Chapter 9: The Trap
Shane & Leah
Outside, cicadas rasp against the night, a shrill chorus rattling the humid air as Shane pushes through the iron gate, home at last. The night at Icons dragged on too long, and now all he wants is a hot shower and a stiff drink.
Then, movement. A shape. Floating. Bobbing. No—someone. A body, facedown in the water. Adrenaline spikes. He bolts for the edge. Daphne? How long has she been there?
He doesn’t wait to find out. He dives. Crashes into the water. Wraps his arms around her slack body. Hauls her up, muscles burning as he drags her to the edge, heaving her onto the tile with everything he’s got.
Then, a voice, shrill through the fog of panic: “Oh my God!” Leah screams as she tears out of her apartment, racing across the courtyard.
Shane drops to his knees, trembling hands tilting Daphne’s head back. He seals his mouth over hers, forcing breath into her lungs. Again. Nothing. He starts compressions, counting under his breath.
“Come on. Come on.”
Still nothing. Another breath. Another push. Every ounce of strength, every bit of hope.
Then, a rasping, broken gasp. Daphne jerks violently, coughing up water, her body convulsing on the tile as she heaves for air.
Finally, when she stills, her breath is the only sound. Her eyes find Shane, hovering above her, before flicking to Leah, kneeling beside him.
“Jesus, Daphne,” Shane says, still catching his breath.
Then Leah sees it: the jagged shards of a broken bottle scattered under the courtyard lights. The smear of blood. Daphne’s hand—gashed open. Shane’s shirt is streaked with red.
“Shane,” Leah says quietly, pointing.
He follows her gaze. “Shit.” He grips Daphne’s arm gently. “You’re bleeding.”
Daphne lifts her hand, only now registering the wound, then the pain.
Leah fumbles for her phone. “We need to call someone—”
“No hospitals,” Daphne croaks. “Please.”
Leah hesitates, eyes darting from Daphne to Shane.
“Let’s get her inside,” he says.
Between them, they lift her, soaking and shaking, and guide her barefoot toward her apartment. Inside, the stench hits instantly: liquor, sweat, and something fouler beneath it. The place is wrecked. Bottles. Pills. Crumpled baggies. Sheets tangled like a hurricane tore through.
“This is what rock bottom looks like,” Shane says, eyes sweeping the bedroom as he finishes wrapping her hand. “You could’ve died.”
“Maybe that would’ve been easier.”
“No,” Leah says, adjusting the blanket around Daphne’s shoulders. “You don’t get to give up. Not like that.”
Finally, Daphne breaks. Sobs rack her body, the tears coming slow at first, then freely, without end. Shane and Leah stay with her—quiet, steady, saying nothing. Just there, as the storm slows.
Sleep takes her, finally.
They clean up, tossing bottles, cleaning dishes, folding clothes. Shane flushes a bag of coke and a bottle of Adderall down the toilet.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The air is cooler when they step outside. The sky above is pinpricked with stars.
“You okay?” Shane asks.
Leah exhales shakily. “Not even close.”
“Wanna come over? I don’t think either of us should be alone.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, hesitating. “I guess I could use a drink.”
“You and me both,” Shane says, his eyes sparkling with that easy warmth she’s starting to recognize.
“Beers are in the fridge,” he calls from down the hall.
Leah lingers in the kitchen, already second-guessing everything. What was she even doing here at Shane’s place, nearly past midnight? She should go home. Sleep. Deal with it all tomorrow. Or maybe she should’ve stayed with Daphne. Just in case. Just so she wouldn’t wake up alone. Whatever. Let Daphne deal with it. She’s her own problem. Not mine.
She closes the fridge and sets the beers on the island. Then pauses, drawn by a flicker of movement.
Through the sliver of Shane’s bedroom doorway, the light’s low, but enough. Shane’s back is to her, bare, a towel slung low around his hips. He’s bent over a drawer, shoulders taut, skin still flushed from the spring’s early warmth. There’s a quiet power in the way he moves, unhurried and unselfconscious. Nothing performative. Just the rhythm of someone alone in their space, unguarded. Unaware.
Then… the towel drops.
She catches only a flash as he turns. The shape of him, the cut of his waist, the curve of his ass, shifting in the soft lamplight.
Her breath catches. She looks away, heat crawling up her neck. But then, slowly, she glances back.
He’s gone.
The pipes groan. A second later, the shower kicks on, sharp at first, then fading into a steady rush.
She should take the beers. Go wait on the couch.
But she doesn’t.
Leah moves down the hall, stopping just outside his bedroom. From here, she can see the bathroom door half open. Steam curls through the air, already fogging the mirror. The sound of water echoes off terrazzo tile, soft and rhythmic, like it’s beckoning. And Shane: his silhouette behind the glass. Moving. Lathering. Water pouring over him, cascading down his body, his hands slicking over his skin in slow, methodical passes, washing away ribbons of soap.
She steps into the bedroom. Doesn’t even realize. Doesn’t mean to stare. But something about the moment, its quiet intimacy, roots her in place. Through the haze, she watches him shift under the spray, head tipped back, one hand braced on the tile. Water streams over him, defining every line, every curve, the quiet grace in the way he moves from his shoulders down to his thighs.
Then he turns. Just slightly. And suddenly… it’s hard to breathe.
Something knots in her chest. This wasn’t what she came here for. She should look away. But she doesn’t. She can’t. There’s something reverent in the way he moves—unguarded, completely alone with himself. Vulnerable in a way that almost feels like permission.
She has a clearer view now. Still blurred at the edges, but enough to see the water skimming over his erection in a stream, like a water slide. A dusting of hair fans out from his center, tracing up to his abs, disappearing into the muscle of his hamstrings.
She’s stuck on it now: the way it swells, the heavy sway as he shifts.
It’s perfect…
Then—he looks up. Leah jerks back, heart racing. Presses herself flat against the wall, barely breathing.
The water shuts off.
She bolts, as quietly as she can, slipping back down the hallway.
“Not the night I expected,” Shane says once they’re settled on the couch.
Leah sips her beer, sinking into the leather cushions as she curls her legs beneath her, inching just a little closer to him.
“When does anything around here go according to plan?” she murmurs. “What’s the saying about God laughing at us, or something?”
“Not sure,” he says, watching her. Leah, usually so composed, so quick with a defense, looks softer now. Almost exposed. And he realizes, with a jolt, he’s never seen her like this before.
She exhales slowly, her voice low in the pensive aftermath. “I didn’t think I could handle that.”
“You did more than handle it,” he says. “You’re stronger than you think.”
She looks up, startled by the sincerity in his tone. His eyes don’t waver.
“I’m not used to…” she trails off, almost afraid to name it. “Someone seeing me like that.”
“Maybe it’s time someone did.”
He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger for a breath too long. Then, he leans in, slow and unassuming. A question, not a move.
Their faces are close now. Too close. And for one suspended beat, Leah’s back in Shane’s bedroom. Watching him through the doorway, lathering himself, naked in the shower. His hands are moving closer. Touching the center. Jerking. He’s looking straight at her—
“I should go,” she says abruptly, pulling back. She catches the surprise in his gaze.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just getting late.” Her voice is soft, but firm.
Outside, the pool glows, still and deceptively serene beneath the moonlight. Leah steels herself against the sting of guilt. Her heart had raced when she spied on Shane in the shower. Then again on the couch, close enough to kiss.
Whatever passed between them in that moment… was it real? Just hours ago, Shane had been a pawn. A way to rattle Wendy. But now, after everything with Daphne, after saving her life, it feels like the rules have shifted.
Had they?
Or was this just another tired move in a game she’s no longer sure she wants to play?