Dear Owen

MAE CELESTE

Copyright © 2025 by Ruthless Readers

Cover art by Artscandare Book Cover Design

Editing by Amanda Hall

Interior art by Ruthless Readers

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Hey there!

Content Warning

Owen’s Playlist to Kira

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

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About the Author

Blurb

Dear Owen,

I know you won’t read this letter because I’m destroying it later. But I couldn’t help but write it as I stared at the back of your head while you flirted with her. Every breathy giggle feels like a dagger to my chest. We were never together, but it fucking breaks my heart to know you don’t love me back.

I don’t understand why you despise me or why you singled me out.

Fuck, I can’t handle this. I’m in so much pain that maybe it’s time. You know, I’ve been planning it for a while now, but I was never strong enough to do it. Now, I finally think I am.

I want to let you know it’s not your fault—it’s mine. I should have ended this sooner, and I’m sorry I didn’t. When I’m gone, I hope it brings you peace, like I know it will me.

Sincerely,

Kira

I didn’t mean for the letter to fall as I left class. I never intended for anyone else to see it. But it doesn’t matter now. Even if it gets out, I’ll be dead by sunrise anyway.

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To the part of you that’s reading this and already wondering, ‘Am I about to make a bad life choice?’ Spoiler: You are.

Content Warning

A

Abuse (emotional, sexual, psychological, physical)

B

Bondage (light and heavy)

Bullying (verbal and psychological)

C

Captivity

Carving names into skin (consensual and non-consensual)

Castration (referenced, not graphic)

Coercion

Consensual Non-Consent (CNC)

D

Degradation kink?

Depictions of trauma

Dominance and submission dynamics (NOT healthy BDSM)

E

Emotional manipulation

F

Forced intimacy (consensual and non-consensual)

Forced proximity

G

Gagging (verbal and physical)

Gang rape

H

Hurt/comfort dynamics

K

Kidnapping (non-consensual and romanticized)

Knife play

M

Mental health struggles (suicidal ideation, depression, disassociation, obsession)

Mind games

Multilayered trauma exploration

N

Non-consensual acts (detailed and referenced)

O

Obsession (yes it’s here twice for a reason)

Over-the-top groveling

Ownership dynamics

P

Pegging

Power imbalances

R

Raw, explicit sexual detail

S

Sexual violence (referenced and detailed)

Stalking

Stockholm syndrome?

Submissive partner dynamics

Suicidal themes and ideation

T

Toxic relationships

Trauma bonding

Trust-building amid dysfunction

Y

Yandere behavior (obsessive love)

Owen’s Playlist to Kira

Listen here

Take Me To Church by Hozier

Arsonist's Lullabye by Hozier

Work Song by Hozier

I Found by Amber Run

I Will Follow You Into The Dark by Death Cab For Cutie

I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie

Heavy In Your Arms by Florence + The Machine

Kiss With A Fist by Florence + The Machine

Sugar by Sleep Token

Fall for Me by Sleep Token

Mine by Sleep Token

Venus by Sleeping At Last

One

MY EYES, clouded with unshed tears, struggled to focus on the figure at the front of the room. Owen’s dark hair seemed to absorb the light, creating a cruel parody of a halo above his head. With every smirk tossed in Jasmine’s direction, my chest tightened, the pain a relentless tide threatening to drown me.

My fingers trembled like leaves in a storm while searching the depths of my bag for the tools of my confession. The pen felt foreign in my grasp, its weight heavy with the burden of my unsaid words. As I uncapped it, the paper lay before me, a blank canvas that was entirely too crisp and unblemished. It felt almost wrong to taint it with my bullshit. I shook my head slightly to stop myself from dissociating. I pressed the tip of the black ink pen to the first line.

“Dear Owen,” I wrote, my handwriting shaky and uneven. The ink smeared beneath my fingertips as it mingled with the tears that fell silently onto the paper. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision, but the world remained a watery blur.

My chest constricted as I watched Owen lean in close to Jasmine, his lips brushing against her ear. Her breathy giggle echoed through the hall, each note a shard of glass in my heart. I pressed the pen harder against the paper, the words flowing faster now, fueled by the raw ache inside me.

“I don’t understand why you despise me,” I scrawled, the truth of those words burning like acid in my throat. How could someone so beautiful, so perfect, harbor such hatred for me? What had I done to deserve this?

I wrote with a fervor that bordered on desperation, each word a drop of blood from my dying soul. With every line, the numbness crept in, a frosty blanket over the infected wound that had taken root in my very being. It was a relief, this chilling detachment, a serene acceptance of the path I had chosen. My hand moved of its own accord, the words spilling onto the page like one of my old diary entries.

“I want to let you know it’s not your fault—it’s mine.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to blame him. Even now, even after everything, I couldn’t bear the thought of causing him pain.

When I finished, I carefully folded the letter, caressing the paper with my fingers as if it were a fragile, living thing. This was my heart, laid bare on a single sheet. As I slipped it into my bag, a tear escaped, rolling down my cheek. I wiped it away hastily, praying no one had noticed my breakdown.

The professor’s voice droned on, a meaningless hum in the background. I let it because I couldn’t be bothered. Nothing mattered anymore anyways.

As the lecture ended and students began to file out, I remained frozen in my seat, unable to move, unable to tear my eyes away from him. He stood, stretching languidly, his muscular arm casually draped around Jasmine’s slender shoulders, pulling her close to his side. She leaned into him, a satisfied smirk playing on her glossy lips. The intimate gesture sent a fresh wave of agony ripping through my chest, so intense I could barely breathe. It felt like a vice was crushing my lungs, squeezing the air from them until I was left gasping silently. Hot tears pricked at the corners of my eyes again but I blinked them back furiously, refusing to let any more fall.

I stumbled to my feet, my legs weak and unsteady, barely able to support my weight. The world tilted and spun around me as I made my way down the steps, each one feeling like a monumental effort. Vertigo assaulted my senses and I had to grip the railing tightly to keep from pitching forward. Just as I reached the bottom, my foot caught on the edge of a step, and I tumbled forward, my hands flailing in a desperate attempt to break my fall.

The letter slipped from my bag, floating to the ground like a fallen flower petal, a fragile testament to my shattered heart. Panic seized me as I scrambled to retrieve it, my fingers grasping at empty air. I pushed myself up, ignoring the sting of my scraped palms, but the sea of departing students who giggled behind their hands as they passed made it impossible to reach. Bodies jostled me from all sides, and I fought against the tide, my eyes locked on the spot where the letter had fallen.

I watched in horror as it disappeared beneath countless feet, trampled and lost in the shuffle of bodies, my deepest secrets laid bare for anyone to find. A choked sob escaped my lips as I realized the enormity of what had just happened, the last vestiges of my control slipping away like sand through my fingers.

As I pushed through the crowd, desperate to get to the letter, the cold realization settled over me again. Who even gives a shit? By sunrise, I would be gone and all of this pain would finally end along with anything anyone could have said to me about the letter if they ever read it. The thought brought me a twisted sense of peace.

My breath hitched, caught on the jagged edges of my resolve as I stepped out of the lecture hall. The echo of my footsteps mocked the silent scream within me, each one a testament to the goodbye that lay crumpled and forgotten.

Two

THE HEAVY DOOR of the lecture hall thudded shut behind me, the sound carrying a sense of satisfaction that hummed through my veins. Jasmine’s laughter chimed in beside me, her body pressed against mine as if drawn in by some unspoken gravitational pull. Her perfume—light, floral, and expensive—clung to my senses like a familiar blanket. I tightened my arm around her waist, relishing the attention from the guys who offered their congratulations on last night’s game-winning goal.

“Did you see the way he deked around Thompson?” Liam’s voice cut through the chatter, his eyes gleaming with a shared sense of dark pride. Only he knew the full extent of what lived beneath the surface of my control.

“Like, he was a fucking cone on the ice,” I smirked, soaking in the glory of the retelling. “Thompson’s decent, but he’s predictable. And predictable gets you nowhere in hockey—or in life.” My grip instinctively tightened around Jasmine. She leaned into me, perfectly at ease, not knowing that I was barely paying attention to her at all.

As the post-lecture buzz began to die down, my gaze wandered, idly scanning the thinning crowd. And then I saw her.

Kira.

Something inside me snapped. She wasn’t supposed to smile like that—not with that light in her eyes, not with that sense of calm softening the lines of her face. The tension, the fear that usually haunted her expression was gone, replaced by something I had never allowed.

That smile—it felt like a slap across the face. It was genuine, deep, as if some secret joy had cracked open the prison I had built around her. My chest tightened, an all-consuming fury rising from the dark corners of my mind, threatening to break through the veneer of control I wore like armor. How could she smile like that? I had gone to great lengths to ensure she had nothing to smile about. Kira was supposed to exist in the shadow of my will—yet here she was, defying everything I had meticulously orchestrated.

My jaw clenched, and I barely registered Jasmine’s hand on my arm. Her voice was nothing but a faint hum in the background, meaningless.

“Owen? What’s wrong?” she asked, her concern shallow, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Kira. She was packing up her things, that stupid smile still playing on her lips as if she had freed herself from the chains I had so carefully wrapped around her.

Then, I saw it—a crumpled piece of paper lying just beyond her reach, lost among the shuffle of students. My eyes narrowed. Could it be just some homework assignment, or was it something more?

Without a word, I shrugged off Jasmine’s grip and moved. “I forgot something,” I muttered, barely aware of the words as they left my mouth. I pushed through the crowd, my mind racing, my heart pounding with a toxic mix of anger and possessiveness.

I reached the desk just as another student bent down to grab the paper. With a swift, instinctive motion, I snatched it up, my fingers brushing the rough edges of the paper like it was something precious. Something mine.

In a quiet corner, away from the noise and chatter, I unfolded the note. The moment I saw Kira’s shaky handwriting, something shifted inside me. My vision blurred with rage as the words carved themselves into my brain.

Dear Owen…

Every word stoked the fire inside me and each line drove me deeper into the abyss of my obsession.

We were never together, but it fucking breaks my heart to know you don’t love me back…

I’ve been planning it for a while now, but I was never strong enough…

She was planning to leave me. To escape me. Not through running—but through death. She thought she could just fucking slip away like that? End it all without my permission? No.

No.

Kira was mine. She had always been mine, even if she didn’t fully understand it yet. She couldn’t just walk away from me—not when I had so much more to teach her, to show her. I had broken her down piece by piece, and she thought she could simply vanish from my world? From me?

I would not allow her to rob me of that satisfaction. She couldn’t die unless I willed it. And she wasn’t going to escape. Not now. Not ever.

Jasmine’s voice broke through the storm raging inside me, pulling me back for just a second. “Owen, we’re heading to the café. Are you coming?”

I barely looked up. “Go ahead without me,” I said, keeping my voice steady, cool. “I’ll catch up later.”

As she and the others left, I turned back to the letter, crumpling it in my fist as I felt the paper protest under the pressure. Kira’s last thoughts—her final words—were of me. Even now, at her breaking point, she still couldn’t let me go. She was trying to, but deep down, she knew she couldn’t escape. Not really.

It was intoxicating.

If Kira thought she could abandon me so easily, she was in for a rude awakening. She didn’t understand yet. But she would. I would make sure of it. She would live, not because she wanted to, but because I willed it. In her survival, she would find new depths of suffering—pain she could never have imagined. And in that suffering, she would see the truth: she belonged to me.

I stepped out into the crisp evening air, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of crimson and gold. The real game had only just begun, and I was more than ready to play.

The sky transformed into a canvas of crimson as the sunset spread its vibrant hues, casting an aura of passion and fury over the clouds as Kira led me through the maze of university buildings. My strides were long, purposeful like a predator stalking its prey with the precision of a well-practiced dance. She walked with her head down, the golden light playing across her platinum hair, turning it into a halo of twisted innocence. She didn’t always have platinum hair, she had dark hair up to the day after I clipped her wings. When she showed up to class the next day, the platinum blond was all I could think about. I could still taste her fear, a sweet and cloying perfume that I found myself addicted to.

My life had been a series of calculated moves, both on the ice and in the game of human chess I played with Kira. I was always two steps ahead, anticipating her reactions with a hunter’s intuition. Hockey had taught me patience, the art of waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and now, as I watched her enter the secluded arboretum, I knew the time had come.

Her footsteps were soft whispers against the cobblestone path, a rhythm I found myself in sync with. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with the weight of secrets and the promise of the night. Kira’s pace quickened, a doe sensing the nearness of the wolf. But there was nowhere for her to run, no escape from the web I had woven.

As she turned a corner, I closed the distance between us, my boots silent against the ground as I balanced my weight on my heels. I reached her just as she realized she was not alone, her dark eyes widening with a mixture of recognition and dread. In that moment, she was more beautiful than ever, the delicate pulse at the base of her throat beating out a frantic rhythm that echoed the pounding of my own heart.

