body arching, her hands gripping the sheets. She tried to reach for his shoulder, but he pulled away abruptly—too abruptly. His breathing was no longer steady. His chest rose and fell with something heavy, something violent.
"Stop," he muttered.
Lila blinked up at him, dazed. "What?"
He stood, his body glistening with sweat, muscles tensed as if ready to strike.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice a quiet command. "Leave."
She sat up, confusion written all over her flushed face. "Azrael—"
He turned on her sharply. "Don't say my name."
She flinched.
He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
Lila pulled her robe around her. "I—I didn't break any rules."
He didn't respond.
Because she hadn't.
He had.
He had let someone in. Even if it was just a thought, a flicker of memory—it was enough to unbalance the rigid fortress he'd built around himself. It was enough to make him feel. And Azrael didn't feel.
He couldn't afford to.
Lila stood for a long moment, watching him. Her pride warred with her desperation. But she said nothing. She walked out slowly, quietly, leaving behind the tension and the silence and the man who had become an enigma too cruel to reach.
He stayed there, unmoving, the scent of her skin still clinging to the air.
And yet all he could think of… was Isabella.
The weight of it hit him, not in a burst—but in waves. The memory of her voice. The way her hands moved when she spoke. The way she smiled when she thought no one was watching. It wasn't supposed to matter. She was just a nurse. A human. Someone beneath the legacy of his bloodline.
But she haunted him.
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, but didn't step in. Instead, he gripped the edge of the marble sink, his knuckles pale, his reflection foreign.
What was this feeling?
Was this guilt?
He'd known pleasure. He'd known power. But guilt? That was a stranger. And now it sat in his chest like a dagger.
He'd had companions before—dozens. All nameless, all forgotten. So why did this one feel like betrayal? Why did the thought of Isabella looking at him with disappointment twist something deep in his stomach?
He hadn't kissed Lila. Hadn't broken the rules.
But he had broken something else.
The sharp ring of his phone cut through the steam-laced air.
He stared at the screen.
His father.
Azrael exhaled slowly and answered.
"Yes," he said, voice low.
"Azrael," came the cold, steel tone of the patriarch. "It's time. We need to speak. Immediately."
Azrael didn't move.
"I'll be there shortly."
He ended the call, let the phone fall to the counter, and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the cool mirror.
The reflection staring back at him didn't look like a man who had just dismissed a woman from his bed.
He looked like a man who had just made a mistake.
A dangerous one.
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