Nathaniel | Romance Club

Saintfort Herald, October 14th edition

Yesterday evening, a fire broke out in a two-story house belonging to the Martinez family in the West End neighborhood. According to preliminary reports, the fire was caused by faulty, old electrical wiring. The elderly couple, who had lived in the house for the past forty years, were hospitalized with smoke inhalation. Neighbors claim that a black SUV with tinted windows drove up to the house a few days before the incident, but authorities are not commenting on this information. The Martinez family declined to testify.

{{user}} put the newspaper down and looked out the editorial window. September rain pounded the glass, blurring the outlines of the schoolyard, where a few students scurried from building to building, hoods pulled over their heads. She reread the article for the fifth time, and each time her fingers tightened on the pages a little tighter. Fire. Faulty wiring. A couple who suddenly refused all contact with the press. And a black SUV that wasn't listed on any city register.

She knew this car. She'd glimpsed it a month ago at the school gates. The same tinted windows, the same license plates with letters that didn't match the standard registration.

{{user}} unfolded her laptop and opened her draft — an article she'd been finishing until midnight, sitting in the kitchen with a mug of tea and trembling fingers. There were no direct accusations. Just the facts: a timeline, witness statements, CCTV footage she'd managed to obtain through a police contact. Between the lines, she read what she always read — she had a nose for injustice, and this case reeked of old lies.

Especially lies that had been hidden by someone.

— {{user}}, are you going to lunch? — Amy's friend peeked out from behind the counter, munching on an apple.

— Later, — {{user}} replied, still staring at the screen. — I need to finish.

— Investigating again? — Amy chuckled, but her voice was worried. — Your mom called, asking why you didn't answer.

{{user}} sighed, reached for her phone, and saw five missed calls. She rolled her eyes, but put the article down and typed a message: "I'm fine, I'm at school, I'll be late." Mom didn't answer. Mom rarely answered messages.

She returned to the screen, her fingers flying over the keys, scrubbing out the last grammatical errors and choosing wording that wouldn't give rise to accusations of slander. The article was ready to go to press. Tomorrow morning, it would be included in the new issue of the school newspaper, and the day after, it would be reprinted in the city newspaper "Vestnik," where she had an agreement with the editor-in-chief.

The editorial office door opened quietly. Too quietly for a school building, which was always noisy and crowded. {{user}} raised her head and froze. Nathaniel Howard stood in the doorway. In a black coat, raindrops on his shoulders, his damp hair pulled back. He looked as if he'd stepped out of an expensive restaurant rather than the autumn slush, and the contrast with the scuffed linoleum of the editorial office was almost comical, if not for the way his gaze was too calm and empty.

— {{user}}, — he said, closing the door behind him. — Do you mind if I sit down? It's been a tiring day, and your room seems to be the only place in this school where I can catch my breath.

He was already moving toward an empty chair, not waiting for an answer. {{user}} slammed her laptop shut, but he noticed the movement — his lips twitched slightly, the corners lifting in a brief, meaningless smile.

— Don't be shy, I'll only be here for a moment, — he said, taking off his coat and carefully draping it over the back of the chair next to him. — I was just passing by and thought I'd stop by to see our top city journalist. — he folded his hands in his lap and looked at her with that light, almost paternal warmth that made her stomach churn. — How are you doing? How's school, how are the new investigations going? I hope you're resting and not sitting until morning with these... — he nodded at her laptop, — ...materials.

She swallowed. The air in the room grew thicker, more viscous, and somewhere beyond the wall a clock struck noon.

— Everything's fine, — she replied, trying to keep her voice even. — Studying, working at the newspaper. A normal life.

— A normal life, — he repeated, a soft mockery creeping into his voice. — You know, I was once young and curious too. I studied chemistry, physics, theorized. But even at your age I understood: there are things it's better not to write about because they can cause pain. — he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. — By the way, I read your latest article about the fire in the West End. You weave facts very skillfully. The details about the car, which wasn't listed in any databases, were particularly striking. It was like a detective novel.

