A D E L I N E

The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of cardboard and dust. Half-opened boxes were scattered across the living room, clothes spilling out of one, books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table. The apartment was still a mess-unfinished, unfamiliar.

But it was mine.

A fresh start. A place where he didn't exist.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

I wiped my hands on my leggings, stepping back from the shelf I'd just assembled. "Well, that looks... lopsided," I muttered.

Daya snorted from across the room, where she was tearing open a box labeled Kitchen Shit. "You're seriously trusting yourself to build furniture?"

I shot her a look. "It's not that bad."

"It's tilting like it wants to escape the room."

I rolled my eyes, dropping onto the couch. "It doesn't matter. I just need a place that's mine. Where I can actually sleep without feeling like someone's watching me."

Daya's hands stilled. She didn't look up, but I could tell she was debating whether to bring it up again. And sure enough-

"So... what are you gonna do about him?"

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. "What can I do? That psycho sent me roses for weeks, disappeared for a whole damn week just to mess with my head, and the second I so much as breathe near another man-he's there." My voice dropped into a bitter whisper. "Like he never left."

Daya set down a coffee mug she'd just unwrapped, turning to face me. "Ade, that's not normal. He broke into your apartment. He told you that you belonged to him."

I knew all of this. But hearing her say it out loud made it feel more real. More terrifying.

I swallowed hard. "He didn't hurt me."

Daya's brows shot up. "Oh, well, that makes it totally fine, then. Just a harmless little stalker claiming ownership of you. No big deal."

I glared at her. "I'm just saying... If he wanted to hurt me, wouldn't he have done it already?"

Daya's face twisted in disbelief. "Do you hear yourself right now? That's like saying 'the serial killer hasn't killed me yet, so he's probably fine.'"

I sighed, sinking further into the couch. I hated that she was right. I hated that I didn't have an answer.

She crossed her arms. "And what about Arch?"

My stomach twisted. Arch.

I hadn't thought about him much since that night. Not really. But his absence lingered in the back of my mind like a dull ache.

"He said he'd call." My voice was flat, emotionless.

"And did he?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

Daya sat down beside me, tucking her legs under herself. "Do you think-?"

"No," I cut her off before she could say it. "I don't think anything. He probably just ghosted me." I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Wouldn't be the first time."

But that night replayed in my head in sharp, vivid flashes.

Arch leaving my apartment, pressing a kiss to my lips, promising to call. The way his touch had felt-warm, grounding. A distraction.

And then... him.

The way he had cornered me, his voice dripping with possession, his hands gripping my jaw as he forced me to look at him.

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

A chill slithered down my spine.

It had sounded like a threat. A warning. But at the time, I'd been too overwhelmed, too angry to fully process it.

Now, I wasn't so sure.

I hugged a throw pillow against my chest. "Do you think I was stupid for... being with Arch?"

Daya blinked at me. "What? No. You're single. You can do whatever you want."

I bit my lip. "But after everything? Knowing that someone's been watching me? Maybe it was reckless. Maybe that's why-"

"Stop." Daya's voice was sharp. "Do not blame yourself for this. That man-whoever he is-has no right to control what you do. If he lost his mind because you were with someone else? That's on him. Not you."

My throat tightened.

But it didn't feel that simple.

Because deep down, past the fear and the confusion...

Part of me had liked the way he had reacted. The sheer possessiveness in his voice. The way his touch had burned through me, leaving me breathless, shaking.

I should've been disgusted. I was disgusted.

But there was something else beneath it. Something dark and dangerous, something I wasn't ready to name.

I pushed the thought away. "I just want to move on."

Daya nudged me lightly. "Then let's finish setting up this place. A fresh start, remember?"

I nodded, exhaling. "Yeah. A fresh start."

I wanted to believe that. I needed to believe that.

But no matter how many boxes I unpacked, no matter how many walls I put between me and my old life...

I couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching.

The apartment was eerily silent after Daya left. No music, no voices-just the faint hum of the city outside my window. It was unsettling how quickly I'd grown used to her presence, how the emptiness of my new home suddenly felt suffocating.

I pushed the thought away, forcing myself to focus. A shower. That's what I needed. Something to rinse off the exhaustion clinging to my skin, to wash away the unease still coiled in my stomach.

The bathroom filled with steam as I stepped under the hot spray, tilting my head back, letting the water cascade over me. I tried to focus on the warmth, the way it loosened the tension in my muscles. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling lingering beneath my skin-like a shadow lurking just beyond my sight.

