A D E L I N E

“You should visit more often, Adeline. Your mother has been worried about you.”

My father’s voice carries across the dining table, his tone calm but firm. He’s always been the composed one—the voice of reason, the quiet authority. But I know what he’s really saying. You should come home.

I swallow a piece of dry chicken, barely tasting it. “I’ve been busy.”

“With that book of yours?” my mother chimes in, setting her fork down with a soft clink. “You’re always working, sweetheart. You should take a break, spend some time here with us.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, forcing another bite down.

“Fine?” She raises a perfectly shaped brow. “You barely said two words since you sat down. You’re distracted.”

I exhale through my nose, pressing my fork against my plate hard enough that it nearly scrapes. I am distracted. But it has nothing to do with work.

My mind drifts, slipping away from the dinner table.

It’s been two days since the club. Since Arch.

He said he’d call later, but there’s been nothing. No message. No missed calls. And strangely enough, I feel... relieved. He’s not my boyfriend. He was never supposed to be anything more than a distraction. So why should I care if he never reaches out?

I push the thought away, shifting to something else—something that should bring me the same relief.

The roses. The note. The messages.

But… there’s nothing now. No more roses. No new note. No messages. I don’t feel like someone is watching me anymore.

I should be relieved. I am relieved.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Then why does it feel like something isn’t right?

“Adeline.”

My mother’s voice drags me back, and I blink, realizing the conversation has stopped. My parents are both looking at me now—my father with his usual unreadable expression, my mother with growing concern.

“You’ve barely eaten,” she says, frowning. “And you keep drifting off.”

I press my lips together, nudging a piece of roasted vegetable across my plate. “I told you—I’ve just been working a lot.”

“That’s exactly why you should stay home for a few days,” she insists, reaching for her glass of wine. “You need rest.”

Stay home? The thought makes my stomach tighten.

“No.” The word escapes before I can think. I sit up straighter, shaking my head. “I have work to do. I need to finish my book.”

My father sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Your mother’s right, Adeline. You should take a break.”

“I don’t need a break.” My voice is sharper than intended, but I don’t care. “I’m not staying here.”

A tense silence fills the space between us. My mother purses her lips, and my father’s gaze lingers on me for a long moment before he finally exhales.

I can’t sit here any longer.

Pushing my chair back, I grab my plate and stand up before either of them can protest. “I’ll clean up,” I mutter, turning toward the kitchen.

I need a moment. Away from them. Away from everything.

Because no matter how much I try to ignore it, something feels wrong.

After rinsing my plate and setting it in the dishwasher, I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, inhaling deeply. I need to leave.

Walking back into the dining room, I grab my coat from the back of the chair and turn to my parents. “I should go. It’s getting late.”

My mother’s lips press into a thin line, disapproval clear in her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? It’s already dark out.”

“I’m sure,” I say firmly, slipping my arms into my coat. “I have work to do.”

She sighs but doesn’t argue this time. Instead, she stands, smoothing down the front of her dress before pulling me into a brief hug. “At least take care of yourself,” she murmurs against my hair. “And call me when you get home.”

“I will,” I say, though we both know I probably won’t.

When she pulls away, my father is already rising from his chair, grabbing his car keys from the table. “I’ll drive you.”

“No need,” I reply quickly. “I’ll grab a cab.”

His brows draw together, eyes assessing me in that unreadable way he always does. “It’s safer if I take you.”

Safer. The word sticks in my mind, and for a split second, I hesitate.

But then I shake my head. “It’s fine, Dad. I’ll be home before you know it.”

He watches me for a moment longer before finally nodding. “Alright. Be careful.”

“I will,” I assure him, forcing a small smile before stepping back. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” my mother calls softly as I make my way to the door.

I don’t look back as I step outside, the cool night air wrapping around me. Something in my chest tightens, but I ignore it. I just need to get home.

The cab ride home is quiet, but my mind is anything but.

Even as the city blurs past the window, I can’t shake the feeling sitting heavy in my chest. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the fact that I still can’t convince myself that everything is truly over.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the streets are nearly empty, the cold night air biting at my skin. I wrap my coat tighter around myself as I step into the lobby, my heels clicking softly against the tiled floor.

Nothing feels off.

The hallway is dimly lit as I make my way to my door, fishing my keys from my bag. Sliding the key into the lock, I twist it with ease, pushing the door open. The apartment is dark, just as I left it. Empty. Silent. Normal.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and step inside, shutting the door behind me.

Dropping my bag onto the counter, I kick off my shoes, stretching my toes against the floor. The quiet settles around me, but it’s not comforting—it’s thick, pressing against my skin like something unseen is watching.

Shake it off. You’re just tired.

Raking a hand through my hair, I make my way to my bedroom, reaching for the light switch. The lamp beside my bed casts a dim glow over the room, illuminating the space in soft gold.