“Kira,” I said, my voice low and smooth, a contrast to the chaos brewing within me.

She opened her mouth to scream, but I was faster. My arm snaked around her, pulling her against me. She struggled, a futile attempt at resistance that only served to inflame my desire. I could feel the warmth of her body, the erratic rise and fall of her chest as panic set in.

There was a certain art to rendering someone unconscious, an art I had honed to perfection. My thumb found the pulse point beneath her ear, pressing gently but insistently until her struggles ceased. Her eyelids, once wide with terror, now fluttered in a helpless rhythm, a prelude to the darkness that enveloped her, pulling her into its depths.

I caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her up and slinging her over my shoulder with the gentleness of a lion carrying its cub. Her hair cascaded down my back, a waterfall of silk that I had every intention of tangling my fingers in once again.

“You’re mine, Kira,” I murmured, nuzzling my face into her side. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Her breaths were shallow, I could feel each delicate puff against my back. I had never been one for tenderness but, with Kira, even violence felt like a perverse form of worship. She was my sin and my salvation, the only one who could match the darkness within me.

I would make her understand that her life was intertwined with mine, that she was bound to me. She would wake up to a world where I was both her captor and her savior, her nightmare and her deepest, most tragic desire.

And, as I carried her away from the dying light of day, I knew that this was only the beginning. The real game had just started, and I was ready to play.

Three

I WOKE to a consciousness that felt like a delicate wisp of smoke, curling and stretching in the dim light of an unfamiliar room. My mind was a fog, thick and suffocating, as I tried to stitch together the threads of memory that would explain my surroundings. The walls around me were an oppressive shade of grey, the kind that seemed to drink in the light, leaving the air heavy with shadows.

A chill ran down my spine, not just from the cold that seeped from the concrete floor, but from the creeping realization that I was no longer in control of my own life. My heart thrummed in my chest,as I struggled to sit up, the room spinning around me like a carousel from which I couldn’t disembark.

The door creaked open creating a sound so innocuous, yet, it sent shivers down my spine. Owen stepped inside, his silhouette a dark blot against the slightly less dark room. The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the silence. His presence filled the space, a tangible reminder of the power he held over me.

“You’re finally awake,” he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate in the marrow of my bones. “I was beginning to worry I’d been too…enthusiastic.”

I tried to speak but my throat was a desert, my words little more than a hoarse whisper. “Where am I?”

He took a step closer, his eyes pinning me in place like a moth under a collector’s glass. “You’re home, Kira. Or, at least, you will be. You belong to me now.”

My mind rebelled against his words, even as my treacherous heart fluttered at the dark promise in his voice. I was caught in a tempest of emotions, the fear and longing intertwined like a stormy whirlpool, ready to engulf me.

“You can’t keep me here,” I managed to whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of terror and desperation, as if each word were a fragile thread holding onto my fading hope.

Owen’s smile was a slash of white in the gloom. “Can’t I? I think you’ll find that I can.”

He moved closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of my jaw. His touch was a brand, searing into my skin, leaving a trail of fire and ice in its wake. I should have recoiled, should have slapped his hand away, but I was paralyzed, caught in the web of my own conflicting emotions.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers stilled, his gaze piercing into mine. “Because you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I won’t let you throw your life away, not when it’s just beginning to get interesting.”

I felt the sting of tears, hot and unwanted, as they tracked down my cheeks. I was broken, a porcelain doll shattered into a thousand pieces, each one reflecting the fractured remains of my soul. Owen’s obsession with me was a poison, seeping into my veins, corrupting the very essence of who I was.

And yet, despite the fear, despite the pain, there was a part of me that still yearned for his approval, his affection. It was a twisted, perverse longing, a desire that clawed at my insides, demanding to be acknowledged.

“I hate you,” I whispered, the words laced with the venom of my torn heart.

“I know,” he replied, his voice soft, almost tender. “But hate is just the other side of love, Kira. And I plan to explore every inch of that spectrum with you.”

He stood then, his shadow looming over me, a physical weight that pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. “You’re going to learn, Kira. You’re going to learn what it means to be truly owned. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll start to appreciate the gift I’ve given you.

You must understand, I’m the only one who truly sees you. Everyone else? They’re blind to the depths of your soul, to the shadows that dance just beneath the surface. But I see them. I see you.”

I shook my head, trying to deny the truth in his words.

“What about my family? My friends?” I asked, my voice a tremulous thread that barely held together.

Owen’s smile was a cruel twist of lips, a grotesque parody of affection. “Your parents, Kira? They’re so caught up in their own little bubble that they have no clue what’s going on in your life. And your friends? You mean that one girl who couldn’t even stand up for you?”

He was right, of course. My parents had always been distant, their love smothering in its overprotectiveness yet absent when it came to the things that truly mattered. And my friends…well, I had watched the last of them fade into the background as Owen’s cruel games had unfolded.

“But they’ll notice I’m gone,” I insisted, my voice growing stronger, fueled by desperate hope. “They’ll come looking for me.”

Owen leaned in, his eyes capturing mine in a relentless grip. “No, Kira. They won’t. You’ve been slipping through the cracks for years. And now? Now you’re mine.”

“Why?” I whispered, the fight draining out of me, leaving me hollow and aching. “Why go through all this trouble for me?”

Owen’s gaze softened. “Because, Kira, you’re not like the others. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you by my side, to mold you into the masterpiece you were always meant to be.”

His hand reached out, fingers brushing against my cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. I flinched away, but there was no escaping his grasp, no hope of turning back the hands of time to a life that was no longer mine.

“Remember, Kira,” he said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through me. “There’s no escape from me. And as long as I’m alive, you’ll never have to face the darkness alone again.”

The room seemed to shrink around us, the walls closing in as Owen’s presence filled every inch of space. I was trapped, truly and utterly trapped.

As the realization of my new reality sank in, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to his words. Was I really as invisible as he claimed, or was there still a chance that someone, somewhere, would notice my absence and come searching for the girl who had all but disappeared into the background?

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, each step echoing in the silence like the tolling of a bell. As he reached for the handle, I found my voice, the words spilling from my lips in a desperate plea.

“Owen, please…”

He paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, his back still to me. “Please, what, Kira?”

But I had no answer, no coherent thought beyond the chaos that raged within me. I was drowning in an ocean of my own making, and Owen was the siren that threatened to drag me into its darkest depths.

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone in the half-light, the sound of my own heartbeat a relentless reminder of the life that pulsed within me—a life that Owen now claimed as his own.

Four

THE FIRST LIGHT of dawn seeped through a small, grimy window set high in the wall, casting a feeble glow over my prison. I lay there, aching and disoriented, the events of the previous day replaying in my mind like a broken record. The room was a crypt, silent and cold, filled with shadows that danced mockingly in the half-light.

As my eyes adjusted, I took in the details of my surroundings. The walls were bare concrete, the cold seeping into my bones, and the floor was a patchwork of cracked tiles that seemed to whisper stories of abandonment and decay. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with forgotten relics of scientific endeavor: beakers and test tubes, old textbooks, and rusted equipment. It was then that I realized where I was—the basement of the old science building, a place I had never set foot in all my time at the university.

I pushed myself up, my body protesting with every movement, and stumbled toward the door. It was a heavy, metal monstrosity, the kind you’d find in a high-security facility. I pressed my ear against the cold surface, listening for any sign of life beyond, but there was nothing—only a profound and unsettling silence that seemed to echo the void within me.

The realization hit me like a physical blow: the room was soundproof. My cries for help would be swallowed by the walls, my existence reduced to a mere whisper in the darkness. I was utterly, irrevocably alone.

I floated in a void, my consciousness tethered to nothing but the rough texture of the ceiling above me. The cracks and stains formed shapes that I traced with my eyes, again and again, until they became meaningless patterns—a tapestry of my emptiness. Time slipped through my fingers like sand, each grain a moment lost to the heavy fog that shrouded my mind.

The shadows grew long as the day wore on, the light from the window shifting subtly with the passing hours. I watched as it crept across the floor, a silent companion in my solitude. I knew that night would soon fall, and with it would come a deeper darkness, a more profound isolation. But even that knowledge couldn’t stir the embers of fear or despair that lay smoldering within me.

Minutes bled into hours, and still, I lay there, suspended in a waking coma. I was aware, on some level, that this was not normal—this apathy, this disconnection from my own humanity. But it was a small voice, easily drowned out by the overwhelming need to feel nothing.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open, a sliver of light cutting through the gloom. I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t need to. I knew it was Owen, his presence like a shadow across my heart. He stepped into the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence, each one a reminder of the reality I had tried to escape.

“Kira,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stillness as I heard him putting down a few things on the concrete floor.

I didn’t respond. I was a statue carved from the same cold stone as the walls that confined me. I was untouchable, unreachable, even as he approached, his silhouette blotting out the dim light that filtered through the window.

I sensed him crouching near me. “Look at me,” he commanded, his tone laced with an urgency that I couldn’t muster the energy to decipher.

Slowly, as if moving through molasses, I turned my head to meet his eyes.

His gaze was intense, probing, searching for something within the depths of my own. It was a look that would have once made my heart race with a mixture of fear and an impossible yearning. Now, I felt nothing but a distant curiosity. What was it he sought in my eyes? Some flicker of life, perhaps? A glimmer of the old Kira, the one who had foolishly allowed herself to feel too much?

He must have found it—the thing he was looking for—because his features softened, the harsh lines of his face giving way to a tenderness that was as bewildering as it was out of place. I watched, detached, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in a ghost of a kiss. It was so fleeting, so gentle, that it might have been a figment of my imagination.

I didn’t react. I couldn’t. My body was leaden, my emotions encased in ice. He pulled back slightly, his gaze holding mine, as if willing me to respond, to feel something—anything. But the circuit was broken, and the connection severed. I was numb, and no amount of coaxing could reignite the spark that had once burned so brightly within me.

Without a word, Owen rose to his feet, the sound of rustling plastic filling the silence. I watched, unblinking, as he unfolded an air mattress. The garish cerulean was out of place within the drab, ashen hues of the space. He worked methodically, his movements precise and controlled, inflating the mattress with swift, sure pumps.

When he was done, he turned back to me, his expression unreadable. “You’ll sleep here,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability that was at odds with the strength and cruelty I had come to associate with him.

I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his words. What did it matter where I slept? The stone-cold floor or a makeshift bed—it was all the same to me.

“I thought you might be more comfortable,” Owen said. He moved with a predator’s grace, the muscles in his arms flexing with each deliberate motion. “And you need to eat. I won’t have you wasting away down here.”

He lifted the cloth on the tray that he had placed on the floor before setting up the bed, to reveal my favorite meal—chicken parmesan with a side of garlic bread from the little Italian place off-campus. The aroma was intoxicating, but beneath that was the unmistakable scent of Owen, a musky, intoxicating fragrance that clung to the bedding and the food, wrapping me in his presence. He sat me up and handed me a fork before sitting on his heels to watch me.

“Go on,” he urged, his eyes locked on mine, daring me to refuse.

My mouth watered, not just from the food, but from the display of control, from the knowledge that he could provide comfort and inflict suffering with the same effortless charm. I hesitated, the fork poised tremblingly in my hand as I contemplated the meal.

“What’s wrong, Kira?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Not hungry?”

I finally willingly met his gaze. “I’m not sure I trust what you might have put in it,” I admitted, the words tasting of defeat.

He chuckled, low and throaty, before reaching for a piece of garlic bread. He took a bite, chewing slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I’d poison you?” he asked after he swallowed. “I didn’t go through all this trouble to keep you just to throw it away.”

He took another bite, his enjoyment of the meal a cruel taunt. My stubbornness reared its head, and I set the fork down, a silent protest. His expression darkened, the playful smirk replaced by a hard line of disapproval.

In an instant, he was upon me, his strength overpowering as he pushed me down onto the mattress. I struggled, my hands pushing against his chest, but it was futile. He was an unstoppable force, his fingers gripping my jaw with bruising intensity.

“You will not starve yourself,” he growled, his face inches from mine. “You need to keep up your strength.”

With his free hand, he picked up a piece of chicken, pressing it to my tightly sealed lips. I turned my head, trying to evade him, but he was relentless. He pried my mouth open, shoving the food inside. My instinct was to spit it out, but he was quicker, his hand clamping over my mouth, holding it shut.

“Swallow,” he commanded, his eyes blazing with an unsettling mix of anger and concern.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I chewed so I wouldn’t choke. Why did it have to be so good? I swallowed, and he released his hold on me, though he remained close, his presence suffocating.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice softer now, the approval in his tone a bitter reward. “You need to take care of yourself, Kira. For your own sake, and for mine.”

I turned away from him, curling into a ball on the mattress, my body shaking with a mixture of fear, anger, and the unsettling realization that, even now, there was a part of me that craved his approval, that yearned for his touch, despite the terror it brought.

