Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
"You remember all of that?" Her voice comes out hoarse. Barely above a whisper.
"I remember everything you've ever written."
The truth of that statement hits me as I say it out loud. Not just the dark romance scenes I've used to plan our encounters. Not just the sex, or the bondage, or the psychological games.
All of it.
The throwaway lines about her characters drinking coffee black because they can't afford cream. The descriptions of empty apartments that smell like loneliness. The protagonists who apologize too much, and think too hard, and sabotage their own happiness.
Every word she's put on a page, I've absorbed like it was scripture.
Because it wasn't just research.
It was her.
The realization makes my chest tighten in a way that feels uncomfortable. Foreign. Like something shifted that wasn't supposed to move.
"Why?" she asks.
I don't have a good answer. Or maybe I do, but admitting it feels like handing her a weapon I'm not sure she knows how to use yet.
My obsession isn't just about sex. It's not even about control, though that's part of it.
It's about her talent. Her mind. The way she builds worlds, and characters, and psychological depth that most published authors can't touch. The way she understands power dynamics, and fear, and desire better than people who've spent decades studying it.
She's brilliant.
And she has no idea.
"Because you're exceptional," I tell her. The words feel too honest. Too raw. I force my voice back to something neutral. Controlled. "And exceptional things deserve to be appreciated."
Her eyes search mine. Looking for the lie. The manipulation.
She won't find it.
This is the truth, even if I'm wrapping it in language that sounds like dominance instead of devotion.
Her laugh is belated, but real. "I write… smut, Master. It's… OK, I guess but…"
"I'm not talking about the smut." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. "I'm talking about the way you build psychological tension. The way you understand character motivation. You could write beautiful literary fiction if you wanted to. Dark literary fiction that would make critics uncomfortable and readers obsessed."
She stares at me like I just told her she could fly.
"No one's ever—" Her voice cracks. "No one's ever said that to me. In person, I mean. It's… thank you."
The confession breaks something in my chest I didn't know was locked.
She's twenty-two years old. She's been writing since she was a teenager. Posting stories online for years. Pouring her talent, and darkness, and brilliance into thousands of words that strangers consume and comment on.
And no one has ever looked her in the eye and told her she's good at it.
Not her mother. Not her professors before she dropped out. Not the ex-boyfriend I killed for raping her.
No one.
Until me.
She reaches up and touches my face. Her fingertips trace along my jaw. My cheekbone. The corner of my mouth.
"You're really hot," she whispers.
I laugh.
I actually laugh.
Not the controlled chuckle I use to put people at ease or the dark amusement I feel when I'm hunting. A real laugh that catches me off guard with how genuine it feels.
"That's what you're thinking about right now?"
"You took off the mask." Her fingers keep exploring my face like she's memorizing it. "I thought you'd be... I don't know. Scarier looking. But you're just really attractive and it's confusing."
I kiss her again. Harder this time. My tongue sliding between her lips to taste her properly. She opens for me immediately, letting me in, kissing me back with desperate enthusiasm that makes my cock throb.
When I pull away, we're both breathing hard.
"Backwards," I murmur against her mouth. "Small steps. I've got you."
I walk her. Slow. Controlled. My hands on her waist now, guiding her.
She's gasping into my mouth as I kiss her between each step. Her pulse hammering so hard I can feel it vibrating through her skin.
"That's it. Good girl."
Her heel finds the edge of the plank. Six feet of narrow wood between her and the adjacent tree. Nothing but air on either side. She whimpers.
"Eyes on me," I tell her. "Not down. Just me."
Another step back. Her foot settles on the wood. It doesn't wobble. Doesn't creak. Solid and stable under her weight just like I promised.
"I've got you."
I keep kissing her. Keep my hands firm on her waist. Keep walking her backwards inch by inch while her breathing comes in sharp, terrified gasps against my lips.
Her back foot finds the platform on the other side.
She made it.
Chapter 6
Scarletta
Ican't stop replaying it.
The masked man's mouth on mine. The way he kissed me between steps while I was terrified of falling. The way his hands felt on my waist, steadying me.
You're exceptional.
No one's ever said that to me. Not in person. Not looking at my face while they said it.
Online, sure. Anonymous praise from faceless usernames. But that's different. That's not real. That's people reacting to words on a screen, not to me.