A D E L I N E

Shame clung to my skin like a sickness, festering deep inside me, poisoning every thought. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t erase the memory of what I had let happen.

It had been two days since he had come into my room—two days since he had touched me, tormented me, and left his mark on my soul. But even now, I could still feel him. His breath against my lips. His fingers inside me. The sick, twisted pleasure he had forced out of me.

I wanted to be sick.

I should have fought harder. I should have screamed, clawed at him, done something to stop it. Instead, I had let him do it—let him push me over the edge while whispering about the man he had brutally murdered for touching me.

And worst of all? My body had betrayed me.

I pressed my fingers against my lips, shaking. The memory of his words haunted me.

"You taste even better when you're afraid."

A shudder ran down my spine, bile rising in my throat.

How could I have let that happen?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the images flashing in my mind. But they wouldn’t stop. I could still see him. His sharp, predatory gaze. The way his tongue had flicked over his fingers, tasting me like I belonged to him.

And I had done nothing.

I had just stood there, letting him own me.

A bitter, broken laugh tore from my throat.

I was losing my mind.

I dug my nails into my palms, my breaths coming too fast. I needed to tell someone. I couldn’t keep this to myself—I had to tell someone before it consumed me.

Daya.

My hands fumbled for my phone, nearly dropping it as I pulled up her contact. I hit call, pressing the device to my ear, my heart hammering as the line rang once, twice—

Voicemail.

I swallowed hard and tried again.

"Hey, it’s me! I really need to talk to you. Call me back when you get this, okay?"

I ended the call, my pulse pounding in my ears.

She would call back. She always did.

But minutes passed, then an hour, and still—nothing.

I stared at my phone, fingers tightening around it. I should text her. Maybe she was just busy. Maybe—

A new message popped up.

Daya: Hey, babe! Sorry, I’m out of town for a few days. Work thing. What’s up?

I exhaled sharply, my fingers trembling as I typed back.

Me: It’s nothing. Just wanted to talk.

A lie.

I could have told her the truth. I should have. But Daya wasn’t here. And by the time she came back, who knew what state I’d be in?

I needed someone now.

I curled my knees to my chest, staring at the shadows stretching across my bedroom walls. I could still feel him watching me, still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin.

I couldn’t take this anymore.

I needed help.

The police.

The thought slammed into me like a jolt of electricity.

Yes. That was what I should have done from the beginning. I should have gone straight to the cops, told them everything—how I had a stalker, how he broke into my apartment, how he murdered Arch.

But even as I thought about it, dread curled in my stomach.

What would I even say? That a man had been watching me? That he had somehow gotten into my apartment without a trace? That he had killed someone and told me about it while touching me?

Would they even believe me?

I covered my face with my hands, my breath uneven.

I had no proof.

No evidence that he had been here.

No sign of a break-in.

Even the roses he had left behind were gone.

He had erased every trace of himself, leaving only his words behind—words that haunted me like a curse.

But then, another thought struck me.

Mom’s friend.

Detective Callahan.

He had known me since I was a child. He had always been kind, always told me if I ever needed help, I could come to him.

He would believe me.

Wouldn’t he?

My fingers hovered over my phone again, my chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

I could call him. Tell him everything. Let someone else carry this burden, let someone else handle him before he could do something worse.

Before I became too far gone.

I swallowed hard, my thumb trembling over the call button.

But then, from the depths of my mind, another voice whispered—one I didn’t want to hear.

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

I flinched, my stomach twisting into knots.

I knew what kind of man he was.

He wouldn’t let me go.

He wouldn’t let anyone take me from him.

And if I called the police… if I involved Callahan…

Would he kill him too?

Would more blood be on my hands?

I stared down at my phone, my vision blurring.

I should call. I should.

But as I sat there, frozen, I realized something terrifying.

I wasn’t just afraid of what he would do.

I was afraid of what I would feel if he came back.

Because as much as I hated him—

A part of me wanted him to.

The thought sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over me. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing myself to push past the weakness, past the twisted part of me that had let him do those things to me.

I pressed the call button.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

My pulse pounded against my ribs as I gripped the device tighter, desperate, waiting.

Then, finally—

"Callahan," a gruff voice answered.

Relief flooded me. My lips parted, a broken exhale slipping out before I even realized I had been holding my breath.

"I—" My voice cracked, my throat dry. "It’s me. Adeline."