Owen watched me for a moment longer before rising to his feet. “I’ll be back to check on you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

With that, he was gone, the door shutting behind him with a finality that echoed in the silence he left in his wake. I lay there, the taste of chicken parmesan lingering on my tongue.

It must have been not an hour later when the door to my prison creaked open. Owen stood there, the dim light casting a sinister silhouette around his form, and in his hands, he held a set of handcuffs. The cold steel glinted ominously, a silent threat that sent a shiver down my spine.

“What are you doing?” My voice was a hoarse whisper, the words barely audible in the oppressive silence.

He didn’t answer, his movements deliberate as he advanced toward me. I backed away, my heart pounding in my chest, but there was nowhere to run, no escape from the inevitability of his touch. He was upon me in an instant, his strength overwhelming as he wrestled me into submission, a wild animal caught in a trap.

With one swift motion, he clasped one cuff around my wrist, the metal biting into my skin. I fought him with all the strength I had left, my free hand pushing against his chest, but it was like fighting a force of nature. He grabbed my other wrist, pulling my arms around his waist, and with a final click, the other cuff was in place, trapping me in an intimate embrace I couldn’t escape.

My breath came in ragged gasps, my body pressed against his, the weight of the handcuffs a constant reminder of my helplessness. Owen’s heart thrummed against my ear, a steady rhythm that belied the violence of our struggle. His hand moved to my hair, smoothing it back with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his brutality.

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Just relax, Kira. You’re safe with me.”

I wanted to scream, to lash out at him for the cruelty of his words, but my voice had abandoned me, leaving me to stew in the turmoil of my emotions. Owen guided us down onto the mattress, his movements precise and controlled, as though he hadn’t just overpowered me with brute force.

He adjusted the pillows before pulling the blanket over us, the scent of his cologne surrounding me, a fragrant cage from which there was no escape. I hated how soft the fabric was against my skin.

I was acutely aware of every point of contact between us, from the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my head to the warmth that seeped through the layers of our clothing.

As the adrenaline coursing through my veins began to ebb, I felt overwhelming fatigue take its place. The combination of emotional exhaustion and the physical restraint of the handcuffs forced my body to surrender, my eyelids growing heavy despite the chaos of my thoughts.

I drifted into an uneasy sleep, the steady beat of Owen’s heart a lullaby that sang of captivity and control. My hands, trapped beneath our combined weight, grew numb, the pins and needles a distant sensation that barely registered over the thrum of my pulse in my ears.

I was lost in a dreamless sleep, a prisoner in the arms of my captor, when the sound of his voice pulled me back from the brink of unconsciousness. Owen’s words were soft, barely more than a murmur in the stillness of our confinement, but their meaning pierced through the fog that clouded my mind.

“You’re mine, Kira,” he said, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Five

THE MORNING LIGHT that filtered through the basement window was a dull gray, a color that seemed to seep into my bones and leach away what little warmth I had left. Owen had uncuffed us before the break of dawn, his movements as silent as the shadows that danced across the walls. He left without a word, the sound of the lock sliding into place was a cruel reminder of my confinement.

I lay there on the deflating air mattress, my body aching from the night spent shackled to him. The imprint of his warmth still lingered on my skin, a ghostly presence that I couldn’t shake off. I stared at the cuff still clasped around one wrist, the metal cold and foreign against my flesh. The other cuff lay open, a silent sentinel waiting for nightfall when it would once again bind me to my captor.

I could hear the distant hum of the central heating system kicking in, the sound a muffled echo in my ears. It was a constant, mechanical lullaby that did little to comfort me. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the fabric rough against my palms, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

The hours crept by with agonizing slowness, each minute stretching out into an eternity of solitude and introspection. My thoughts were a tumultuous sea, crashing against the walls of my mind in a relentless assault that left me feeling adrift in a vast, empty ocean.

When Owen finally returned, it was with the same air of casual dominance that he wore like a second skin. He set a tray of food on the floor beside the mattress, his movements precise and controlled. The aroma of scrambled eggs and toast filled the room, a domestic scent that seemed out of place in the midst of my captivity.

“Eat,” he commanded, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach twist in knots.

I looked at the food, my appetite nonexistent, but the memory of him force-feeding me the night before was still fresh in my mind. I reached for the plastic fork, my hand trembling slightly as I brought a bite of eggs to my lips. They were bland and rubbery, but I swallowed them down, each mouthful a small act of defiance against the control he sought to exert over me.

Owen watched me in silence, his expression unreadable. When I finished eating, he took the tray and left the room without another word. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the silence, a haunting rhythm that faded away as he ascended the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Alone once more, I curled up on the mattress, my body rocking back and forth in a futile attempt to soothe the ache in my chest. The world around me seemed to blur at the edges, the reality of my situation slipping away from me like grains of sand through parted fingers.

I existed in a haze of disconnection, each day bleeding into the next with no clear beginning or end. My conversations with Owen, if they could even be called that, were a series of monosyllabic responses, my voice a hollow echo of its former self. I spoke when spoken to, my words carefully measured to avoid inciting his wrath.

“How are you feeling today?” Owen asked one evening, his tone deceptively gentle as he fastened the handcuff around my other wrist.

“The same,” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion.

He pulled me closer, his arms encircling me in a parody of an embrace. “You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, his breath warm against my forehead.

And in the depths of my despair, I realized that he was right.

In the quiet moments of my captivity, when Owen left me alone, my mind would often drift back to the night when everything went wrong. The images flickered through my consciousness like an old movie reel that refused to stop playing. The laughter, the whispers, the sounds that still echoed in the depths of my soul—they all melded together into a symphony of horror that shook me even now.

I would close my eyes, trying to banish the memories, but they were etched into the very fabric of my being, and the quiet had a funny way of tormenting you with the things you were trying to hide. The sensation of hands on my skin, the humiliation that twisted like a knife in my gut, the chilling realization that I was utterly, irrevocably alone—these were the ghosts that danced through my dreams, taunting me with their silent, spectral presence.

I tried to hold onto the fragments of who I used to be, the girl with the simple dreams and the quiet strength. But that girl seemed to be slipping away from me, her image growing fainter with each passing day. A character in a story that I could no longer relate to. In her place was a shell of a person, a creature of shadow and silence who existed in a perpetual state of dread and longing.

Owen’s visits were the only breaks in the monotony of my existence, the only moments when the suffocating stillness of the basement was disrupted. He would come to me with the same unsettling mix of tenderness and control that had become the hallmark of our relationship.

“You’re mine, Kira,” he would whisper, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down my spine. “You always have been.”

And I, in my weakness, would find my traitorous heart racing at his words, my body betraying me with its response to his nearness. I hated myself for it, for the way my pulse quickened, for the heat that flooded my cheeks, for the flicker of something that felt dangerously like hope.

But it was a twisted, perverse hope, a hope that clung to the edges of a nightmare. It was the hope of a drowning man who reaches for the very thing that is dragging him under, the hope of a moth that flies too close to the flame, knowing full well that it will be consumed.

As I lay there, chained to the man who was both my tormentor and the object of my darkest desires, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any coming back from this. Could there be redemption for someone like me, someone who had been broken and remade in the image of her captor?

I didn’t have the answer, and perhaps I was afraid to seek it, to delve deeper into my own wounded psyche. So I lay there in silence, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind that threatened to tear me apart, and I waited for the dawn to break through the basement window, a pale imitation of the light that I feared I would never see again.

Six

THE SILENCE of the basement wasn’t comforting anymore. It was a heavy, crushing thing that wrapped around me like an iron shroud. It wasn’t the kind of silence that offered peace or rest—it was oppressive, alive, mocking me with its weight. It was as if the silence itself was laughing at me, at the pitiful state of what my life had become. The quiet only reminded me of how utterly alone I was, of how everything had been stripped away until there was nothing left but this still, suffocating void.

I had been waiting for him, holding out as long as I could, but Owen hadn’t come. My body ached from suppressing its most basic needs, from clinging to a routine that had been my only anchor in this hell. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness. Hours? Days? I couldn’t tell anymore. My stomach twisted painfully, the hunger gnawing at me having long since turned to a dull, empty ache. The pressure in my bladder was unbearable now, demanding release with a sharp, burning urgency.

Trembling, I reached for the bucket Owen had left in the corner. My hands shook with a sick combination of shame and desperation as I dragged it toward me. It was humiliating—degrading in a way I hadn’t let myself fully acknowledge before now. Before, Owen had at least kept to his rigid schedule, allowing me those few precious moments in the adjoining bathroom. It was one of the few things that kept me feeling human, like I still had some small shred of dignity.

But now? Now I was nothing. Just an animal in a cage, reduced to the most basic, primal acts of survival. As I crouched over the bucket, the weight of it—of everything—hit me. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I couldn’t even cry properly. The humiliation swallowed me whole, pressing me down until it felt like I would break from the weight of it. I was nothing more than a broken thing, reduced to this—degraded, and discarded, left to rot in the dark.

When it was over, I stayed there for what felt like an eternity, numb. The shame, the degradation, the hopelessness—it all churned together into a sickening, bottomless pit inside me. Owen’s absence was a black hole, sucking everything else into it until there was nothing left but that aching void. Had he finally tired of his game? Had he decided I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore? Maybe he was just going to leave me here, forgotten, to waste away in this godforsaken place.

The thought should have terrified me. But it didn’t.

I dragged myself back to the air mattress, its slow deflation echoing the collapse of my will. Owen’s scent lingered on the blanket—his cologne, woodsy and masculine, once intoxicating, now a twisted reminder of his presence. It clung to me, reminding me that even in his absence, he was still here, still everywhere, like a ghost haunting the corners of my mind. I curled into a ball, clutching the blanket to my chest as if it could somehow protect me from the reality of what my life had become.

The tears came then, hot and silent. They soaked into the fabric beneath me as I lay there, unmoving. I didn’t sob. I didn’t break down in loud, ugly cries. The tears simply fell—just like everything else. Even the act of crying felt hollow, like I was a puppet going through the motions of a life I no longer understood.

I was breaking. No. I was already broken. A part of me knew that. Another part of me didn’t care.

But somewhere in the pit of that despair, a flicker of something else stirred. A bitter determination, a fierce, reckless need to escape. It was a fragile thing—more desperation than hope—but it was all I had. I couldn’t stay here. I wouldn’t. I had to get out, even if it killed me.

I pushed myself up and scanned the basement, my eyes falling on the scattered remnants of forgotten furniture. Desks, chairs, old shelves—dust-covered relics of the building’s past. They were discarded, abandoned, just like me. But they were all I had. If I could stack them high enough, maybe—just maybe—I could reach that tiny window. That one sliver of light, the only connection I had left to the outside world.

I moved to the nearest desk, its wooden surface marred by the initials of students who probably hadn’t thought twice about their lives when they carved those marks. My muscles strained as I shoved the desk across the floor, the legs scraping against the concrete with a sound that echoed in the oppressive silence. It felt too loud, too real, and for a moment, I stopped, my heart pounding in my chest. The silence was my enemy now, and the sound was my only weapon against it.

Piece by piece, I moved the furniture, stacking it into a precarious tower that wobbled with every chair I added. My body was running on adrenaline now, driven by a frantic, wild hope that was barely holding me together. The chairs were lighter, easier to manage, but my hands shook as I worked, my fingers numb and clumsy.

Finally, I climbed onto the tower, the cold metal of the chair biting into my skin as I balanced myself. The window was so close. Just a few more inches. I stretched upward, my fingers brushing the dirty glass. I could almost taste the air beyond it—the fresh, clean air that promised freedom.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt something other than numbness. I felt the sharp, biting edge of want. I wanted out. I wanted to be free. I wanted to leave this place, to escape the cage Owen had built for me. I wanted to breathe.

With one last surge of strength, I rose onto my tiptoes, stretching as far as I could. My fingers connected with the window latch, and the metallic click echoed through the room like a gunshot. I pushed, and the window creaked open. The sound—so small, so insignificant—felt like a victory. It was the first crack in my prison, the first step toward freedom.

But freedom was still just out of reach. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached for the ledge, my breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. I was almost there. Almost free.

And then, just like that, the fragile balance I had created tipped. The tower beneath me wobbled violently, and I felt the world shift around me as gravity pulled me down.

Seven

I DRUMMED my fingers against my thigh, glancing at the clock on the wall for what had to be the hundredth time. Practice had run over, and Coach wasn’t one to wrap things up just because we’d hit the scheduled end time. My jaw clenched as he gave us another rundown on defense strategy, the urgency pulsing in my chest growing by the second.

It had been hours since I’d left her there in the basement. Too long.

Kira was probably waiting, wondering if I’d forgotten her. I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t make me anxious. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’d planned everything carefully. We had a routine, something solid—something that gave her stability, something that reminded her she was mine.