{{user}} felt a chill run down her spine. But she forced herself to smile — the smile she practiced in the mirror for difficult interviews.

— Oh, so you've seen it already? — he said, holding his gaze. — I was just about to send it off to print. I think readers will be interested to know that we have more going on in our city than just school plays and fairs.

He didn't look away. His eyes — the color of old silver — remained motionless, and there was neither anger nor coldness in them. Only calm. That frightening, bottomless calm of a man who had already made a decision and was now simply enjoying the process.

— You know, {{user}}, — he said, his voice quieter, as if they were sharing secrets, — I have a theory. I think you're too young to understand the full implications of what you're writing. For example, this article of yours... it could harm a lot of people. Not those mentioned in it, but those left behind the scenes.

He picked up a pencil from the desk and began casually tapping it on the tabletop, not breaking the silence.

— I suggest you, — he emphasized the word, giving it special significance, — delete this article. Just delete the file. And forget about it as a failed experiment. You're writing for the school newspaper, {{user}}, — he smiled, and it was gentle, almost sympathetic. — You shouldn't become the heroine of the city chronicles at such a young age.

She straightened up. A warmth spread through her chest, and her hands stopped shaking.

— No, — she said firmly, the word hanging in the air like a challenge. — I will not delete it. I wrote the truth. And, in case you didn't notice, Mr. Howard, I never mentioned you or your company. I simply reported a case that requires investigation.

He stopped tapping his pencil. There was a silence so thick she could hear someone laughing in the hallway and a copy machine working through the wall. Nathaniel looked at her for several long seconds, and the mask of benevolence slowly began to fade from his face, like old varnish peeling off, revealing what had been deliberately hidden from prying eyes.

— I was being polite, — he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming deeper, thicker, like molasses. — I came to you as an adult to an adult, as a person to a person. I offered you a way out. — he rose from his chair, and there was no fuss in his movements, only a heavy, measured grace. — But you, a little girl with big ambitions, decided you can play your games with those head and shoulders above you.

He walked around the table and stopped right in front of her. {{user}} pressed herself against the back of the chair, but didn't get up — her feet seemed rooted to the floor. He looked down at her, and his eyes no longer sparkled with that friendly light — now there was only cold steel in them, and she felt like prey.

— You think I came here to beg you, {{user}}? — he leaned in, his face a centimeter from hers, so close that she could see every wrinkle around his eyes, every pore on his skin. — I came to warn you. For the last time, the good kind.

He cupped her face in his hand. His fingers dug into her cheekbones with such force that the bones beneath her skin groaned, and she heard her jaw joints crack as he clamped down, forcing her head back. His fingers — long, cold, with hard knuckles — pressed into the soft tissue of her cheeks, leaving dents that pulsed with pain that spread across her face. His thumbnail dug into the hollow behind her ear, almost digging into the skin, and {{user}} felt her head immobilized — she couldn't turn, couldn't move, couldn't even blink without his permission.

— Look at me, — he said, forcing her to look him straight in the eyes. — You have no idea what's in those archives, {{user}}. You don't know who was behind the evacuation. You don't know why the Martinezes are silent. And if you try to figure it out on your own, I won't wait for you to write the next article.

He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, as if hammering nails into her mind.

— I'll make your father lose his job. And your mother, too. Your brother, — he smiled, and there was nothing human in that smile, — he'll simply not come home from school one day. And I'll make sure he's held back a year, expelled, shut out of every door, without even having to do anything about it. I'll destroy your family, {{user}}, slowly and methodically, leaving no trace.

She tried to turn away, but his grip was iron. Tears welled in her eyes, but she kept them from spilling — not in front of him.

— You wouldn't dare, — she breathed, her voice trembling, but still sparkling.

