Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
ScarletSins
Check here if you agree to be spanked. Hell yes.
Check here if you agree to CNC. Hell no.
This is my life. 100 questions about my most intimate fantasies, then a checklist about which of them I'll agree to.
Why am I doing this?
Why the hell do you think?
Money.
I need it.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've got a price on my head.
Let's f-ing go.
Watcher
Check here if you've been watching her. For months.
Check here if you rigged the auction. Obviously.
This girl is my obsession. I know every word she's written. Every fantasy she's afraid to live. Every desperate choice that led her here.
Why am I doing this?
Because she's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've already won.
Let the games begin.
A dark Christmas romance where the monster gets the girl.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
24 Hours. No Limits. No Mercy. No Regrets.
ScarletSins
Check here if you agree to be spanked. Hell yes.
Check here if you agree to CNC. Hell no.
This is my life. 100 questions about my most intimate fantasies, then a checklist about which of them I'll agree to.
Why am I doing this?
Why the hell do you think?
Money.
I need it.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've got a price on my head.
Let's f-ing go.
Watcher
Check here if you've been watching her. For months.
Check here if you rigged the auction. Obviously.
This girl is my obsession. I know every word she's written. Every fantasy she's afraid to live. Every desperate choice that led her here.
Why am I doing this?
Because she's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've already won.
Let the games begin.
A dark Christmas romance where the monster gets the girl.
Chapter 1
Caleb
Those who play in shadows always underestimate the light.
They think darkness is their ally, their shield against consequence.
They're wrong.
Darkness is just a temporary veil.
Nothing stays hidden forever.
Justice finds a way.
It always does.
You can run from it, hide from it, pay lawyers to build walls around it, but eventually it seeps through the cracks like light under a door.
Relentless. Patient. Inevitable.
And when you skirt around it for too long, when you think you've outsmarted the system, outmaneuvered the consequences, the only way it ends is… messy.
Violently messy, if I'm involved.
The kind of messy that comes with unmarked graves, desperate phone calls in the dead of night, and bloody clothes that need burning.
Every choice leaves a mark.
Every mark has a weight.
Every weight must be balanced.
I am the scales.
Justice isn't blind. That's a lie they tell children.
Justice has cold, calculating, patient eyes that watch, and wait, and remember everything.
If you earn it, you pay.
Blood for blood hammers through my speakers as I navigate the icy switchback mountain road. Fuck you, and fuck society too. It's a roaring anthem that calms me after balancing the debts.
A ritual now.
A signal that the score has been evened.
An indicator of finality.
Justice done, I put the night's work behind me and concentrate on my next target—Scarletta Mae Desmond.
Erotica writer. DarkDesires Forum pen name, ScarletSins.
Lonely twenty-something with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes that hide behind a computer screen.
No job worth mentioning—just freelance copywriting she's too distracted to finish.
No purpose beyond the stories she writes in the dark hours between midnight and dawn.
No ambition beyond the next chapter, the next comment, the next anonymous validation from strangers who don't know her name.
Unless you count her predictable cycle—words on the page, fingers between her legs—as ambition.
Which, knowing what I know about her, might be the most honest thing she does.
She thinks she's invisible. Thinks her online anonymity keeps her safe.
She's wrong.
I've been watching for months.
Learning her patterns. Her routines. The precise rhythm of her isolation.
And soon, very soon, she'll understand exactly what it means to be seen.
Completely.
Unavoidably.
Mine.
My driveway entrance sits under a ranch archway marked with a skull and crossbones instead of a cattle brand. I navigate the ice, pulling slowly as I travel through an encroaching tunnel of hundred-year-old blue spruce.
For a moment, there is no sky above—just tree limbs. It’s disorienting, something out of a dark fairy tale. But it never lasts, never long enough. Because a moment later the amber glow appears behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of my log estate.
The temperature on the dash reads twelve degrees. As I pull the Jeep around the side of the house toward the barn, I catch a glimpse of the hot tub on the back patio, its surface rolling with steam that rises like ghosts in the frigid air. The water glows an otherworldly red from the submerged lights, a beacon of heat in the frozen darkness.
The contrast is stark—civilized warmth against the brutal cold that wants to kill everything it touches.
I guide the vehicle into the barn's wide, dark mouth, the headlights sweeping across the interior before I drive fully inside. The structure swallows the Jeep whole, wood beams overhead and the lingering scent of hay and horse leather from the previous owners.
When I kill the engine, the hardcore Blood for Blood song becomes instant silence. The engine ticks as I look down at myself, studying the scarlet stains on my shirt, my pants, my arms, my hands.
I get out of the Jeep, walk over to the wood-burning furnace, and open the door. The embers glow bright orange under gray ash. The furnace in the horse barn is a nice touch. Part of the reason I bought this place six months ago.
After stoking the fire and loading it with logs, the flames rise up, fervent and yellow.
I strip out of my bloody clothes and feed them into the fire. The flames eat the fabric, racing along the threads until they are nothing but fire itself.