And then—

I freeze.

The air in my lungs turns solid, my stomach twisting into something sharp and unbearable.

Someone is in my bed.

Lying there. Relaxed. Like they belong.

A book rests in one of his hands, the pages slightly curled from use. My book. My first book.

The sight is so surreal that for a moment, my brain refuses to process it.

I can’t see his face. Shadows stretch across his form, his head tilted downward as he lazily flips a page. The movement is slow, unhurried—like he has all the time in the world.

Like he’s been waiting.

My breath catches in my throat, panic clawing its way up my chest.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

The man moves.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He closes the book with an eerie sense of calm, the soft thud of pages meeting cover far too loud in the silence. My heartbeat slams against my ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm that drowns out every rational thought.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his movements unhurried as if he has all the time in the world. Like he knows I’m not going anywhere.

But I am.

The second he pushes himself to his feet, I take a step back, my stomach twisting so violently I feel like I might be sick.

He’s tall. So fucking tall.

The dim lighting does nothing to reveal his face, but the way he holds himself—confident, powerful, like he owns this space—sends ice rushing through my veins.

It’s him.

Fuck.

A choked sound rises in my throat, but I don’t wait to see what he’ll do next. I run.

My bare feet slam against the floor as I dart out of the room, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The moment I reach the kitchen, I lunge for the knife block, yanking out the first one my fingers wrap around.

The cold weight of the blade grounds me, but it doesn’t slow my shaking hands.

My pulse roars in my ears. My chest rises and falls too fast.

I grip the knife tighter.

He’s here. He’s real. And he’s in my fucking apartment.

His footsteps are slow. Measured.

I press myself against the counter, my grip tightening around the knife until my knuckles ache. My breathing is erratic, coming out in shallow gasps, but he—he is fucking calm.

Too calm.

I don’t know what to do. My mind races, spiraling out of control.

Call Daya. No. She’s not here. She can’t help me.

Call my father. No, no, no.

Call the police.

Yes. The police.

I fumble with my free hand, but my phone is in my bag—too far, too fucking far.

He’s getting closer.

The shadows keep his face hidden, but I can feel his presence, feel the way the air shifts around him. Dark. Suffocating. Absolute.

I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my throat. “D-Don’t come any closer,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t stop.

Oh God.

“I said don’t fucking come closer!” I snap, my voice sharper, more desperate.

And then—he speaks.

“Relax, little writer.”

The deep, velvety sound of his voice cuts through the panic like a blade, smooth and deliberate. Dark amusement laces each word, curling around me like smoke.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

That voice.

A shudder rolls down my spine, my breath catching in my throat.

He steps closer, the darkness wrapping around him like a second skin.

I tighten my grip on the knife, my pulse hammering so hard it drowns out everything else. He's too close. Too fucking close.

“I swear to God, I’ll stab you,” I grit out, forcing steel into my voice.

He only chuckles. Chuckles.

Low. Deep. Unbothered.

Like this is a fucking game to him.

Rage flickers through my fear, and as soon as he’s within reach, I don’t hesitate—I lunge.

The blade slices through the air, aimed straight for his chest.

But he catches it.

With his fucking hand.

A sickening, wet sound fills the space between us as the sharp edge of the knife bites into his palm. Blood spills over my fingers, dripping onto the floor in slow, deliberate drops.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make a sound.

His fingers tighten around the blade, the cut deep, jagged—but he just stands there.

Smirking.

Something primal and vicious gleams in the darkness where his eyes should be, something that turns my stomach cold.

Run.

The thought is a scream in my head.

I shove against him with everything I have, my breath ragged as I tear myself free.

I sprint toward the door, my fingers reaching for the lock—

Too late.

A rough hand snatches my wrist, yanking me backward so fast I barely have time to react before I’m slammed against the door.

Hard.

The impact knocks the air from my lungs, my gasp swallowed by the sheer force of him pressing in close.

His body cages mine, his grip like iron as he traps my wrist above my head. The scent of blood lingers between us—his blood.

My chest rises and falls in sharp, erratic breaths, my heartbeat a wild, frantic thing.

He caught the knife. With his bare fucking hand.

And he’s still standing here.

Still looking at me.

Still smiling.

I can’t move.

I can’t fucking breathe.

The air is thick—suffocating. Heavy with him.

He towers over me, a shadow made of something darker than night, blacker than sin. His presence alone wraps around my throat, squeezing, pressing, drowning.

"Did you really think you could run from me, little writer?"

The words aren’t loud. They don’t have to be. They slither down my spine, cold and smooth like the edge of a knife.

I swallow, my mouth dry. Don’t let him see the fear.

"Who the fuck are you?"

He doesn’t answer.

But he steps closer.

And suddenly, the only thing I can hear is my own heartbeat—loud, erratic, panicked.