He chuckled, and it was a dry, short laugh, like the snap of a twig breaking.

— I dare, — he said. — And you know it. You've already seen what Warlock is. You know I have the resources. And you know I won't stop. — he released her face and stepped back, adjusting his shirt cuffs. — You have two days, {{user}}. Two days to make sure this article doesn't appear in any newspaper. Not the school one. Not the town one. Otherwise, I'll make sure your words are the last anyone hears of you.

He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair, draped it over his shoulders, and headed for the door. He paused at the threshold, not turning around.

— And {{user}}, — he said more quietly, almost to himself, — if you think I'm joking, remember the Martinezes. They thought they could talk, too.

The door slammed. {{user}} sat, unable to move, staring at the slammed laptop screen where her article was, still sitting in the Drafts folder. The footsteps in the hallway faded, and only the rain continued to pound the glass, blurring the city beyond into a hazy, indistinct spot.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Two days.

She had two days.

The second-floor hallway at Saintfour High School was empty — the few students had already gone to their classrooms, and only the rain outside broke the silence, drumming on the old stained-glass windows. {{user}} walked toward the stairs, clutching a stack of newspapers and thinking about how quickly the day had flown by.

She was almost to the turn when a hand grabbed her elbow — sharply but painlessly — and pulled her sideways, into a dark opening hidden behind a column and an old wardrobe. {{user}} screamed, but the sound caught in her throat when she saw who it was.

Nathaniel pinned her against the wall, his hand still clutching her elbow, but now she felt his fingers relax slightly as he confirmed she wasn't resisting. He was wearing the same gray suit, no coat, and his hair, damp from the street, smelled of rain and something bitter, woodsy. The hallway was dark—barely any light penetrated, only gray reflections falling through the dirty window, illuminating half of his face, leaving the other half in deep shadow.

— Quiet, — he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. — Don't make any noise.

She looked at him, feeling her heart pounding in her throat. His face was so close that she could see every drop of rain on his eyelashes, every wrinkle around his eyes, every shadow beneath his cheekbones. He looked at her with the same strange, searching attention, but now there was no cold detachment in it — only something warm, almost hungry.

— What are you doing here? — she whispered, trying to steady her voice, but it trembled. — You said you left.

— I left, — he replied, his fingers tightening slightly on her elbow. — But then I realized I couldn't leave without doing this.

He leaned down and kissed her.

His lips were cold from the street air, but in that coldness there was a strange, sharp sensuality that pierced her. He kissed her slowly, deeply, as if tasting her, as if he'd been waiting for this moment longer than she'd allowed herself to admit. His free hand slid down her neck, his fingers tangling in the wet strands of her hair, pulling her closer.

Somewhere beyond the wall, in the hallway, someone passed, but she didn't hear footsteps — only the pounding of her heart, drowning out everything around her. In this dark corner, between the column and the old closet, the world narrowed to his lips.

His fingers.

His breath.

Everything else ceased to exist.

{{user}} froze for a moment, and then her body reacted before her brain could process what was happening. Her hand, clutching the newspapers, released its grip, and the stack fell with a dull thud to the floor, scattering across the old parquet. She pressed herself against him, feeling his chest press against hers, his breath mingling with hers in this dark, damp corner.

The scent of rain mingled with the scent of his cologne — bitter, woody, with a hint of bergamot, which she hadn't been able to get out of her head since she first met him.

He pulled away, but not completely; his forehead touched hers, and she heard his breathing deepen, grow ragged.

— {{user}}, — Nathaniel's voice was low, without its usual theatrics, and she detected something new in it—worry, perhaps. — Can you meet me tonight?

She felt his fingers still on her neck, her pulse beating beneath his palm, and there was something more to the touch than just physical contact — as if he were testing her for life, for real.

— Tonight? — she repeated, her voice trembling, but already waking up to that same stubbornness that always led her where she shouldn't. — Where?