My hands stilled against my arms.

You're safe. I told myself. He's not here.

I exhaled sharply, shaking off the ridiculous thought. Of course, he wasn't here. This was my new apartment. He had no way of knowing where I lived now.

Right?

Pushing away the doubt, I turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping myself in a plush bathrobe. The fabric clung to my damp skin as I ran a towel through my hair, shaking out the excess water.

Everything was fine. I just needed to relax.

I opened the bathroom door, stepping into my dimly lit bedroom-

And froze.

My breath caught in my throat.

There, lying on my bed like he fucking owned it, was him.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out every rational thought.

He was draped across the mattress like it was the most natural thing in the world, one arm resting behind his head, the other lazily tracing circles against my sheets. The faint glow from the bedside lamp cast deep shadows over his sharp, chiseled features, highlighting the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched me.

Like he'd been waiting.

Like he belonged here.

My lungs seized. Panic surged through me, adrenaline spiking so fast it made my vision blur.

No.

I spun on my heel, heart slamming against my ribs as I lunged for the door-

But I didn't make it.

A strong arm wrapped around my waist in a flash, yanking me back before my fingers could even brush the handle. A gasp tore from my lips as I was pulled against a solid chest, heat radiating through my damp robe.

His breath ghosted against my ear, slow and controlled, as if he knew exactly how much he was unraveling me.

"Running from me again, little writer?" His voice was deep, rough silk, dripping with amusement.

I struggled against his hold, twisting, kicking-anything to get away-but he only tightened his grip, making escape impossible.

"Let me go," I hissed through clenched teeth, my pulse hammering.

He chuckled, low and dark. "Haven't we been through this already?"

My nails dug into his arm, desperate. "You have no right-"

"No right?" He turned me in one swift motion, pressing me against the door, caging me in with his body. His hands pinned mine beside my head, his gaze burning into mine. "That's funny, considering you were thinking about me just a few minutes ago."

I sucked in a sharp breath, my body betraying me with the way it reacted to him. The heat, the proximity, the danger that came with his presence.

"I wasn't," I spat, hating how weak the words sounded.

He tilted his head, his lips curving into something dark. Knowing. "Lying doesn't suit you, little writer."

I clenched my jaw. "How did you find me?"

His thumb brushed against the inside of my wrist, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Like I wasn't seconds away from screaming.

"You really thought moving would keep me away?" His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "That's adorable."

My stomach dropped.

He knew. He'd always known.

I was never safe from him. Not then. Not now.

Not ever.

The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating, as if his presence alone had sucked out all the oxygen. I pressed myself harder against the door, trying to put even a fraction of space between us, but it was useless. He was there—looming over me, his scent wrapping around me like a noose.

His grip loosened slightly, just enough for me to catch my breath, but he didn’t step back. He didn’t need to. His sheer presence was enough to keep me caged.

And then, with a slow, calculated movement, he reached behind him.

I stiffened.

My breath hitched when I saw the flash of deep red as he pulled something from the back pocket of his pants.

A rose.

Blood-red, its petals dark and velvety, the stem long and thick, adorned with sharp thorns.

His fingers twisted around it lazily as he brought it to my face, the soft petals ghosting over my cheek. My skin burned in its wake, a stark contrast to the sharp thorns that gleamed dangerously beneath his grip.

"I missed you so fucking much, little writer," he murmured, dragging the flower slowly down the side of my face, tracing the curve of my jaw.

I swallowed hard, my pulse erratic.

"You didn’t have to leave," he continued, his voice deceptively soft, almost... tender. But there was something dark beneath it. Something lethal. "Did you think running would change anything?"

The petals grazed my lips, feather-light, sending a shiver through me. My hands curled into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.

"You don’t own me," I whispered, though my voice barely carried.

His lips twitched, amusement flickering in his dark gaze. "Oh, but I do, sweetheart."

The rose trailed down my throat, the sensation sending a violent shudder through me. He noticed—of course he noticed—and his smirk deepened.

"I’ve been patient," he murmured, dragging the flower lower, the stem brushing against my exposed collarbone. "So patient."

My chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

His grip on the rose shifted, the petals giving way to the rough stem. I sucked in a sharp breath as a thorn scraped against my skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to remind me.

He could hurt me if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

And that terrified me more.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my thoughts spiraling. I had to stay in control. I had to think.