His bloody fingers skim my jaw, smearing warmth along my skin. A claim. A brand. A warning.

"You let him touch you."

My breath catches.

"You let him put his fucking hands on you."

The rage in his voice isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Controlled. Lethal.

"You let him feel you. Taste you."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. Like he’s holding back the urge to destroy.

"You let him fuck you with his fingers."

I go still.

His fingers slide down my throat, wrapping around it—not squeezing, just resting there. A promise.

His eyes burn into mine, endless pits of black, and then—

"Tell me, little writer…" His voice is a blade gliding over my skin, slow and cruel. "What should I do with you now?"

I force my chin up, forcing defiance into my voice. "Who the fuck are you? You think you can tell me what to do?"

His grip tightens—not enough to choke, just enough to make my pulse spike.

"I can do whatever I want," I spit. "I can touch whoever I want. I can fuck—"

The word barely leaves my lips before his hand flies to my throat, tightening in a way that steals the rest of the sentence from me.

"Finish that fucking sentence, little writer, and I swear— I'll fuck the words right out of your mouth.

My head slams back against the wall, a sharp gasp leaving me. His fingers dig into my skin, but it’s his voice that destroys me.

"Say it. Say you can fuck whoever you want."

I can’t.

Because the look in his eyes is pure death.

"You think you have a choice?" he murmurs, tilting his head, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "You don’t."

He leans in, his breath hot against my lips.

"No one else gets to have you."

I shake my head, a sharp, frantic movement. No. No. No.

But he just smiles, slow and dark and fucking terrifying.

"No one else gets to look at you."

His voice is velvet-wrapped steel.

"If they do, I’ll carve their fucking eyes out and shove them down their throat."

The world tilts. Spins. Cracks.

His fingers press harder into my pulse.

"If they touch you…" His voice is a low growl now, something savage, something monstrous.

"I’ll tear them apart limb by limb and send you their fingers wrapped in a pretty red bow."

My stomach twists—fear and something else. Something dark.

"You let him have you," he murmurs, more to himself now, like he’s fucking disgusted.

His fingers tighten.

"You let him fucking put his hands on what’s mine."

I try to shake my head, but he doesn’t let me move.

"I should punish you for that."

His lips brush against my ear, soft and deadly.

"But maybe I already have."

I still.

The air shifts. My stomach twists.

"Maybe I’ve already made sure he’ll never touch another fucking thing again."

A shiver racks through me.

His mouth curves into something unholy.

"What’s wrong, little writer?"

A cruel, twisted smirk.

"Scared?"

He laughs, low and dark.

"Good."

His grip loosens just enough to let me breathe, but his presence doesn’t. It drowns me. Suffocates me. Crushes me.

"You think you can fuck your way out of this?" His voice is silk-covered steel, soft but laced with something brutal.

"You think letting someone else between your thighs will change what you are to me?"

He leans in, lips ghosting over mine.

"What, little writer? You don’t like the truth?"

His fingers tighten in my hair, yanking my head back.

"Let's get one thing fucking straight."

His voice drops to something lower. Darker. A whispered promise of devastation.

"If you ever let someone else touch you again—" His nose skims my cheek, down my jaw, a ghost of a touch.

"I’ll break every bone in their hands and make you fucking watch."

My breath shatters.

"And then, little writer—"

His fingers drag down my spine.

"I’ll spend every fucking night reminding you exactly who you belong to."

A slow, dangerous smirk pulls at his lips.

"Every. Fucking. Inch of you."

His lips graze my ear, his breath scorching against my skin.

"You can fight me all you want, little writer."

The words slide down my spine, slow and deliberate, like hands wrapping around my throat.

"You can pretend you have a fucking choice."

I suck in a breath, but it’s useless. There’s no air left between us. No space. No escape.

His fingers drag down my throat, pressing just enough to feel the erratic pulse beneath my skin.

"But you already know the truth, don’t you?"

I shake my head. Lie to him. Lie to yourself.

A dark chuckle brushes over my skin.

"You were never meant to belong to anyone else."

His grip tightens, not enough to choke, but enough to command. To own.

"You’ve always been mine, Adeline."

The words brand me, scorching into the marrow of my bones. A sentence. A promise. A fucking curse.

He leans in, the heat of his body searing into mine. His nose drags along my jaw, inhaling me like he’s memorizing my scent.

"And soon, little writer..." His voice drops lower, darker, filthier. "You won’t just know it."

His lips barely brush against mine, a cruel tease. A taste of the inevitable.

"You’ll fucking feel it."

Then—he steps back. Abrupt. Detached. Gone.

The loss of his touch is violent. Like being pulled from the edge of a high only to crash into withdrawal.

He smirks—cold, ruthless, victorious.

"See you soon, baby."

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, leaving only the wreckage of his presence behind.

And me—shattered, shaking, and drowning in the ruin he left behind.

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