But now, my carefully crafted plan was slipping out of my control, and every second I wasn’t there felt like a crack in the foundation.

The clock’s hand ticked with agonizing slowness, and finally, when Coach let us go, I was the first one out. “Owen! Grab the bags for us, will you?” Liam called after me, grinning as he lobbed his duffle over.

I gritted my teeth, but my mask stayed intact. “Sure,” I replied, catching the bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. With one last look at the clock, I headed to the locker room, feeling the tightness in my chest. I shouldn’t have agreed. I should have brushed him off, made up some excuse.

She’d been down there alone, waiting, and I’d been here.

I tossed the bags into the locker room, peeling off my skates as quickly as possible. All around me, my teammates laughed and joked about plans for the night, their carefree chatter grating on my nerves. They had no idea what it was like to have something—or someone—that mattered so much. Someone who was tethered to you, held tight by invisible strings of need and trust. I wondered if they’d ever felt that pull, that sense of ownership that could consume you, if you let it.

People around me thought relationships were about trust, shared secrets, and stability. I’d tried that once—half-heartedly—and it hadn’t felt like this, hadn’t felt real. What I had with Kira was real because she needed me; she’d let herself be vulnerable in ways that others couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She was fragile and strong in that delicate way, with a sharpness that made her unique, something I’d molded and kept safe.

After I helped Liam get his gear loaded up, I was finally out the door and on my way. As I drove, my mind drifted back to the first time I’d really noticed her, the spark of something raw and untouched that had drawn me in like a magnet.

Kira was unlike anyone else I’d known. She didn’t try to impress me, didn’t look at me with wide-eyed admiration like most people did. No, she seemed to resist me—like I was just another face in the background. It infuriated me, but it fascinated me, too. And slowly, I’d chipped away at that shell, watched as she began to trust me, watched her open up in little ways that fed the obsession growing inside me.

But it hadn’t always been enough. Sometimes, I’d wanted more—to see her break, to see her need me so much she couldn’t think of anyone else. And maybe, in those moments, I’d gone a little too far, pushed her just past the edge of comfort. But I was just helping her see what she needed, what she could be, if she just let herself go.

But she never did, not fully. That’s why I’d had to show her, in more concrete terms, that she was mine.

I parked the car and slipped out, glancing over my shoulder as I pulled my hoodie up and moved quickly across campus. The science building was quiet, secluded, and hardly used anymore since the new labs were built on the east side of campus. I liked that it was off the radar. The fewer people who knew about this place, the better.

I jogged up the steps, my thoughts flashing back again to how it had started. Kira was unlike anyone else, that quiet defiance of hers digging under my skin until I couldn’t ignore it. She hadn’t made it easy at first—she’d kept her distance, careful, cautious, always a little too quick to turn away. It was like she was afraid of letting anyone close, afraid of letting me close.

So, I had made her see me. I showed her what it felt like to be the center of someone’s world, and then I would pull back just as she started to settle. Her reactions—the way her face would fall or her voice would falter—only made me crave more, like a fix I couldn’t get enough of. Every time she leaned in, I’d inch away, keeping her suspended between security and uncertainty. I was her high and her low, and I loved it.

The door to the building creaked open as I pushed my way inside, the stale air a familiar scent I’d come to associate with the best part of my day. As I moved down the hall, I let the memories drift through my mind like a reel of film: the way she’d looked at me in class, the way she’d opened up, letting her guard down in those moments when she thought I was genuine. And maybe I was. For her, at least, in some strange way.

But some part of her had always held back. No matter how close I got, no matter how much I let her see of me, there was a piece of her that resisted. It was maddening. That’s why I’d pushed her harder, made her understand that she couldn’t hide from me. She belonged to me—mind, body, soul. And yet, I’d still catch that flicker in her eyes sometimes, that hint of defiance.

That hint of defiance was what kept me on edge. It was why I’d locked the door to that basement room every time I left, knowing she was still clinging to some ghost of an escape plan, even if it was just in her head.

The hallway was dark as I moved quietly toward the basement stairs, my senses alert, listening. It wasn’t until I rounded the corner and softly opened the door, so as not to disturb her if she was resting, that I saw her—up ahead, the faintest hint of movement. My steps slowed as instinct kept me silent, almost predatory.

My breath stilled as I took in the scene: Kira, perched on a stack of rickety old chairs and desks, straining toward the narrow window set high in the wall. Her fingers were wrapped around the frame, muscles tense as she tried to pull herself up, inch by inch, the desperation etched into every line of her body.

What the fuck…?

A dark thrill shot through me, a strange, conflicting mix of anger and admiration. She was really trying to escape. After everything I’d done to show her, to teach her, she still thought she could leave. That she could pull herself up and out of my reach, like I was nothing more than some shadow she could brush away.

I watched her, every muscle in my body taut as I assessed the scene. She had no idea I was so close, just a few feet away. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, every strained exhale a testament to her desperation.

As I watched, I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. I just stood there, watching as the urge to let her struggle, let her reach for that sliver of hope built inside me. There was something darkly satisfying in knowing that, even now, even with her best effort, she was still mine. She could try all she wanted—claw and climb and pray for an escape—but she’d never really get away.

Because no matter how high she reached, no matter how much she tried to pull herself out of this, I’d be there.

Eight

THE COOL NIGHT AIR, tinged with the faint scent of freedom, brushed against my fingertips. I stretched higher, my muscles straining as the rusted window latch gave under the pressure. It was open now, a thin crack of possibility, the outside world so close I could almost taste it. For the first time in what felt like forever, hope flared hot and sharp in my chest, pushing against the numbness that had threatened to consume me.

But then, the hair on the back of my neck prickled as the primal sense of danger crept over my skin. It was as if the very air in the basement had shifted, charged with a presence that had haunted me day and night. I froze, my heart stuttering in my chest as a chill swept through me, washing away that fleeting spark of hope.

He was here.

I didn’t need to turn around to know that Owen’s eyes were on me. I could feel them, dark and piercing, cutting through the dim light and pinning me in place. My pulse quickened, the blood roaring in my ears as I fought the instinct to bolt, to scramble up and out through the narrow window. But it was too late for that now. Any move I made would be a mistake, and Owen didn’t forgive mistakes easily.

“Kira.”

The sound of my name, low and almost tender, slithered through the room. It would have been a caress if not for the razor’s edge beneath it. The air in my lungs turned to stone, suffocating me as I slowly, reluctantly, lowered myself back down. My bare feet touched the cold concrete floor, grounding me in a reality that now felt like a trap snapping shut.

I turned to face him, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. He stood in the shadows by the door, his frame draped in darkness except for the sharp gleam in his eyes. A chill swept over me, not from the cold, but from the way he watched me, silent, unreadable, the calm before the storm.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Owen said, stepping closer, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of disappointment. That was worse than rage. Disappointment from Owen meant something deeper, more insidious.

“I… I was just—” The words died on my tongue as his lips twitched with a flicker of something that might have been amusement or menace. He reached out, and instinctively, I flinched. A fleeting shadow of pain crossed his face, so brief I wondered if I’d imagined it, but then his fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.

“You were just what, Kira?” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. The tension in the air thickened, wrapping around us like a noose. I wanted to shrink back, to melt into the floor and disappear, but his touch held me captive, a cruel reminder of my place.

“I thought… maybe… I could get some air,” I finally stammered, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. He hummed, the sound vibrating through the inches between us as his thumb stroked along my jawline in a gesture that could almost be mistaken for affection. Almost.

“Lying doesn’t suit you,” he said, his eyes hardening as he leaned in, the distance between us evaporating. His presence overwhelmed me, and I felt myself being dragged under, like a ship caught in a whirlpool.

“I’m not lying,” I whispered, more for myself than for him. The silence stretched, suffocating, until he stepped back, and the sudden loss of his touch made my skin burn with shame. I hated that I felt the absence of him, that I craved it even now, when everything inside me screamed to fight, to escape.

Owen’s expression darkened, and he took a measured breath, the sound like a warning. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“I trusted you, Kira,” he continued, each word laced with something sharp and unyielding. “I thought you understood what we have here, what I’ve given you. And yet, here you are, trying to run.”

“No,” I said, the denial slipping out before I could stop it. “I wasn’t—”

He moved so fast I barely registered it before I was pressed against the wall, the cold, hard surface digging into my back. His hands bracketed my head, caging me in, and his face was so close I could see the storm brewing in his eyes, dark and hungry. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic drum beat that matched the chaos in my mind.

“I don’t want excuses,” he said, his voice a growl. “I want you to understand that there are consequences, Kira. I won’t let you forget that.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back, refusing to break under the weight of his gaze. He was too close, the heat radiating from him tangling with the anger and something else that coiled low in my stomach, confusing and sickening all at once. I hated him. I hated that I wanted him. That, despite everything, a part of me still longed for the twisted, dark comfort he provided.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice softer now, dangerous. His fingers slid from the wall to the back of my neck, pulling me forward so that our foreheads touched, and I felt trapped in the intensity of it, the intimacy laced with control.

“Yes,” I breathed, hating the way the word came out cracked and broken.

A small, satisfied smile ghosted across his lips before he pulled back, releasing me so suddenly I nearly stumbled. He reached into his pocket, the metallic clink of the handcuffs making my blood run cold. My eyes widened as he grabbed my wrist and secured one cuff around it, dragging me to the mattress before looping the chain around the old iron pipe above it. He clicked the other cuff around my opposite wrist, effectively binding me, arms above my head, unable to do more than sit on the edge of the mattress.

He stepped back, eyes tracing my face, watching the realization sink in. I was trapped, more than ever before.

“Stay here,” he said, his tone carrying a weight that was both a command and a warning. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room. I sat there, breathless and paralyzed, the cuffs biting into my wrists, heart hammering as I heard footsteps outside. The basement window, my last hope, shifted with a sudden, sharp sound.

I watched, horror prickling through me as Owen’s shadow loomed from outside. He lifted a board and hammered it into place, the sound a final, crushing blow. Each strike of the hammer echoed like a death knell, sealing away the last fragment of hope that had kept me clinging to the idea of freedom.

The last sliver of light disappeared, and with it, any chance of escape.

Nine

THE SOUND of the hammer still echoed in my ears, each strike reverberating through the silence like a death knell. The boards over the basement window had stolen the last glimmer of light, the last shred of hope I’d dared to reach for. My wrists throbbed where the cuffs bit into them, my arms stretched above me and bound to the pipe like a twisted headboard.

I stared into the suffocating darkness, my thoughts spiraling in endless loops of fear and something colder, heavier—regret. Not just for trying to escape, but for the things I’d felt before. For the way I had once thought I could love someone like Owen.

The footsteps came slowly, each one deliberate, calculated. They stopped just outside the door, and for a moment, I held my breath. Then the door creaked open, and his shadow filled the frame.

He didn’t speak as he stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft, final click. The silence between us was thick and oppressive as he approached the bed. His movements were calm, deliberate, but the tension in his frame made my pulse quicken.

He crouched beside the mattress, his gaze unreadable as he studied me, dissecting me with eyes that saw far too much. “You’ve disappointed me, Kira,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made my stomach twist.

“Owen, I—” The words fumbled out, desperate and raw, but I stopped myself. What could I say? That I hadn’t meant to leave? That I hadn’t dared to hope for freedom? The truth burned in my chest. He’d never believe me, and I wasn’t sure I believed myself.

His hand reached out, brushing against my cheek with a touch so gentle it made my breath hitch. “I see you, Kira,” he murmured. “I know you better than anyone else ever could.”

My stomach churned at the words, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. His fingers slid down to my jaw, tilting my face so our eyes locked. The closeness was unbearable, his breath warm against my skin. My heart raced, a frantic drumbeat against the suffocating stillness.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the edge of my lips. “Every part of you.”

Something inside me cracked, sharp and raw, but I shoved it down, burying it beneath the fear and the shame. I hated him. I hated myself more for the way a part of me still believed him.

His hand moved from my face to the cuffs, his fingers brushing against the metal where they connected to the pipe. My breath caught as he leaned closer, his weight shifting over me.

“Do you know what hurts the most?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm. “It’s not that you tried to leave.” His gaze flicked to the boarded window, and his jaw tightened before returning to me. “It’s that you don’t see how much I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” The word cut through the air like a whip. “No more lies, Kira.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and tight. My skin burned where his fingers trailed down my arm, his touch both gentle and unyielding. “I’ve given you everything,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, darker. “And you still don’t get it.”

“Owen, please—”

“Shh,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “Don’t fight me, Kira. This is for your own good. You’ll see.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back while swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. I couldn’t let him see me break. Not again. But as his lips claimed mine, as his hands pressed me deeper into the mattress, I felt myself shatter anyway.

This wasn’t love. It was control. It was him taking what he wanted because he could.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the anger and the shame, a small, broken part of me whispered that maybe I deserved this. That if I could still love him after everything, then maybe this was exactly where I was meant to be.

