Best Friends With Benefits by Belle at Inkitt

Chapter 1

The cold, damp air of the basement dungeon clung to my skin like a second layer. Every breath carried the metallic tang of fresh blood, mixed with rust, mildew, and decay. The coppery scent coated the back of my throat, threatening to make my stomach churn.

I hated it.

But my face betrayed nothing.

I sat comfortably in the heavy steel chair, one leg crossed over the other, as though I were attending a business meeting instead of an execution. The dim overhead bulb flickered every few seconds, throwing restless shadows across the blood-spattered concrete floor. My own shadow stretched behind me like a silent predator waiting to strike.

Black leather gloves covered my hands completely—a necessary barrier between me and a world that constantly felt contaminated. They weren't just for appearances. I couldn't stand unnecessary contact. Blood, sweat, skin... all of it made my nerves crawl.

Between my fingers, a polished silver knife spun effortlessly, years of practice making the dangerous motion almost hypnotic. Each rotation caught the weak light before disappearing into darkness again. Crimson stains still clung to its razor-sharp edge, refusing to be wiped clean.

In front of me sat Luca.

Or what was left of him.

His wrists were bound so tightly to the wooden chair that the ropes had torn through his skin. His face was swollen beyond recognition, one eye nearly shut, dried blood crusting over split lips and broken brows. Every ragged breath rattled painfully in his chest. Sweat, blood, and fear soaked through his clothes, dripping onto the concrete beneath him.

Around us, my men stood like statues against the walls. Silent. Motionless.

The only sounds were Luca's uneven breathing... the slow drip of blood hitting the floor... and the quiet scrape of my knife spinning between my fingers.

My gaze lifted to meet his.

Cold.

Empty.

Completely devoid of mercy.

I lost the emotion way before.

"So..." I murmured, my voice calm. "Did you honestly believe you could sell my secrets to my enemies... and I'd never find out, Luca?"

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"Tsk... tsk..."

I rose from my chair with slow, deliberate steps. Every footstep echoed through the basement, making him flinch before I had even reached him.

I stopped inches away.

"This is your last chance."

My voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"Give me a name."

"Or you're already dead."

Luca's lips trembled. His breathing quickened. He opened his mouth...

...and said nothing.

Disappointing.

I sighed quietly before lifting the knife. Instead of cutting immediately, I pressed the flat of the cold steel against his bruised cheek.

He froze.

Slowly...

Painfully slowly...

I dragged the razor-sharp tip downward.

The blade sliced through skin with almost no resistance.

A thin crimson line appeared before splitting open completely.

Blood spilled down his face.

Luca's body jerked violently against the ropes as a strangled scream escaped his throat. His desperate cries echoed through the basement, but none of my men reacted.

Neither did I.

Behind my emotionless expression, however, a vicious migraine pounded against my skull.

God...

This bastard still isn't talking.

My jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

I'm so fucking tired of traitors.

The smell of blood was becoming unbearable now, wrapping itself around me until it felt impossible to breathe. Every instinct screamed at me to leave—to scrub my hands until my skin burned, to wash away every trace of this place.

I wanted a shower.

Fresh clothes.

Silence.

Instead...

I looked into Luca's eyes one final time.

There was no fear left.

Only stubborn acceptance.

No regret.

No confession.

No names.

He had become completely useless.

Without another word, I wiped the blade across my leather glove, watching the blood smear against the black surface.

Then, with one swiftt...

I ended it.

The knife moved so quickly it barely made a sound.

For a single heartbeat, everything stood still.

Then Luca's body went limp against the ropes, his head falling forward as blood slowly pooled beneath the chair.

Silence reclaimed the room.

I stared at the corpse for only a second before turning away, utterly indifferent.

The knife landed on a nearby metal tray with a sharp metallic clang.

"Clean up this mess."

My voice remained flat, almost bored.

They simply moved, and started cleaning the mess.

I walked toward the heavy iron door without looking back.

The moment it opened, I inhaled deeply, desperate for air that didn't taste like blood... desperate to escape the suffocating scent of death that seemed determined to follow me everywhere.

The black sports car sliced through the deserted city streets like a shadow. Streetlights flashed across the windshield in brief streaks of gold before disappearing into the darkness behind me.

Inside the silent cabin, the only sound was my breathing.

Heavy.

Uneven.