A pause.

"Adeline?" His tone softened with concern. "What’s wrong?"

Everything.

I clenched my fingers into a fist, nails digging into my palm as I forced the words out, unraveling the nightmare that had taken over my life. I told him about the roses, the note, the messages that made my skin crawl. I told him about the man who had invaded my home, my mind, my body. I told him about Arch. About the way he’d spoken of killing him, like it was nothing more than a game.

I told him everything.

Except for the shameful, unspeakable part.

The part where I had let him touch me.

The part where, for just a moment, I had wanted him to.

Callahan listened in silence. When I was done, he exhaled sharply. "Jesus, Adeline."

I bit my lip, fighting the lump in my throat.

"I’ll do everything I can," he assured me. "I promise. I’ll look into this. But listen to me—do not engage with this man. Don’t answer his calls, his messages. Keep your doors locked. I’ll call you as soon as I have something."

"Okay," I whispered.

The call ended.

I let the phone fall from my hands, staring blankly at the wall, exhaustion pressing down on me.

It was done.

I had finally told someone.

But somehow, the relief I expected never came.

Because deep down, I knew.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

I barely slept that night. Every sound, every shift of the shadows outside my window made my heart jump into my throat. My body remained tense, like I was waiting—waiting for something, for him.

When morning came, I checked my phone before I even got out of bed.

No call from Callahan.

I frowned, hesitation creeping in. Should I call him? Maybe he was still working on it. Maybe he had nothing to report yet.

I chewed my lip, debating. But before I could decide, a shiver ran down my spine.

Something felt… off.

I swallowed the unease and forced myself to push the thought away, rolling out of bed. I would give it a few more hours, then I’d call him.

For now, I just needed to breathe.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, setting up the coffee maker on autopilot, my mind still clouded with restless thoughts.

The silence in my apartment felt heavier than usual.

Like something was missing.

Or maybe… something was watching.

I shook the thought away, moving to pour my coffee when the nagging dread in my gut finally won.

Swallowing hard, I grabbed my phone and dialed Callahan’s number.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

A sigh of relief almost left me when the call connected.

But then—

"Hello?"

A deep, familiar voice.

But—it wasn’t Callahan.

It was him.

I froze, ice flooding my veins, my grip tightening around the phone.

How? How did he have this number?

My breath hitched as he let out a low, taunting chuckle.

"Now, now, little writer. That’s not very nice."

I couldn’t speak.

"Calling the cops?" he murmured, voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "I thought we had an understanding."

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat.

"What did you think was going to happen?" he continued, each word sending a shiver down my spine. "That they’d protect you? That I’d let them?"

His tone was almost amused. As if none of this was real. As if he was still in control.

My heart slammed against my ribs, my fingers trembling around the phone.

No. No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything—

But I couldn’t.

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

My fingers clutched the phone so tightly my knuckles ached, but I barely noticed. All I could hear was his voice. All I could think about was how he had this number.

How he had taken Callahan’s phone.

How that could only mean one thing.

Oh God.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat felt like it was closing, my mind racing a hundred miles per hour, scrambling for an explanation that didn’t lead to the worst possible conclusion.

I wasn’t sure how long the silence stretched, but then—

He sighed, almost disappointed.

"Tell me, little writer," he murmured, voice dipping into something dark and dangerous. "Should I punish you?"

A sharp breath shuddered from my lips.

He was toying with me. Testing me. Waiting to see how I would react.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

"I—I don’t—" My voice cracked, weak and useless.

"You don’t?" His chuckle was soft, cruel. "No, I think you do."

A pause.

"Because you knew better, didn’t you?" His voice turned almost soothing, as if he was coaxing a confession out of me. "And yet, you called him anyway."

My stomach twisted.

He had known. The whole time, he had known what I was going to do.

Had he been watching me? Listening?

The thought made my skin crawl.

"I—" I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. "What did you do to him?"

Silence.

Then—

"You’re asking the wrong question, little writer."

My breath hitched.

His tone had changed. No longer teasing. No longer taunting.

Just cold.

Dread coiled tight in my chest, suffocating me, because I knew—

I already knew the answer.

He had done the same thing to Callahan that he had done to Arch.

And I had led him straight to him.

This was my fault.

Oh God, this was my fault.

Tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"You—" My voice wavered, cracking under the weight of my guilt. "You killed him."