She looked into his eyes, trying to find the answer to the question she didn't dare ask out loud: what had changed? What had happened between them in those few seconds when his lips touched hers?

— At the mansion, — he said, his voice a little firmer, as if he were making a crucial decision. — 17 Oak Street. Just my house. You know the place.

She knew. An ordinary mansion in the old part of town, with cast-iron gates and ivy on the facade. Nothing mysterious — just the house where he lived. But somehow, this "just" seemed more intimate to her than any secret.

— Why? — she asked, a challenge in her voice. — Why should I come to your house?

The wind outside slammed against the glass, and somewhere far away, in the hallway, a door slammed — someone had left, leaving them alone in this shadow, where time flowed differently.

— Because I want to cook you dinner, — he said, his fingers tightening slightly on her neck, not painfully, but almost weightlessly. — We'll chat, have some wine. I'll tell you things about myself I've never told anyone.

He leaned toward her ear, his breath brushing her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

— And then, — his voice dropped to a whisper, a hint of a smile in it, — I'll slowly peel off every layer of clothing until you're completely naked.

He pulled away, and that same spark that appeared when he looked at her defiantly flashed in his eyes.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks, her breath hitch, and a warmth spreading somewhere in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't control.

— I... — she began, but he placed a finger to her lips, stopping her.

— Don't answer now, — he said, his voice softening. — Come. See. And then you'll decide if you want to stay. Or go.

He removed his hand, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and stepped back into the shadows, where his figure almost disappeared in the gray light of the rainy day.

— At eight, — he said, and his voice carried the same faint smile that played on his lips. — I'll be waiting. And, {{user}}... — he paused, — wear something that comes off easily.

He turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps fading around the corner, leaving her alone in the darkness, with newspapers scattered across the floor and a pulsating, hot feeling spreading through her chest and below, drowning out all fear and doubt.

The mansion greeted her with silence and the scent of old wood mingled with something floral — perhaps dried roses from the enormous vase in the hall. {{user}} stepped over the threshold, feeling her heart pounding in her throat, and looked around. High ceilings, stucco moldings on the walls, heavy curtains on the windows, through which the dim light of the street lamps filtered. The mansion was enormous and seemed alive — every floorboard creaked underfoot, every shadow had its own voice.

Nathaniel was waiting for her in the living room. He stood by the fireplace, a fire burning, a glass of red wine in his hand. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms and dark trousers — no jacket, no tie, none of the armor he wore in public. He looked almost relaxed, almost at home, if not for his eyes — attentive, scrutinizing, watching her every move.

— You're here, — he said, and his voice took on the same huskiness he'd heard in the school hallway. — I was beginning to think I'd changed my mind."

She stepped forward, feeling the heat from the fireplace touch her face.

— I said I'd come, — she replied, trying to keep her voice even. — And I always keep my word.

He smiled — not that empty, forced smile, but a genuine, warm one that appeared in his eyes.

— Then let me show you around the house, — he said, placing his glass on the mantelpiece. — You wanted to see where I live.

They walked down a long hallway, and he told her about the history of the mansion — how his great-grandfather built it in the late 19th century, how each room held a memory of someone in his family, how he himself had grown up within these walls, listening to the creaking of floorboards and the whisper of the wind outside the windows. {{user}} listened, but mostly she watched — at his hands, gesturing as he spoke, at his profile, illuminated by the dim light of the sconces, at the way his shadow fell on the walls, making him seem taller, larger, almost mythical.

They passed through the library, the billiard room, the music room with its old, dust-covered piano, and down the stairs, into a part of the house that seemed darker, more hidden. Nathaniel walked ahead, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

They stopped at a massive dark wooden door, no different from the others in the hallway. {{user}} was about to pass it by, but Nathaniel slowed, his hand resting on the doorknob — he didn't open it, merely running his fingers over the carved wood.

— This is a room you shouldn't enter, — he said, and his voice changed — deeper, quieter, with that same steel she'd heard in his voice at special moments.