Then, without warning, I forced the words out. "What did you do to Arch?"

The rose stilled.

The room went deathly silent.

I opened my eyes just in time to see it—the shift.

Something dark, feral, flickered across his face. His jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the rose until the thorns dug into his own skin.

His breathing changed, going from slow and measured to something far more dangerous.

His fingers flexed, and I saw the petals tremble, his grip crushing them slightly.

His fingers tightened around my chin, forcing me to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, darkness swallowing any trace of humanity.

"Answer me," I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice over the thunderous pounding of my heart. "What did you do to him?"

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t respond. That he’d let the silence stretch, let the fear crawl up my spine, let me drown in my own desperate thoughts. But then—slowly, deliberately—he released my chin and took a step back.

The distance was almost worse.

Because now, I could see him fully. The way his broad shoulders tensed, the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands curled into fists like he was holding something back.

"You're asking the wrong question, little writer," he said, voice a smooth, lethal whisper.

Dread coiled in my stomach. "Then what’s the right one?"

His lips curled, but there was nothing soft about it. "You should be asking if he's still alive."

I inhaled sharply. "You wouldn’t—"

His laughter was dark, humorless. "Wouldn't I?"

Panic surged through me. My hands trembled as I clenched them at my sides, trying to ground myself. Trying to think.

He was playing with me. Twisting my thoughts, pulling me into his game.

But what if he wasn’t?

"You’re lying," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You're just trying to scare me."

I barely had time to process the shift in his demeanor before his fingers clamped around my chin again, tilting my head back so I had no choice but to look into his eyes. They were black with rage, with something deeper—something unhinged.

"You really wanna know what I did to that motherfucker, little writer?" His voice was slow, deliberate, each word dripping with menace.

He let go of my chin just long enough to place the crushed rose on the nightstand, petals torn from the force of his grip. Then, just as quickly, his fingers were back on me—trailing down, slow and possessive. From my jaw, down the column of my throat, pausing at my collarbone before gliding lower.

A featherlight touch. A mockery of tenderness.

His palm flattened over my stomach, fingers splaying out as if he wanted to feel every shudder, every involuntary tremor running through me.

"You see, I don't like it when someone touches what's mine," he murmured, his hand drifting lower, to the waistband of my robe. His thumb traced slow, teasing circles against the fabric, just above where I ached the most. "So, I took my time with him. I made sure he felt everything."

I sucked in a sharp breath as his hand trailed even lower, fingertips brushing against my inner thighs. I clenched my legs together instinctively, but he only chuckled—a dark, amused sound.

"Do you know what I did first?" His fingers danced along the sensitive skin, stroking, teasing, but never quite giving me what I feared—what I needed. "I started with his hands. The same hands he used to touch you."

I stiffened, my breath hitching.

"One by one, I cut off his fingers." His voice was eerily calm, as if he were reciting a bedtime story. "I made sure he watched, made sure he felt it." His fingers slid higher, grazing against my aching core through the thin fabric of my robe.

A small, traitorous sound escaped my lips.

He smirked, his free hand tightening around my jaw. "You like that, don’t you?" His voice was taunting, filled with dark satisfaction. "You’re soaking for me, even while I tell you how I destroyed him."

A humiliating heat flooded through me. I hated him—I should have hated him—but my body betrayed me, arching into his touch instead of pulling away.

"You wanna know what I did next?" His fingers pressed harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles against my throbbing clit.

I whimpered.

"I cut out his tongue," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "The same tongue he used to taste you."

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, parting me easily.

I gasped, my body jerking as he slid one finger inside me, pushing deep with unbearable slowness.

"So tight," he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine for a brief moment. "So fucking wet."

I bit my lip, trying to suppress the whimper clawing its way up my throat.

But he wasn’t done.

His finger curled inside me, stroking that sensitive spot with precision, making my thighs tremble.

"And then, when he couldn’t scream anymore, when he was choking on his own blood…" He slid a second finger inside me, stretching me, filling me. "I carved out his eyes."

A broken sob tore from my lips as pleasure and horror tangled into something twisted, something I didn’t know how to escape. His fingers worked me open, ruthless and relentless, his breath ragged as he watched me come undone.

His grip on my jaw tightened as he thrust a third finger inside me.

"You should’ve seen him, little writer," he murmured, voice thick with dark amusement. "Pathetic. He thought he could touch what’s mine."

His fingers pumped into me harder, curling with each thrust, drawing a whimper from my throat.