His lips left mine for a moment, just long enough for his gaze to sweep over me like a predator surveying his claim. The tension in the room thickened, the oppressive silence punctuated only by the sound of my shallow breaths.

“You’ll learn to stop fighting me,” he murmured, his fingers trailing down my arm to the cuff that bound me. His other hand pressed against my hip, pinning me firmly to the mattress as he released the cuff, the cool air rushing over my wrist as it dropped to the bed.

But there was no freedom in the movement. His hand captured my wrist before I could even think of moving, holding it above my head as he leaned down again, his lips brushing against the hollow of my throat.

“Owen…please…” My voice wavered, trembling with a mix of fear and something I refused to name. His lips curved against my skin, his breath warm and maddeningly slow.

“You keep saying please as if it changes anything,” he said, his tone almost amused. “But you don’t understand yet. You belong to me, Kira. Every inch of you, every thought, every breath.”

My heart pounded against my ribs as his weight shifted, one hand still gripping my wrist while the other trailed down to my hip. His touch was deliberate, slow, like he was savoring every moment of my helplessness. I hated the way my body reacted, the shiver that ran through me despite everything.

“You think you can resist me, but you can’t,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my collarbone. “Not when you’ve always been mine.”

I wanted to scream, to push him away, but the words caught in my throat, tangled with the memories of every time I’d believed his lies, every time I’d thought he cared. And maybe he did—in his own twisted way. But that didn’t make it any less suffocating.

His hand moved lower, his fingers brushing against the waistband of my pants, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat. His gaze flicked up to meet mine, a dark challenge in his eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

But we both knew the truth. He wouldn’t stop, not really. And maybe…maybe a part of me didn’t want him to.

Tears pricked at my eyes again, and I turned my head away, biting my lip to keep the words from spilling out. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice laced with dark satisfaction. “You’re learning.”

Ten

THE AIR between us felt different, heavier, as though it carried an unspoken promise. Owen’s eyes lingered on mine, his expression softened in a way that made my stomach twist. There was no malice in his gaze now, only something terrifyingly close to reverence.

“You’ve fought me so hard,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate. “But I’ll show you, Kira. I’ll make you understand.”

I swallowed hard. I wanted to pull away, to curl into myself, but I couldn’t move. His presence loomed over me, pinning me in place as effectively as the cuffs had.

Owen’s hands found my hips, his grip firm but not harsh as he settled between my legs. My breath hitched as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of my hip. The touch was feather-light, almost gentle, but it sent a jolt through me all the same.

“Do you even know how perfect you are?” he asked, his voice muffled against my skin. I wanted to laugh, to tell him how absurd that sounded, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I lay there, frozen, as his mouth moved lower, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along my inner thigh.

My pulse thundered in my ears as his lips brushed against the most sensitive part of me. The first flick of his tongue drew a sharp gasp from my lips, my back arching involuntarily. I hated the way my body betrayed me, the way heat pooled low in my belly despite everything.

Owen’s hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as his mouth worked against me with maddening precision. Every swirl, every gentle suck, sent waves of sensation coursing through me, each one more intense than the last. My breaths came in shallow gasps, my hands clutching at the blankets beneath me as I struggled to hold on to some semblance of control. It was embarrassing how soon I was about to lose it.

“Let go, Kira,” he murmured against me, his voice dark and velvet-soft. “Don’t fight it. Don’t fight me.”

The tension inside me built to a breaking point, and when I finally shattered, it was with a cry that echoed through the room. My body trembled beneath him, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.

“One,” he said softly against my heated flesh, his voice sending another shiver down my spine. I opened my eyes just in time to see him press his lips to my inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he bit down gently, then sucked harshly, leaving a mark. As soon as the bruise started to form, he let go and sucked my clit back into his mouth.

His mouth was relentless, working me into a frenzy with a skill that left me gasping for air. Every lick, every nip was a new wave of pleasure crashing over me, threatening to pull me under again so soon after the first. I was still riding the wake of my orgasm, my body overly sensitized, every touch amplified tenfold.

"Owen, I-I don't think I can—" The words tumbled from my lips, a desperate plea born from the overwhelming intensity of it all. But he wasn't listening, his focus solely on driving me to the brink once more.

The flat of his tongue pressed against my clit, the firm pressure sending a jolt of electricity up my spine. He traced slow, deliberate circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, each one making my thighs tremble and my toes curl into the mattress.

My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as my hips bucked, seeking an escape from the relentless onslaught. But he held me firmly in place, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising intensity as he continued to devour me.

I was panting now, my breaths coming in ragged sobs as I felt the coil of tension tightening within me again. It was too much, yet not nearly enough. I found myself chasing the release I knew was just out of reach, caught between the desperate need for it to stop and the irresistible pull towards another climax.

"Please, please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for anymore. My voice was hoarse, the words barely more than a whisper, but he heard me. Heard and understood the depth of my desire.

Owen's response was a low growl that vibrated through me, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming symphony he was conducting with his tongue. He slid one finger inside me, then another, curling them in a beckoning motion that hit a spot so deep it stole my breath away.

The combination of his fingers and mouth pushed me over the edge, my orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that left me boneless and gasping for air. My vision blurred at the edges, white-hot pleasure coursing through my veins as I came undone beneath him.

I was still trembling, still caught in the aftershocks, when he withdrew his fingers and pressed another kiss to my inner thigh. This time, the sting of his bite was a sharp contrast to the gentle lapping of his tongue, and I cried out as he sucked hard enough to leave another mark right next to the first.

"Two," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my damp dark skin. And when he dipped his head to taste me once more.

Within seconds I could feel the pressure building, my clit throbbing with each relentless flick of his tongue. It was too much, the sensation overwhelming, too sensitive, and I found myself squirming, trying to escape the relentless pleasure.

But Owen was having none of it. His hands slid under my ass, lifting me easily off the mattress, his fingers digging into my flesh as he held me in place. I could feel my back arching, my weight resting precariously on my shoulders, my ass high in the air, my legs drawn up towards my chest. The position was awkward, uncomfortable, making it hard to breathe, each inhalation a shallow gasp that did little to ease the growing dizziness in my head.

I was exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he continued to feast upon me. Each stroke of his tongue, each gentle nip of his teeth, drove me further into a spiral of overwhelming sensation. My vision blurred, the room spinning around me as I felt the coil of tension building once again deep within my core.

I was dimly aware of the cool air against my heat, the wet sounds of his mouth on my flesh, the low, satisfied hum that vibrated through me with each touch. I could feel myself teetering on the edge, my body trembling with the effort it took to hold back, to resist the inevitable surrender.

And then, with a skillful flick of his tongue, Owen pushed me over the edge. My third orgasm hit me like a freight train, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. My ears were ringing, my heart pounding in time with the pulsing between my thighs, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps that did nothing to fill my aching lungs.

I was barely coherent, my thoughts scattered and fragmented, as Owen gently kissed my inner thigh once more. His lips lingered on my skin, his teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before he bit down, hard enough to draw a cry from my lips and leave another mark to join the others.

“Three,” he counted out loud, his voice filled with a dark satisfaction.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My body was spent, my mind reeling from the whirlwind of sensations and emotions he’d dragged me through. All I could do was lie there, my wrists limp at my sides as he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my lips.

And when he dipped his head to taste me once more, I knew I was his to command, to pleasure, to torment. Owen was a maestro, and my body was his instrument, each note he coaxed from me a testament to his control, his power. I could do nothing but surrender to the symphony he created, my body a conduit for the overwhelming passion he so effortlessly ignited.

Eleven

I WOKE to a darkness so complete it felt alive, wrapping around me like a second skin. For a moment, I thought I’d gone blind—until I felt the weight. The familiar pull of the cuffs and his arm draped possessively over me.

My wrists were bound and looped around Owen’s waist, the chain short enough that I couldn’t move without pulling him closer like they were every night. His warmth pressed against me, steady and suffocating, while my bare skin burned in sharp contrast to the soft fabric of his shirt. He was clothed, as always, while I lay there—exposed, vulnerable, and aching.

The throbbing between my legs was relentless. My thighs trembled as I shifted, pain sparking at every slight movement. He’d wrung me out, dragged me under wave after wave until I couldn’t remember my own name. Seven—seven was the last number I’d heard him murmur against my skin, but I knew there had been more. I’d lost count. Passed out. Fallen apart.

And now I was here, shackled to him, unable to pull away, my body betraying me with every dull ache and lingering warmth.

A sob clawed its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down. The sound would wake him. I wasn’t ready for that yet—for his eyes, for his voice, for whatever twisted version of affection he’d decide to offer me this time.

But my chest tightened as I lay there, the tears gathering faster than I could stop them. They leaked out, silent and bitter, sliding hot down my cheeks.

Why do I still love him?

The thought struck like a dagger, sharp and deep, making me choke on the very air I was trying to breathe. How could I love him after this—after everything? After seeing his monstrous side over and over again? Wouldn’t that kill it, whatever soft, innocent thing I once felt for him?

But it hadn’t.

You loved him first. My own mind whispered the words cruelly. I couldn’t deny it. I’d loved him before he became this—before he revealed what he was capable of. And no matter how hard I tried to bury it, to kill it with every ounce of hatred and shame, it refused to die.

I thought of him outside of me. Of Owen walking across campus, laughing with his teammates, that golden smile lighting up his face. He was the guy everyone wanted to know, the guy people gravitated to without effort. Smart. Handsome. The kind of guy who could do no wrong.

I wanted to scream at myself for even thinking about it. For picturing the person he was to everyone else, instead of the monster he’d shown me in the dark. He saved you, a voice in my head murmured. He found you. He kept you safe.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

He hadn’t saved me.

He’d stolen me.

And yet…yet he’d spent last night worshiping me. Like I was something precious to him. Every touch, every bite, every whispered word had stripped me bare, left me defenseless. It wasn’t love—I knew that. But a sick part of me clung to the idea anyway. Why else would he do it? Why else would he keep me here, would he hold me this close, night after night?

My shoulders began to shake, the sobs rising too fast for me to swallow. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, but the memories were crawling through me now, unstoppable. Flashes of another night—of rope against my skin, of cries that went unanswered.

Stop.

The word blared in my mind, desperate and sharp. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t think about it. Not now. Not here. But the shadows of that night crept closer, seeping into me with every shaky breath, every silent tear that slid down my cheek.

The mattress shifted beneath me.

Owen stirred, his arm tightening around me instinctively. I froze, biting back the sob threatening to rip free, but it was too late. He shifted again, a slow exhale brushing against my temple.

“Kira,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t move. Maybe he’d go back to sleep. Maybe—

Another sob escaped, too loud, too broken.

His grip around me tightened. “Kira?” His voice was clearer this time, low and careful, tinged with something close to concern. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, my breaths coming faster, trembling. Don’t wake up. Don’t fully wake up.

But Owen was awake now. I felt it in the tension that rolled through his body, in the way his hand slid up my spine, steadying me even as I flinched away.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, the words soft, almost gentle. “You’re safe now. You’re with me.”

Safe. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but my throat was too tight. I turned my face into the pillow, trying to hide the tears, the shaking, the shame.

Owen’s hand cupped the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair in slow, calming strokes. “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I hated him for saying it. I hated him for the way he pulled me closer, rolling me into his chest as though I was something fragile he needed to protect. My wrists strained against the cuffs looped around his waist, the metal biting into my skin as he rocked me gently.

The motion was soothing, rhythmic. His body was warm, his breaths slow and even as he pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

“You’re safe, Kira,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was speaking to a child. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

I wanted to scream that he was the one I needed saving from. That this wasn’t safety, that he wasn’t my savior. But the words stayed trapped inside me, buried beneath the exhaustion, the confusion, the ache in my bones.

Owen continued to rock me, his lips brushing my hair, my temple, his whispers blurring into the darkness. I didn’t want to relax, didn’t want to let the tears slow, but my body betrayed me again. The warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breaths, the gentle touch of his hands—it wore me down, pulled me deeper into the blackness until I couldn’t fight it anymore.

As I drifted back to sleep, Owen’s words followed me into the void, soft and deadly and so terribly tender:

“You’re mine, Kira. You always will be.”

Twelve

THE SOUND of skates carving into the ice was one of the few things that could quiet my mind. Out here, under the bright, artificial lights of the rink, there was no basement, no chains, no whispers of Kira’s tears haunting the edges of my thoughts. Just the cold air, the sharp sting of breath in my lungs, and the raw, animal simplicity of the game.

Practice was in full swing, a chaotic symphony of shouts, pucks ricocheting off the boards, and sticks smacking against the ice. I wove through my teammates with precision, my focus honed on every movement—every chance to be faster, sharper, better.

“Owen!” Coach barked from the bench, his voice cutting through the clamor. “You want to tell me where your head’s at today?”

I blinked, the haze of my thoughts scattering like glass under a hammer. I skidded to a stop, ice spraying up around me as I turned to face him.