Every inhale scraped painfully against my lungs as if the air itself had turned to glass. My chest felt unbearably tight, and my skin crawled beneath my clothes with the lingering phantom sensation of blood, sweat, and decay. It was as though the dungeon still clung to me, refusing to let go.

I hated it.

My gloved hands tightened around the leather steering wheel until the expensive material groaned beneath my grip. Even through the leather, I could still feel it—the memory of the blood coating on my skin, the coppery scent lingering in my nose.

The migraine behind my eyes only worsened.

I rolled my shoulders in a futile attempt to ease the unbearable tension knotting every muscle in my body.

It didn't help.

Nothing ever did.

Except...

Her.

The thought came uninvited, and my grip loosened just enough for me to take another steady breath.

A few minutes later, the towering iron gates of the estate slid open without hesitation. The mansion stood in complete silence beneath the pale glow of the moon, its countless windows dark after the long evening of celebrations.

I parked without bothering to admire the expensive machine beneath me.

The moment the engine died, I was already moving.

The front door opened with barely a sound.

The house was still.

Silent.

Peaceful.

A stark contrast to the hell I had just walked out of.

Ignoring the grand staircase, the priceless artwork lining the walls, and the faint scent of fresh flowers drifting through the corridors, I headed straight for my room.

The bathroom lights illuminated polished marble and spotless glass.

Too clean.

With impatient movements, I stripped off my bloodstained clothes, letting them fall into a careless heap on the floor before stepping beneath the rainfall shower.

I twisted the handle as far as it would go.

Scalding water crashed over me.

I grabbed the soap and scrubbed at my skin with force.

Again.

And again.

My arms.

My neck.

My hands.

My chest.

My fingers dug so hard against my skin that angry red marks bloomed beneath them.

Still, it wasn't enough.

I could still smell the blood.

Still feel the filth.

The water swirling around my feet disappeared down the drain, carrying away invisible ghosts that only existed inside my own head.

Several long minutes passed before my breathing finally steadied.

Only then did I shut the water off.

I grabbed my fresh clothes..

A loose white shirt.

Dark trousers.

Simple.

Comfortable.

I ran a towel through my damp black hair once before abandoning the effort altogether, allowing the strands to fall carelessly over my forehead.

For a brief moment, I stood in the quiet bedroom.

I should have gone to sleep.

I didn't.

Sleep never came easily to me.

Without thinking, my feet carried me back into the dimly lit hallway.

The thick carpet muffled every step as I walked past my own bedroom door and continued farther down the corridor.

Three rooms away.

She was there.

Our families had gathered at the estate for my parents' anniversary celebration, filling the mansion with guests and laughter for the evening.

Which meant...

She was under my roof.

Safe.

Exactly where she belonged.

I reached her door and rested my hand against the polished handle for a brief second before quietly pushing it open.

The room welcomed me with silence.

Soft silver moonlight spilled through the sheer curtains, painting gentle patterns across the wooden floor.

The only sound was the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.

I closed the door behind me without making a sound.

Then I walked toward the bed.

There she was.

Fast asleep.

Curled beneath the blankets in an oversized nightshirt and soft shorts, one arm tucked beneath her cheek.

A few loose strands of hair framed her peaceful face, rising and falling with every quiet breath she took.

She looked...

Warm.

So painfully innocent that, for the first time since stepping into that dungeon hours ago, something inside my chest finally began to loosen.

The constant tension in my shoulders eased.

The pounding in my skull dulled.

I’m a man, who couldn't tolerate another person's touch without feeling like his own skin was suffocating him.

But she...

She was the only exception my broken mind had ever allowed, and i fucking hate her for it.

The only person whose touch didn't make me want to tear my own skin off.

Carefully, I slipped onto the mattress beside her, moving slowly enough that the bed barely shifted beneath my weight. Even if i made noise she’s not going to wake up. God how can someone sleep like that.

For a moment, I simply watched her sleep.

Peacefully unaware of the storm raging inside me.

Then, unable to resist any longer, I reached out.

My arm slid gently around her waist, pulling her against me until her small body rested flush against my chest.

She stirred softly. So she’s alive.

A sleepy little sigh escaped her lips.

I buried my face in the warm curve of her neck and breathed her in.

Lavender.

Vanilla.

And something that was simply...

Her.

The familiar scent wrapped around my senses like a quiet sanctuary.