Chapter 2: The Widow's Trap
Perspective: Detective Jack Vance
I arrived in the village of Oakhaven just as the last of the daylight was bleeding out of the sky. It was a picturesque little trap—thatched roofs, cobbled streets, and a silence that felt heavy, like a held breath.
I parked my beat-up sedan down the road from the only pub in town: The Silent Fox.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror before I got out. I looked like what I was—a man who had seen too much and slept too little. Mid-forties, with a face mapped by hard years and bad decisions. My dark hair was greying at the temples, and my eyes, usually a sharp steel-grey, were bloodshot. I tightened my trench coat, hiding the revolver at my hip, and stepped into the rain.
The pub was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and stale beer. It was empty, except for the woman behind the bar.
She was stunning in a way that didn't belong in a sleepy village. Late thirties, with raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders and a body that curved in all the dangerous places. She wore a tight black blouse that strained against her chest, the top buttons undone to reveal a expanse of pale, inviting skin.
"We’re closing," she said, not looking up from the glass she was polishing. Her voice was like honey poured over gravel—smooth, sweet, and rough at the edges.
"Just looking for a room," I said, leaning on the bar. "And a drink."
She looked up then. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, and predatory. She scanned me, lingering on my mouth, then my hands, then the way my coat hung over my hip. She knew exactly what I was.
"I’m Elena," she said, pouring a whiskey without me asking. "And we don't get strangers here, Mr...?"
"Vance," I lied. "Jack Vance."
"Well, Jack," she smiled, sliding the glass across the mahogany. "You look like a man who needs more than just a drink."
She walked around the bar. She moved with a slow, deliberate sway, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was designed to entice. She stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—jasmine and musk.
"I’m looking for some people," I said, trying to keep my focus. "A couple. Ian and Sofia. Maybe a woman named Carol."
Elena’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room shifted. It got hotter.
"Curiosity is a dangerous vice in this town, Jack," she whispered.
She reached out and ran a fingernail down the front of my shirt, popping the top button. Her touch was electric. It sent a jolt straight to my groin.
"Forget about them," she purred, stepping into my personal space. Her thighs brushed against mine. "The rain is cold outside. Why don't you let me warm you up?"
I should have pushed her away. I should have asked more questions. But the grief and the whiskey had hollowed me out, and she was offering to fill the void.
"Is that a frantic offer?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
"It’s a demand," she murmured.
She grabbed my lapels and pulled me down. Her mouth crashed onto mine—hot, wet, and hungry. She tasted of scotch and sin. It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was a devouring. Her tongue swept into my mouth, tangling with mine, demanding a response.
I groaned, my resistance shattering. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She felt incredible—soft curves and firm muscle. I slid my hands down to her hips, gripping her tightly, pulling her into the cradle of my thighs so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me.
She broke the kiss, gasping, her eyes dilated and dark with lust.
"Come with me," she commanded, grabbing my hand.
She led me into the back room. It was dimly lit, dominated by a leather sofa and the glow of a dying fire. She didn't hesitate. She pushed me down onto the leather, straddling my lap instantly.
The friction was maddening. Her skirt rode up, her heat searing through the fabric of my trousers. She ground down on me, a slow, circular motion that made my vision blur.
"You like that, don't you, detective?" she whispered against my neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my throat.
"Yes," I rasped, my hands roaming over her body, exploring the curves of her back, the swell of her chest.
She sat up, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes were locked on mine as her hands went to the buttons of her blouse.
"Then watch," she said.
Slowly, agonizingly, she undid the buttons. The fabric parted. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts spilled out, pale and perfect in the firelight, nipples hard and aching for attention.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The sight of her, so open and wanton, was intoxicating.
She took my hands and placed them on her skin. She was burning up.
"Make me forget," she begged, leaning back and arching her spine, offering herself to me. "Make me forget this town."
I buried my face in her neck, losing myself in the scent and taste of her. For a moment, there was no case. No missing persons. No Legacy Estate. There was only the fire, the whiskey, and the desperate, sweating heat of our bodies moving together in the dark.
But as I kissed my way down her chest, my hand brushed against something cold and hard nestled between her breasts, hanging on a thin silver chain.
I froze.
I pulled back slightly, my breath hitching.
It was a small, silver pendant. Shaped like a collar.
And engraved on the metal were two letters: V.L.
Vices Ltd.
The heat in my blood turned to ice. She wasn't just a lonely widow. She was branded. She belonged to them.
I looked up into her eyes. The lust was still there, but behind it, I saw something else. A flicker of triumph. She wasn't sleeping with me. She was stalling me.
"Jack?" she whispered, sensing the change. "Don't stop."
I grabbed her wrists, stopping her hands from undoing my belt.
"Vices Limited," I said, my voice cold.
Elena’s face fell. The seductress mask slipped, revealing the terrified, trapped woman underneath.
"You shouldn't have come here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "They know you're here, Jack. I was just supposed to keep you busy until the car arrived."
Headlights swept across the frosted window of the back room. A heavy engine growled outside.
The trap had sprung.
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