“I’m here, Coach,” I said, my voice smooth, controlled.

He didn’t look convinced. “Then prove it. Five laps, now.”

I didn’t argue. I dropped my head and pushed off, my muscles burning as I sped along the rink’s edge. Lap after lap, I channeled everything—the restlessness, the weight pressing down on my chest, the need to get back to her—into the rhythm of my strides. The sharp turns. The sting in my thighs as I powered forward, faster, harder.

Kira’s face slipped into my mind. The way she’d looked last night, her body wrecked beneath my hands, her voice raw and broken as she whispered my name.

Mine.

The word echoed through me like a drumbeat, fueling the fire in my veins. I’d counted every mark I’d left on her—every bruise, every bite. They were tally marks in my mind, proof of her surrender, proof that she belonged to me in ways she didn’t even understand yet. But the image shifted. Her tears. The soft, muffled sobs she thought I didn’t hear.

My skates hit a divot in the ice, sending me stumbling forward. I caught myself quickly, a surge of anger flaring hot in my chest. Focus.

“Owen!” Liam’s voice broke through the noise, skating up beside me as I finished the final lap. His tone was casual, but there was a thread of curiosity beneath it. "What’s up with you today? You look like you’re ready to murder someone."

I forced a smirk, pushing down the knot tightening in my chest. “Maybe I am.”

He laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as we skated back toward the group. “Save it for Saturday. Thompson’s gonna eat ice when you hit him with that look.”

Thompson. The opposing team’s top defenseman. It wasn’t enough for me to beat him. I wanted to break him. But not like I’d broken Kira—piece by piece until she couldn’t remember a world without me in it.

She tried to leave you.

The thought struck hard, hot and unwelcome. My jaw clenched as we lined up for drills, my fingers curling tight around my stick. She’d stacked those desks like she really believed she could get away. Like I wouldn’t have been there to stop her. To save her. The window had been her way out, and I’d taken it away, boarded it up while she watched. I’d seen the way her face crumpled, the way hope shattered in her eyes.

Good.

Because hope would only hurt her.

“Owen! Eyes up!”

I barely heard Coach’s shout before the puck hit my stick, a sharp sting vibrating up my arm. I gripped harder, pivoting as Liam shot forward. The two of us weaved down the ice, moving as one.

Liam feinted left; I shot right. I deked around the goalie, the net wide open—an easy shot. Instead, I slammed the puck hard enough to rattle the pipes, sending it flying past him and into the boards with a deafening crack.

The rink went silent.

“What the hell was that?” Coach barked, his face flushed red as he stomped toward the ice. “I said we’re working plays, not anger management, Sinclair!”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said smoothly, letting my stick rest casually against my shoulder. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, but I didn’t let it show.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he shot back, glaring. “Hit the bench. Take a minute before you lose your damn head out here.”

I didn’t argue. I skated off, the sting of disappointment tempered by the pulse of rage still pounding in my veins. I sank onto the bench, ripping my helmet off and dragging a hand through my damp hair. The cold air did nothing to cool the fire smoldering beneath my skin.

Kira.

I could see her in my mind, curled up on that mattress, her wrists bruised and raw from the cuffs. The marks I’d left on her thighs. The way she’d whimpered my name through every one of them, her voice a plea and a prayer.

You love me.

She wouldn’t say it out loud yet, but I knew. I saw it in her eyes when she let herself look at me. Felt it in the way her body responded to mine, even when her words told me no. Read it in her note to me.

She didn’t understand yet. That was the problem. Kira didn’t see what I saw—that I was saving her from herself. From the edge she kept trying to throw herself off. If I had to break her to make her whole, I would. I’d do it a thousand times over.

“You good, man?” Liam’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, the easygoing grin on his face barely masking the edge of concern. “Coach looks ready to bench you for the season.”

I forced a smirk, slipping my helmet back on. “I’m good. Just needed a minute.”

“Yeah, well, pull it together before he pulls you from the starting lineup. Saturday’s gonna be brutal.”

Saturday. The game. The crowd. The lights.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except getting back to her. To Kira.

The whistle blew, and I pushed off the bench, skating back onto the ice with renewed purpose. My mind narrowed, my focus sharpening like the blade of a knife. Kira would be there when I got home. Waiting for me. Needing me.

I would remind her of that.

I was hers. And she… she was mine.

Thirteen

THE DRIVE back to the old science building felt longer than usual, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. Snow drifted lazily across the windshield, but I barely noticed. My mind was too busy replaying last night—the way she looked under me, broken and perfect, her voice raw from the sounds I’d dragged from her. Mine.

But then this morning. Her silence. Her emptiness.

It gnawed at me like a splinter I couldn’t pull free.

I glanced at the bag on the seat next to me, the scent of her favorite food curling through the car—a small comfort, something to remind her she was cared for. Loved. If I had to drag her out of that blank, empty place, I would.

Beside the food sat a small box containing a Kindle and an iPod Classic. The Kindle was loaded with recommendations I’d spent hours curating. I’d scrolled through her phone—the one I’d taken from her when I brought her here—and found her book app, combing through every title she’d ever read. There had been hundreds. A mix of romance, thrillers, and fantasy—and I’d made a list.

“If you like this, you’ll love…”

The websites had made it easy. I’d made sure the Kindle was bursting with options. She wouldn’t be able to say I didn’t know her—that I hadn’t paid attention.

The iPod Classic sat on top of the Kindle, pristine, like a relic from another time. It had taken me hours to load it—every single song she’d ever listened to on her playlists. I’d pulled them from her phone, combing through her music apps and search history. She’d had a thing for old-school bands, some indie songs that made no sense, and a few guilty-pleasure pop tracks she probably thought no one knew about.

I knew everything.

I’d made her a playlist, too. My songs for her—songs that meant something. Songs that reminded me of her.

The thought made my chest ache in a way I didn’t like. I tightened my grip on the wheel and forced it down. She’d love it. She had to.

I parked and grabbed the bag and box, making my way to the basement door with quick, determined steps. The air was sharp, biting at my face, and I thought of her down there, warm and waiting for me.

I’m giving you everything, Kira.

The key turned in the lock with a quiet click, and I pushed the door open, the warm, stale air rushing to greet me. The basement was still, the silence settling around me like a weight as I descended the stairs.

She was on the mattress, curled tightly on her side, facing the wall. The blankets were pulled around her, but I could still see the bare curve of her shoulder. Her breathing was slow and shallow—too shallow.

She’s fine.

“Kira,” I said softly, setting the bag down on the floor. She didn’t move.

I crouched beside the bed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. Her body flinched under my touch, but she didn’t pull away. I leaned closer, frowning as I caught the blank look in her eyes. She stared at the wall like I wasn’t there.

No.

“Hey,” I murmured, forcing softness into my voice. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, fighting the surge of frustration bubbling up. I couldn’t lose her again—not to that hollow place she crawled into when she thought I wasn’t watching.

“I brought you something,” I said, standing and pulling the Kindle from the box. I sat on the edge of the mattress and powered it on, the screen glowing in the darkness. “Books. All the ones you like—and some new ones. I went through your app, Kira. I saw what you’ve read, and I picked out more you’d love.”

Still, nothing.

I gritted my teeth, swallowing the irritation that tried to claw its way out. I reached for the iPod next, holding it up so she could see it. “And this. An iPod Classic. You said you loved these.” My voice dropped lower, quieter. “I filled it with everything from your playlists. Your favorites.”

Her breath hitched faintly, and I froze.

There.

“I made you a playlist, too,” I added softly. “Songs that remind me of you.”

She blinked, her gaze flickering—just for a second. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep me going.

“I have to be gone Friday night and Saturday,” I told her, placing the Kindle and iPod under her pillow like they were precious gifts. “The game’s away, but I’ll be back Sunday. These will keep you company until then.”

Silence.

“Kira,” I said sharply, my patience splintering. My hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed red—like she’d cried herself empty. It made something twist inside me, something I didn’t know how to name.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “You’re not disappearing on me again.”

A tear slipped free, and I caught it, smearing it away with my thumb. My chest tightened painfully.

“I’m doing this for you, Kira. Because I care about you. Because I see you. No one else ever paid attention, did they?”

She didn’t answer, but the silence was enough. I slid onto the mattress behind her, pulling her stiff body into mine, her back flush against my chest. My arm curled around her waist, locking her in place.

“I’m coming back for you,” I whispered into her hair, my lips brushing her temple. “You’ll see. I’m giving you everything. You just need to trust me.”

She didn’t respond. She never did.

But as I held her there, her body trembling faintly against mine, I knew I wouldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.

Fourteen

THE SILENCE WAS UNBEARABLE.

It stretched out around me, heavy and suffocating, pressing into every corner of the basement like it was alive. Before Owen, I used to think silence was a comfort—a reprieve from the chaos outside my mind. But now… now it felt like a punishment.

A cruel, twisted kind of punishment.

I curled up tighter on the blow-up mattress, the blanket pulled so high it nearly swallowed me whole. The scent of Owen lingered in the fabric—that faint mix of cologne and warmth that had wrapped around me every night he slept beside me. My throat closed, and I fought the feeling clawing its way through my chest.

It’s just a blanket.

I repeated it like a mantra. Just a blanket. Just fabric. But I didn’t miss the blanket.

I missed him.

The realization made my stomach lurch, disgust curling up inside me like a snake. How could I miss him? After everything he’d done—everything he’d taken from me—how could I still crave his presence like this? The weight of his body beside me, the way his breathing filled the silence, the warmth he gave off even when his touch made my skin crawl.

What is wrong with you?

But even as I thought it, I knew the answer. Owen might have been a monster, but at least he filled the void. He gave the silence a shape. Without him here, the silence was just… empty. And I was so tired of feeling empty.

It was only Friday.

The first night.

My gaze flickered to the corner of the room where the bucket sat, its metal rim catching the faint light from the buzzing bulb overhead. I hadn’t moved since he left this morning, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t drunk the bottled water he’d left behind. I’d been holding on, willing myself to wait, even as the ache in my bladder sharpened, unrelenting.

The humiliation of it made me sick. He couldn’t even let me use a real bathroom. And yet, I told myself it was my own fault—like everything else. Owen left me down here because I’d made him angry, because I’d tried to leave, tried to hurt myself. He was teaching me a lesson, keeping me safe, and deep down, I… deserved it, didn’t I?

The thought made me shake, and I forced myself to sit up. My muscles screamed at the movement, stiff and sore from hours spent curled up in the same position. The blanket slipped down to my lap, and the cold hit me like a slap to the face. My gaze drifted back to the bucket, my hands trembling as I shoved the blanket off and stood.

I crossed the room slowly, my breath shallow, the sharp sting of tears already building behind my eyes. I couldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t think about it. I ignored the shaking in my limbs, the way my chest tightened with each step, until I was finally there.

My fingers fumbled with the waistband of my sweatpants, and I turned my face away, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

When it was over, I felt stripped down to nothing—less than nothing. I stumbled back to the mattress, the humiliation sitting heavy in my gut. The smell lingered, mixing with the stale basement air, and I couldn’t stop the tears this time. They fell silently, soaking into the thin pillow beneath me as I curled into a ball and squeezed my eyes shut.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

But it was.

Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes. Time didn’t mean anything anymore. The bulb overhead buzzed faintly, the sound drilling into my skull like a needle. My thoughts spiraled, tangling into a mess I couldn’t pick apart. I thought about Owen, about the look on his face when he locked the door behind him—the quiet I’ll be back he’d left me with, as if this was normal.

I hated him.

I hated him for everything he’d done to me. For locking me down here. For breaking me down into something so small, so desperate. But most of all, I hated him because I still missed him.

My gaze drifted to the pillow beside me. The iPod sat there, nestled next to the Kindle—two things that shouldn’t have held power over me but somehow did. I stared at the iPod for what felt like forever, my pulse thrumming in my ears as I remembered his words.

I made you a playlist.

I’d laughed in my head when he said it. Like it was some kind of sick joke, what are we? In a 90’s romcom? But now, the silence was eating me alive, and the thought of hearing anything other than my own broken thoughts was almost too tempting.

I reached for it slowly, the small silver device cool in my palm. It felt fragile, delicate, as if one wrong move might shatter it. I turned it over, my thumb hovering over the click wheel. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew this was just another game—another way to twist me around his little finger.

But I pressed play anyway.

The earbuds slid into my ears, and for a second, there was nothing but silence. And then Hozier’s voice filled the emptiness—low and haunting, like a prayer I didn’t deserve.

Take me to church, I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies…

The sob that tore out of me was so sudden it hurt. My chest heaved, the tears coming fast and hot as the lyrics wrapped around me, squeezing tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe.