Another pause. Then, quietly—

"Actions have consequences, baby."

A sob built in my throat, but I choked it down, my fingers trembling so hard I almost dropped the phone.

I wanted to scream. To cry. To deny it.

But there was no denying anything anymore.

He wasn’t just playing with me.

He was proving a point.

I had tried to get help.

And now Callahan was gone.

I had no one left.

I sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the phone tighter.

He was waiting for a response.

Waiting to hear me break.

But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Even if my hands were shaking, even if my lungs felt like they were collapsing, I wouldn’t let him hear me crumble.

So I said nothing.

Just silence.

Until finally, he spoke with a low, mocking hum, amusement evident in his voice.

"I hope you’re ready, little writer. Because there’s no safe word to save you from me. Disobedience has consequences. And I intend to make you feel every single one."

The line went dead.

---

I couldn’t breathe. The air in the car felt too thick, too suffocating, and I couldn’t get enough of it into my lungs. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my fingers ached, but it was the only thing holding me together.

My heart thundered in my chest, a constant reminder of how much I was running—running from him, running from the situation I found myself trapped in. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to turn to. And for the first time, I didn’t even trust myself.

The wheels of my car hummed along the road, the only sound besides the rhythmic thump of my heart. The headlights illuminated the empty stretch of road ahead, but there was something unsettling about the silence. The darkness seemed to stretch forever, and the faint glow of the streetlights felt so distant, so unreachable.

I had to get home. I had to make it back, find some sense of safety, of control. But the closer I drove, the more I felt like the shadows around me were closing in.

I wasn’t alone.

I felt it.

And then, just as the dread began to crawl up my spine, something caught the corner of my eye. A movement.

A shape.

A shadow.

I slammed my foot down on the brake.

My breath hitched.

There, standing in the middle of the road, was a figure. The kind of figure you don’t expect to see. The kind that makes your heart stop, and your entire body tense up in a way you can’t control.

I could barely make out his features, just the silhouette against the dim light. But even without seeing him clearly, I knew exactly who it was.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing by the second.

How? How was he here?

I quickly turned my head to look around, as if there was some escape I hadn’t noticed before. But I knew better. The roads were empty, desolate. No one was out here but him.

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just stood there.

And in that moment, I felt like the entire world had shifted.

Then, he took a single step forward. The sound of his boots hitting the asphalt was like a thunderclap in my ears, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment.

My foot twitched over the gas pedal, but I knew I couldn’t move. I couldn’t leave.

Not anymore.

A voice.

That familiar, deep, dark voice that made my stomach churn and my pulse race.

"Going somewhere, little writer?"

I froze.

There was no use pretending he didn’t know. He always knew where I was, what I was doing. And he was never far behind.

The door of my car was still locked. But I could feel his presence creeping closer, could feel the pressure mounting as his shadow stretched across my seat. I didn’t dare to look at him, didn’t want to see the twisted smile that I knew would be there.

His hand appeared at the window. The tap on the glass was soft, but it rang through the air like a death sentence.

I didn’t want to roll it down. I didn’t want to face him. But I knew it was inevitable. I had no choice but to do what he wanted.

Slowly, I reached for the button, my fingers trembling as I pressed it. The window slid down with a soft hum, the cool night air rushing in. And there he was, standing right outside, his face partially obscured by the shadows, his presence overpowering the space around me.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

His voice was dark, edged with amusement, but there was an undeniable authority in it. A command. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist him, even if I tried.

Before I could even respond, he was already opening my door, his hand grabbing the handle like he owned everything in this moment, like he owned me.

"Get out," he growled.

A jolt ran through me, but I didn’t dare to argue. I didn’t dare to do anything except follow his command. Because I knew, deep down, that there was no way out. Not now. Not ever.

I stepped out of the car, the cool night air biting into my skin. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel the weight of his eyes on me as he closed the door behind me with a soft click.

"You’ve been a very bad girl, little writer."

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

"And bad girls need to be taught a lesson."

His words sent a shiver up my spine, and my body reacted without my permission. I could feel my pulse thrumming in my throat, my skin tightening in response to the threat in his tone.

"Let’s go," he said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me forward, his grip unyielding.

I had no choice but to follow him. There was no way to fight back. No way to escape. Not now. Not anymore.

──────❀🌹❀──────