"Thought he could put his hands on you. But I took care of that."

He ripped the belt of my robe open in one swift motion, the fabric slipping from my shoulders, pooling at my feet, leaving me bare—exposed—before him.

A shudder wracked my body as the cool air kissed my heated skin, my nipples pebbling under his hungry gaze. He dragged his fingers up my stomach, slow and deliberate, before cupping one breast in his palm, rolling my nipple between his fingers.

"Fuck, you’re perfect," he rasped, his other hand still buried between my legs, fingers stroking deep, relentless. "So fucking soft. So responsive."

I gasped as he pinched my nipple, the sharp pain sending a pulse of heat straight to my core.

His mouth followed next—hot, wet, and greedy. His tongue flicked over my nipple before he wrapped his lips around it, sucking hard. I cried out, arching into him, but he didn’t stop. He bit down—hard enough to leave a mark—before moving to the other, giving it the same ruthless attention.

"You like this, don’t you?" His voice was a low growl against my skin. "You like being fucked by the man who killed for you?"

I whimpered, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

"Say it," he demanded, his fingers thrusting harder, deeper. "Tell me you love it."

I shook my head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But my body betrayed me, tightening around his fingers, a desperate moan slipping past my lips.

"That’s it," he breathed, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck before he bit down, sucking, leaving his mark on my skin. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."

His free hand traveled lower, gripping my thigh, pulling me closer. His mouth followed, biting, sucking, claiming every inch of my skin.

And then—

"I pulled out my gun," he whispered.

My breath hitched, my body tensing beneath his relentless touch. His fingers didn’t stop, didn’t slow. If anything, they moved faster—deeper—pushing me toward the edge with every ruthless thrust.

"...and I finished him."

A broken moan tore from my lips as his thumb found my clit, rubbing in slow, devastating circles. My body was on fire—stretched, filled, overwhelmed by the dark pleasure he forced upon me.

"You should’ve seen him, little writer." His voice was husky, thick with satisfaction. "One second, he was whimpering. The next? I shoved my gun under his chin and painted the walls with his fucking blood."

His fingers curled inside me, pressing against that devastating spot.

"He was still twitching when I pulled the trigger again."

A strangled cry escaped me as a violent wave of pleasure coiled in my stomach, winding tighter, tighter—

He smirked against my skin, his lips brushing my ear. "You love it, don’t you?"

I shook my head weakly, but my body betrayed me, hips rolling into his touch, chasing the release he so cruelly dangled in front of me.

He chuckled darkly. "Liar."

His fingers pumped faster, his palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. The pressure was unbearable, blinding—pushing me to the brink of something I couldn’t control.

"Come for me, baby" he ordered, his voice low, commanding. "Now."

The last flick of his thumb sent me spiraling. My body arched, muscles locking as pleasure shattered through me, ripping me apart. A choked scream tore from my throat as waves of ecstasy crashed over me, pulse after pulse, dragging me under.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, his fingers relentless as I convulsed around him, milking every last tremor, every last whimper.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You’re gripping me like you never want me to leave."

I couldn’t speak—could barely breathe—as the aftershocks wracked through me, leaving me boneless in his hold.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, his eyes locked onto mine as he lifted them to his lips.

I watched, dazed and trembling, as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around each digit, savoring every drop.

"You taste even better when you’re afraid," he murmured, voice thick with dark satisfaction.

I shivered, my heart hammering against my ribs, my body still thrumming from the ruthless pleasure he’d forced upon me.

He leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a mockery of a kiss.

"You’re mine, little writer," he whispered. "And no one touches what’s mine."

His words settled over me like a cage, locking me in—no escape, no reprieve. My breath hitched as he lingered, the heat of his body a cruel reminder of everything he’d just done. Everything he’d just claimed.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes drinking in my wrecked state, satisfaction gleaming in the depths of his dark gaze. His fingers traced along my jaw, a deceptively soft caress that sent another shiver rippling through me.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he whispered, "Sleep well, little writer… but don’t forget who you belong to."

And just like that, he was gone.

The air in the room felt heavier, thick with his presence even in his absence. My body still trembled, my pulse refusing to slow, but it wasn’t just the aftermath of what he’d done—it was the terrifying realization that no matter how much I denied it, how much I fought it...

I had never felt more owned in my life.

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Sorry for the late update! I’ve been caught up with a lot lately, but I’m back now.

Thank you for your patience! Hope this chapter was worth the wait.

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