I ripped the earbuds out, the iPod clattering to the floor as I curled in on myself, clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

“Stop,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Stop, stop, stop…”

But it wasn’t the music I was begging to stop. It was the war inside my head—the part of me that still wanted to believe Owen cared. That he wasn’t a monster. That all of this… all of this was his way of saving me.

He’d found me when I was lost. He’d pulled me back from the edge, hadn’t he? He’d taken me when no one else noticed how close I was to breaking.

And what did that say about me?

You’re pathetic.

The words echoed in my head, sharp and familiar. I pressed my palms against my ears, squeezing my eyes shut as if that could block them out. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I didn’t want to think about him.

Fifteen

THE RINK WAS COLDER than usual. Or maybe it was just me.

I crouched low at the face-off circle, the echo of the arena pulsing in my ears. The noise—the crowd, the skates scraping across ice, the low thuds of bodies hitting boards—it all blurred together like white noise. My stick trembled in my hands, a phantom buzz crawling up my arms. Focus. Focus, dammit.

The ref dropped the puck. I reacted half a second too late.

Thompson swept in clean and easy, snapping it away before I could so much as blink.

“What the hell, Sinclair!” Coach’s yell pierced through the haze, sharp as a blade. I grit my teeth, chasing after the play, but my legs felt sluggish. My head wasn’t here. Every step, every glide, was heavy. I was playing like a fucking rookie, and everyone could see it.

What is wrong with you?

The answer simmered low and hot in the back of my mind. Kira.

I’d left her alone. I hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t planned for this to stretch out so long. The thought of her down there, in the dark, on that damn mattress, alone and waiting—it gnawed at me. I couldn’t stop picturing her face, those dark eyes of hers, empty and vacant like they had been that first night. I thought I could handle being gone for the weekend, but the distance was ripping me apart.

Thompson crashed into me, knocking me hard against the boards. Pain shot through my shoulder, jolting me back to reality as I stumbled.

“Where the fuck are you today, Sinclair?” Liam skated up next to me, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. I glared at him, chest heaving.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Then start playing like it.”

He skated off before I could snap back at him. I wanted to care, to feel something other than this strange, gnawing hollowness, but my focus was shot. Every time I tried to play, my mind betrayed me—slipping back to Kira. I couldn’t shake her voice, her small, broken whispers from last night when she’d begged me to stop. I couldn’t forget the way she looked when she fell apart under me, the way she…

No. I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second. Not here.

I forced myself to move, but it didn’t matter. The game dragged on, a disaster in slow motion. I missed passes I should’ve seen, lost face-offs I usually dominated, and every time I tried to make something happen, it fell apart. By the time the buzzer sounded, we’d lost by two goals, and I knew exactly whose fault it was.

Mine.

The locker room was tense, the air thick with frustration.

The guys were pissed, slamming lockers and muttering under their breath. I sat on the bench, staring at my skates, ignoring the looks being thrown my way. I didn’t need to hear their whispers to know what they were saying.

What happened to Sinclair?

Dude’s out of it. Never seen him play that bad.

They weren’t wrong.

I didn’t even bother showering before changing out of my gear. My hands shook as I laced up my boots, my mind racing. She’s fine, I told myself. I’d left her with food, with water, with her Kindle and iPod. But it didn’t help. It wasn’t enough.

As I zipped up my hoodie, I heard the soft click of heels outside the locker room. Jasmine was waiting for me, leaning casually against the wall, her arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her long blonde hair fell over one shoulder, perfectly styled as always.

“Rough game out there,” she said, her voice laced with faux sympathy.

“Not now,” I muttered, brushing past her.

But Jasmine wasn’t one to take no for an answer. She stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “What’s going on with you, Owen? You’ve been off for weeks. That wasn’t just a bad game—it was a train wreck.”

“I’m fine,” I said flatly.

She tilted her head, studying me. Her green eyes were sharp, always watching, always calculating. “Maybe you need a distraction. Hotel room tonight? You know how much I love helping you unwind.”

Her manicured fingers grazed my arm, but I jerked away. The suddenness of it made her blink, her smirk faltering for just a moment.

“I said not now.” My voice was low, dangerous, and it was enough to make her step back.

“Wow,” she said, her tone cool but tinged with something else—curiosity. “You really are off your game. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn me down.” She gave me one last appraising look before stepping aside. “Maybe you’re not feeling well.”

I didn’t respond, shoving past her as I shouldered my bag. The stares from my teammates burned into my back as I walked away, but I didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them wonder what was wrong with me.

Because the only thing that mattered was getting back to her.

The bus ride back to the hotel was a blur.

I sat in the back, headphones in, staring out the window as the trees blurred past. Jasmine and the others were a few rows ahead, their laughter and whispers grating on my nerves. I clenched my fists, trying to block out the noise, but my thoughts were louder.

Kira. Alone. Waiting.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, breaking through the haze. I pulled it out, half expecting to see her name on the screen—a message, a missed call—but that was impossible. The phone I’d taken from her was tucked away safely in my dorm.

Still, my chest twisted painfully as I unlocked my screen. A message from Liam popped up.

Liam: Dude, are you good? You’ve been weird as hell lately.

I stared at it for a long moment before locking the phone again, my jaw tight. I wasn’t good. I wasn’t anything.

But I would be soon.

In just two days, I’d be back. I’d walk through the door, and Kira would be there, curled up on the mattress where I’d left her, waiting for me. And everything would be fine.

Because it had to be.

Sixteen

THE AIR WAS STILL. Heavy.

Even the faint buzzing of the lightbulb overhead had fallen into silence, like it too was holding its breath, waiting for me to make a move. I sat on the edge of the blow-up mattress, staring at the floor, my hands resting limply in my lap.

I couldn’t cry anymore.

I thought I’d run out of tears a long time ago, but the ache in my chest had found a way to dig even deeper. My body felt hollow, a husk of skin and bones that wasn’t mine anymore. My heart had stopped feeling like it belonged to me, too. Owen had stolen it, torn it apart, and left me to sit in the ruins of what remained.

He wasn’t here. He wouldn’t be here until tonight – hours from now.

I thought I could endure the weekend—thought I could let the silence swallow me whole until he came back. But it wasn’t just the silence that suffocated me. It was him. Even when he wasn’t here, he was everywhere.

His voice, his touch, his smell. The way he looked at me, like I was something fragile and precious, when I knew he was the one who’d broken me in the first place.

I’d loved him before. Before all of this. Before I understood what he was. And now? I didn’t know what was worse—the fact that he’d done this to me or the fact that I still loved him somewhere deep down, where I couldn’t reach to tear it out.

What does that say about you, Kira?

The voice in my head was cruel and sharp, slashing at the edges of my mind until I couldn’t escape it anymore.

Pathetic.

Weak.

No one will save you. You don’t deserve to be saved.

I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, every inhale a struggle, every exhale like giving up.

I don’t know when I stood up. I don’t know how long I wandered the room, barefoot, my hands trailing over the dusty furniture scattered across the basement. The remnants of what used to be a science lab surrounded me—desks with half-carved initials, shelves still holding forgotten tools and equipment, all coated in a fine layer of grime. Forgotten. Just like me.

My gaze landed on the shelf in the far corner. Glass.

I moved before I could stop myself, as if pulled by invisible strings. My fingers closed around a thick piece of lab equipment—a glass beaker left behind. The weight of it felt solid in my hand, heavy and cold. I stared at it for a long moment, the world narrowing to just this one thing.

The glass would shatter. It would cut.

It would end this.

I clenched my jaw, my breaths ragged as I lifted the beaker. It wasn’t hard to smash it—the moment it hit the concrete floor, it shattered into sharp, glittering pieces that scattered at my feet like fractured stars.

My heart pounded in my chest, but for the first time in days, I felt calm. My hands trembled as I knelt on the floor, carefully sifting through the broken glass until I found a shard long and jagged enough to fit in my palm. The edges glinted under the light, red-rimmed where I’d already nicked my thumb.

I stared at it for what felt like forever, my fingers curling around the shard. Is this what it feels like to finally decide? To stop fighting. To stop holding on to something that wasn’t even there anymore.

I wanted to be gone before he came back.

I didn’t want to see his face. Didn’t want him to find me and hold me like he did, whispering lies about how I was safe with him. Because I wasn’t safe—I’d never been safe.

But he kept you alive, didn’t he?

The thought hit me like a slap. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head hard enough to make the room spin. He didn’t save me. He stole me.

I opened my eyes again, glaring down at the shard as if it could argue with me. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out every other sound.

Just do it.

I lifted the glass to my wrist, the edge biting into the soft skin there, trembling. I held my breath, my vision blurring as the tears came back, hot and sudden.

Do it. Do it now.

The door slammed open.

The sound ripped through the silence like a gunshot, and my body jolted, the shard slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor. I froze, my blood running cold as I turned toward the door, my breath hitching.

Owen stood in the doorway.

His shoulders rose and fell with every breath, his hoodie damp from the rain outside. His eyes locked on me—first on my wrist, then on the broken glass scattered around me—and in that moment, I swore time stopped.

“Kira,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, terrified.

My whole body trembled as I stared at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see this. The air between us felt electric, charged with something dark and volatile. My knees wobbled, and I nearly collapsed back onto the floor, but I couldn’t look away from him.

Owen stepped forward slowly, his movements deliberate, his gaze fixed on me like I was something fragile and precious—something he was afraid might disappear if he moved too fast.

“What are you doing?” His voice was calm, but I could hear the tremor beneath it. The storm.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.

He stopped just a few feet away, his hands at his sides, as if he was afraid to reach for me. “Kira,” he said again, softer this time, almost pleading at my silence.

I looked at the shard of glass at my feet. My hand still ached from holding it so tightly.

Owen took another step, and the tension snapped inside me like a rubber band stretched too far. My body crumpled, my legs folding beneath me as I sank to the floor, a sob tearing free from my chest.

And suddenly, he was there.

Seventeen

OWEN'S GRIP tightened around my wrists, his eyes blazing with a mix of rage and terror. His breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale a testament to his fury.

"You were going to leave me again, weren't you?" His voice was a low growl, the words tearing from his throat like a wild animal's snarl. I couldn't speak, couldn't move. I was paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze, the ferocity of his touch.

He picked up the glass, the edge glinting in the dim light. "If you want to hurt yourself, Kira, you only have to ask me." His words were a dark promise, a twisted offer I couldn't refuse. I felt the first cut, a shallow line across my collarbone, and a gasp escaped my lips. The pain was sharp, but it was more than that. It was a release, a flood of adrenaline that coursed through my veins, making me feel alive in a way I hadn't in so long.

Owen's hands were rough as he stripped me down, each piece of clothing falling away like a barrier between us. I didn't fight him, didn't try to run. Instead, I let myself fall into the sensation, into the pain and the pleasure that came with it. Each cut was a mark of his possession, a claim on my body and my soul.

"You're mine, Kira," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire and desperation. "You can't leave me. You can't."

He handcuffed my wrists together in front of me, the metal cold against my skin. Then, with a sudden movement, he picked me up and slammed me against the wall. His mouth found mine, his teeth nipping at my lips, his tongue invading my mouth. He left a trail of hickeys and shallow cuts in his wake.

I moaned into his mouth, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure. My body responded to his touch, to the sensation of his hands on my skin, his teeth on my flesh. I was drowning in him, in the darkness that surrounded us, in the twisted desire that bound us together.

"Owen," I whispered, his name a plea and a curse. He pulled back, his eyes meeting mine, and in that moment, I saw the depth of his obsession, the intensity of his need. It was terrifying, but it was also exhilarating. It was a darkness that called to the darkness within me.

His hands roamed my body, his fingers tracing the lines of the cuts he had made. Each touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, a mix of pleasure and pain that was intoxicating. I was lost in him, in the sensation of his touch, in the knowledge that I was his, completely and utterly.

He kissed me again, his mouth moving against mine with a desperation that matched my own. I could taste the blood on his lips, the metallic tang a reminder of the darkness that bound us together. I was falling, falling into him, into the abyss that was Owen Sinclair.

And during that moment, I didn't want to be saved. I wanted to drown in him, to lose myself in the darkness that was us. I wanted to feel the pain and the pleasure, the love and the hate, the desire and the despair. I wanted it all, every twisted, fucked-up part of it.

Because at that moment, I was alive. I was feeling. I was his.

I was breathless, every nerve in my body alight, and then he was stripping. His movements were frantic, desperate, and as his shirt came off, I saw them. Swirling black tattoos adorned his left bicep, a dark mark on his perfect skin. I bit my lip, my eyes widening as he revealed more, every inch of him sculpted to perfection. Muscles flexed as he worked, his eyes never leaving mine, and then he was fully naked. I felt a flush of desire, a heat that pooled between my legs.

Owen stepped closer, his hands gripping mine, and he raised my arms above my head. I felt vulnerable, exposed, and my heart began to pound. Our gazes locked, his eyes burning with an intensity that seared me. I licked my lips, feeling a rush of adrenaline, and he leaned in, his mouth capturing mine in a hungry kiss.