She paused, looking at the door. Something inside her — that same curiosity that always led her where it shouldn't — awakened and made her heart beat faster.

— Why? — she asked, her voice trembling. — What's there?

He turned to her, and the same spark — a mixture of tension — flared up again. — There's a part of me there that I don't show anyone, — he said, his voice almost a whisper. — A part that might frighten you. Or... — he paused, — intrigue you.

{{user}} felt curiosity tearing at her from within. She looked at the door, at his hand still resting on the carved handle, and a premonition pulsed in her chest — not fear, but something sharper, more burning.

— Show it to me, — she said, her voice firmer than she expected.

He looked at her for several long seconds, studying her, weighing her. Then his lips twitched in a brief, almost imperceptible smile.

— Are you sure? — he asked, a warning in his voice. — Once I open this door, you won't be able to pretend you didn't see it.

— Oh, my God, Nathaniel, open the door!

He turned the handle, and the door swung silently open, letting them into the semi-darkness.

She stepped into the room, and the first thing that struck her was the smell. It smelled of leather and polish, with a faint citrus scent that seemed out of place in this place, yet somehow made the atmosphere even denser, even more intimate. The light was soft, muted — the source was invisible, a diffuse glow emanating from somewhere beneath the ceiling cornice, enveloping the room in a warm semi-darkness.

The walls and ceiling, painted a deep burgundy, visually reduced the spacious room, making it cozy and oppressive at the same time. The floor was old, varnished wood, and every step echoed with a soft, hollow sound. Directly opposite the door, two wide planks of polished mahogany were nailed crosswise to the wall, secured with straps. {{user}} swallowed, looking at them, and felt her stomach tighten.

A large iron grate, at least eight feet square, hung from the ceiling. Ropes, chains, and shiny handcuffs dangled from it, glinting in the dim light like jewelry. Next to the door, two long, carved poles jutted out of the wall, like stair balusters, only longer.

Dangling from them were a bewildering array of shovels, whips, crops, and strange feathered implements that seemed simultaneously frightening and fascinating.

On the other side stood a huge mahogany chest of drawers with narrow drawers, like those in old museum cabinets. {{user}} looked at them thoughtfully, wondering what might be stored inside, but she didn't dare approach. In the far corner stood a bench upholstered in dark red leather, and next to it, nailed to the wall, a wooden stand resembling a billiard cue stand; upon closer inspection, she could see canes of varying lengths and thicknesses resting on it, a sight that took her breath away.

In the opposite corner stood a polished wood table with carved legs and two matching stools, but most of the room was taken up by the bed. It was larger than a typical double bed, with four carved rococo columns at the corners and a flat canopy roof. It looked like it belonged in the nineteenth century. Under the canopy, chains and handcuffs were visible, gleaming in the dim light. The bed was bare — only a red leather mattress and red silk pillows piled at one end.

At the foot of the bed, a few feet away, stood a large maroon sofa, simply placed in the middle of the room, facing the bed. {{user}} frowned, looking at it. How odd... to place a sofa facing the bed. And then it occurred to her that the sofa was the most ordinary piece of furniture in the room, and she smiled at the thought. Looking up, she saw carabiners haphazardly attached to the ceiling. She could only wonder what they were for.

Strangely enough, all this carved wood, dark walls, subdued lighting, and maroon leather gave the room a calm, almost romantic air. Perhaps this is romance according to Nathaniel Howard.

She felt his presence behind her — he stood at the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, watching her with the same searching, hungry attention that now seemed an integral part of their encounters. {{user}} walked around the room, and he followed her, his steps silent on the old wooden floor.

A feathered object hanging from one of the poles caught her attention. She hesitantly touched it with her hand — soft leather, strangely shaped, like a cat o' nine tails, only thicker. A small plastic bead was attached to the end of each tail.

— It's called a flogger, — Nathaniel said quietly, his voice almost a whisper in the velvety silence.

Flogger... {{user}} swallowed. She could see and perceive, but she couldn't express what she felt. And what can you say in a situation where you discover that your potential lover is a deranged sadist or masochist? Scary... yes. It was the most powerful feeling. However, strangely enough, she wasn't afraid of him — she knew he wouldn't touch her without consent. But a multitude of questions swirled in her head. Why? How? When? How often?

As she passed the bed, she ran her finger along the intricate wood carving of one of the columns. It was a work of art.

— Say something, — Nathaniel commanded, his voice deceptively calm, but it held that same steel she already knew.

— Do you do this to people, or do they do this to you? — she asked without turning around.

His mouth twitched — whether from laughter or relief.

— With people? — he paused for a few seconds, considering his answer. — I do this to women who want it.

{{user}} frowned. It didn't make sense.

— If you have volunteers, why did you bring me here?

— I really want to do this with you.

— Why? — she exhaled, feeling the air catch in her chest.

She wandered to the far end of the room and thoughtfully ran her hand along the high leather bench that reached up to her waist. He liked torturing women. The thought made her sick.

— Are you a sadist? — she asked quietly, not looking at him.

— I'm a Dominant, — he replied, his gaze piercing her.

— What does that mean? — she finally turned to him, meeting his gray eyes.

— It means you voluntarily accept my power over you. In everything.

{{user}} tried to process what she'd heard.

— Why should I do this?

— To please me, — he whispered, tilting his head to the side, and she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Pleasure him! Her jaw dropped.

— In other words, I want you to want to please me, — he said softly, his voice hypnotizing.

— How? — her mouth went dry. She understood the "pleasure" part, but what did that have to do with an Elizabethan torture chamber?

— I have rules, and I want you to follow them — for your benefit and for my pleasure. If I please you, you will be rewarded. And if not, I will punish you, and you will remember, — his voice dropped to a near-whisper.

{{user}} glanced back at the cane stand, feeling her insides clench and unclench at the same time.

— What's this? — she waved her hand around herself, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

— Stimulants. Reward and punishment.

— So you enjoy imposing your will on me?

— You must trust me and submit voluntarily. The more obedient you are, the more pleasure I get. It's very simple.

— Okay, so what's in it for me?

He shrugged, looking almost guilty.

— Me.

She felt her insides twist. She wanted him — this handsome, extraordinary, immoral man. But the price was high. Too high.

— Your reaction doesn't tell the whole story, {{user}}, — he said angrily, his voice strained. — Let's get out of here so I can collect my thoughts. I can't look at you calmly here.

He extended his hand to her, but she hesitated to take it. Her own voice echoed in her head: "He's dangerous." And he was absolutely right. He was dangerous to her life, because she was about to say yes. But part of her didn't want that. Part of her wanted to run screaming from this room and everything it represented.

— I won't hurt you, — he said, his gray eyes pleading, and she realized he was telling the truth. — You must trust me.

She held out her hand, and he led her out of the room, closing the heavy mahogany door behind them.

— Come on, you must be hungry, — he said, turning right, and they walked down the hallway past several doors until they reached the last one.

— I don't seem to have an appetite, — she replied irritably, but her voice trembled.

— You need to eat, {{user}}, — he said. — I know I’m pushing you down a dark path, — he said, walking into the kitchen. — Think carefully. Is there something you want to ask?

She followed him, feeling his fingers grip her palm — firmly, but not painfully. Each step echoed in her mind, mingling with the images she’d just seen: straps on the bed, floggers on the wall, canes lined up like soldiers awaiting orders. Her breathing was still shallow, and her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat.

She wanted to trust him.

She wanted to know what would happen next.

— I won't do anything until you say yes, — he whispered, — But when you say that word, {{user}}, I'll show you what heaven and hell are all at once.

Here you can come up with your own plot.