I moaned into his mouth as he thrust his tongue against mine. It was a possessive move, a claim, and I felt a surge of desire so intense it stole my breath. His hands tightened on mine, holding them firmly in place, and then he entered me.

A gasp escaped my lips as I felt him fill me, a sensation unlike any other. It was intimate, it was possessive, and I felt overwhelmed with a rush of emotions. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to feel it all. Owen began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, and I felt every inch of him.

"You like that, Kira?" he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "You like feeling me inside you?"

I could only nod, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I was lost in the sensation, in the feel of him moving within me, and then he quickened his pace. His movements became more urgent, his grip on my hands tightening.

I watched as he placed the shard of glass to my chest. Owen was carving his name into my skin, marking me as his own. I cried out, my back arching, and he thrust harder. The pain and pleasure mingled, a heady mix that had me sobbing, begging for more.

"That's it, Kira. Feel it. Feel me." His voice was a husky command, and I obeyed. I felt the blood trickling down my chest, felt his hands slick with it, and still, he thrust into me. I was a mess of sensations, of pleasure and pain, and I knew I was his. "Mine. You're all mine. Now everyone will see it and know too."

"Owen," I panted, my voice hoarse. "I—I can't—I need—"

"I know what you need, baby." He thrust harder, his hips slamming into mine. "You need me. You need my cock, deep inside you."

His words sent a shockwave through me, and I cried out, my body tensing. I was on the edge, so close, and yet I didn't want it to end. I wanted to stay in this moment forever, caught in the rush of pleasure and the agony of my heart.

"Come for me, Kira," he growled, his voice hoarse. "Come on my cock."

And I did. I shattered, crying out his name as my body convulsed around him. I felt his name, branded on my chest as a permanent reminder of this moment. Owen followed, his release claiming me, marking me as his in the most primal way.

We collapsed in a heap, our bodies still joined, and I felt his weight on me, his breath against my neck. I was his, completely and utterly, and in that moment, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

Eighteen

THE LOCK GAVE A SHARP, metallic crack, and the sound pulled me out of the fog that had become my mind. I sat up sharply, my wrists aching from where they had been cuffed so often. My arms, still bound to the metal pipe above the air mattress, trembled as the door creaked open slowly, spilling pale light into the basement. I blinked against the brightness. For a moment, I thought I was imagining it, another cruel dream conjured by my shattered psyche.

But then they stepped in.

Liam. Alex. Jasmine.

For a second, none of us moved. They just stood there, taking in the room: the blow-up mattress, the remnants of broken glass still scattered on the floor, the oppressive darkness Owen had confined me to. Liam’s expression hardened, his jaw tight. Alex glanced at Jasmine, his eyes full of unspoken words. And Jasmine... Jasmine’s face was pale, her lips parted in something that might have been shock—or guilt.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her voice trembling. Her sharp, composed facade cracked, and for a moment, she looked like a stranger.

I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? My eyes darted to the door behind them, my heart pounding as the reality of what was happening set in.

Liam stepped forward, his voice steady but simmering with anger. "Kira. We’re getting you out of here." He crouched beside me, his movements slow and deliberate, like I was a wounded animal he didn’t want to startle.

I wanted to believe him. But then my gaze flicked to Jasmine, and the memories came rushing back: her cruel laughter, her biting remarks, the way she used to egg Owen on when he’d corner me after class.

"I didn’t... I didn’t know it was this bad," Jasmine said, her green eyes scanning the room. Her gaze landed on the faint marks on my skin where Owen had claimed me. She swallowed hard, her hands clenching at her sides. "I knew he was... intense, but this? This is fucking disgusting."

You knew. The words burned in my throat, but I didn’t say them. What was the point? Even now, standing in the wreckage Owen had made of my life, she was trying to absolve herself.

Alex stepped forward, his expression grim. "We thought something was wrong. We just didn’t know it was this... this sick." He turned to Liam, lowering his voice. "You were right to follow him."

My breath hitched. They’d followed him? How much had they seen? And why now, after all this time, had they decided to act?

Jasmine’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and accusatory. "Why didn’t we do something sooner? We could’ve stopped this before it got this far."

Liam’s jaw tightened as he shot her a glare. "Because we didn’t know," he snapped. His focus shifted back to me, softening. He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm. "Come on, Kira. Let’s get you out of here."

I hesitated, my gaze flicking back to Jasmine. Her eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something that almost looked like regret.

"I’m sorry," she said softly, her voice wavering. Her hands clenched at her sides. "For everything. I didn’t... I didn’t know it would lead to this."

The words were hollow, empty. They did nothing to ease the weight crushing my chest. But I didn’t have the strength to argue. Not now. Not when the door was open, and freedom was just a few steps away.

Liam slid his arm around my shoulders, steadying me as he reached for the keys hanging on the wall. His hands trembled slightly as he unlocked the cuffs, the cold metal falling away from my raw wrists. My legs trembled, weak from the days spent confined to this hell. As they led me out of the basement, I cast one last glance over my shoulder. The air mattress, the broken glass, the handcuffs Owen had used to bind me—it all blurred together in the darkness. But it wasn’t the room I was leaving behind that scared me.

It was the part of me that didn’t want to go.

The walk across campus was a torment. Every step felt like a betrayal. I should have been with her. I needed to be with her. The memory of finding her with the broken glass in her hands was burned in my mind, a permanent scar.

I clenched my fists, forcing my feet to keep moving. Class had been unbearable. Every second spent listening to professor after professor drone on felt like another moment I’d failed her. She’d been alone, and I hated the thought of her spiraling again. What if she was in pain? What if she tried again? The thought sent a wave of nausea through me.

The sight of the science building came into view, and I quickened my pace, my chest tightening with anticipation. I was going to see her, hold her, remind her that she was mine and mine alone.

But as I approached the door, something felt off. The lock dangled by a single hinge, broken clean off. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest as I pushed the door open. The sight that greeted me stopped me cold.

The room was empty.

The air mattress was still there, rumpled and abandoned. The chains I’d used to bind her wrists were coiled neatly in the corner. But Kira was gone. My world tilted, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

My gaze swept the room, searching for any clue, any sign of what had happened. That’s when I saw it—a bracelet lying on the floor near the door. A leather band, worn and familiar. My blood ran cold as I crouched to pick it up, my fingers trembling.

Liam.

I clenched the bracelet in my fist, my teeth grinding together as rage bubbled up inside me. He’d done this. He’d followed me, watched me, and now he’d taken her from me. The thought sent a surge of fury through my veins, and I slammed my fist into the wall, the dull thud reverberating through the empty room.

You think this is over, Liam? You think you can just take her from me? My breath came in short, ragged bursts as I paced the room, the bracelet biting into my palm. She’s mine. No one takes what’s mine.

I stalked to the door, my mind racing. I didn’t know where they’d gone, but I knew one thing for certain: I would find her. And when I did, I would remind her—and everyone else—that she belonged to me.

Nineteen

VOICES FILTERED into my mind like faint echoes through a thick fog, their urgency pulling me back to some semblance of awareness.

"She needs a safe place," Liam’s voice said firmly, cutting through the murmur of someone else. "Somewhere Owen wouldn’t think to look."

"Are you sure about this?" Alex’s tone was cautious, skeptical. "We’re already in deep. If Owen finds out—"

"I don’t care," Liam snapped, his voice low but filled with resolve. "This is the right thing to do. I’ll take her to my parents’ house. No one’s there, and it’s a state away. She’ll be safe."

I must have drifted again, my surroundings slipping in and out of focus. The next thing I knew, I was being lifted while strong arms supported my limp body. The cool night air hit my skin, making me shiver as I was carried toward something that felt solid, warm—like a car seat.

The door shut with a soft thud, and then we were moving. The vibration of the car beneath me was oddly soothing, and I sank into it, letting the motion lull me. Time became meaningless, my mind retreating into itself as the miles blurred together.

When the car finally stopped, I blinked, the haze lifting just enough to take in my surroundings. Liam’s voice broke through again, steady and coaxing. "We’re here."

I blinked up at the sprawling house in front of us. It looked more like a mansion than a home, all stone and pristine glass, with manicured hedges that lined a driveway big enough to fit an entire fleet of cars. The kind of place you’d see on magazine covers, not in real life. My stomach churned at the sight of it.

“Come on,” Liam urged, opening my door. His hand hovered near mine, but he didn’t touch me. Not yet. “Let’s get you inside.”

I followed him mechanically, my legs weak but moving. The inside was just as grand as the outside—marble floors, sweeping staircases, and an open layout that seemed to stretch endlessly. The house smelled faintly of lavender and something citrusy, the kind of sterile perfection that felt utterly foreign.

“Let’s sit,” Liam said, guiding me toward a plush couch in the living room. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a first-aid kit before kneeling in front of me.

“I need to clean these cuts,” he explained, his voice soft. “It might sting.”

I nodded numbly, staring at the ground. I felt the wet swipe of antiseptic against my skin, the sharp sting of it barely registering. Liam worked methodically, his movements precise and careful, as though touching me too roughly might break me.

“Kira.” His voice pulled my gaze to his. “Do you want anything to eat? I can order whatever you want. Anything.”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know what to say. Food felt... irrelevant. Everything did.

Liam sighed, his brows drawing together in concern. “I’ll just order a little of everything,” he said, more to himself than to me. He stood, pulling out his phone and stepping away for a moment.

The low murmur of his voice as he placed the order was oddly soothing, even if I couldn’t focus on the words. When he came back, he sat down on the edge of the couch, his expression still tight with worry.

“Food will be here soon,” he said. “And there’s plenty in the fridge if you get hungry later.”

I nodded faintly, still not speaking.

Liam’s expression softened, but he didn’t press me. Instead, he disappeared again, for what seemed like an hour and when he returned, he set a small bag on the table in front of me.

“I got this for you,” he said, pulling out a sleek, new phone. “I put it on my plan, and I programmed my number into it. You don’t have to call or text me if you don’t want to, but... it’s there.”

He placed a credit card next to the phone, his fingers lingering on the edge of it. “And this is for you. To buy clothes, supplies, anything you need. Or if you want to get out of here. You don’t have to stay, Kira. You’re not a prisoner. I just wanted to give you a place to figure things out.”

His words were tender, thoughtful, and they should’ve brought comfort. But all they did was make me feel heavier, like the weight of my own guilt and confusion might crush me entirely.

“I can’t stay long,” Liam continued, his voice laced with regret. “If I’m gone too long, it’ll look suspicious. Owen’s already going to know you’re gone, but I’ll do everything I can to keep him off your trail.”

I nodded faintly, still unable to meet his eyes.

The doorbell rang, and Liam shot me a quick look before disappearing to answer it. The faint sound of conversation drifted back as he greeted the delivery driver. When he returned, he was balancing a stack of takeout containers, the aroma wafting through the air and making my stomach churn in unexpected hunger.

He set the food down on the coffee table, opening a few containers to reveal a spread that could’ve fed an entire party. Burgers, sushi, salads, pizza, sandwiches, even a few desserts. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I just... got everything.”

I stared at the food, the sight of it overwhelming. I should’ve felt grateful. I should’ve been able to say something, anything. But I couldn’t.

Liam sat down beside me, his hand hovering near mine again. “You don’t have to eat if you’re not ready,” he said gently. “But it’s here when you are.

“Kira,” he said softly, his hand brushing mine for the first time. It was warm, steady, and nothing like Owen’s. “If you need anything, I’m here.”

He stood, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turned to leave. The sound of the front door clicking shut echoed through the house, leaving me alone once again.

I stared at the phone, the credit card, and the untouched food on the table, their presence a strange reminder that I was free. Or at least, that I could be. But the weight of my own mind, the memories of everything Owen had done—and everything I still felt for him—kept me rooted in place.

I wasn’t free. Not really.

And I didn’t know if I ever would be.

Twenty

I SPOTTED Liam near the edge of campus, his relaxed stride a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside me. He hadn’t seen me yet, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The leather bracelet in my pocket burned like a brand, a damning reminder of his betrayal. Every step I took toward him stoked the fire in my chest.

“Liam.” My voice sliced through the hum of campus chatter, sharp and cold.

His head jerked up, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it with practiced indifference. “Owen. What’s up?”

I didn’t bother with words. I grabbed his arm in an iron grip and yanked him toward the nearest alcove between two buildings. His protests fell on deaf ears as I dragged him into the shadowed nook, the tension crackling in the air between us.

“Owen, what the hell?” he snapped, yanking his arm free. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I snarled, yanking the bracelet from my pocket. I held it up, the worn leather glinting faintly in the dim light. “This is my problem.”

Liam’s eyes flicked to the bracelet before meeting mine, his expression unreadable. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I barked, throwing the bracelet at his chest. “I found this in a place it shouldn’t have been.”

The slightest flicker of recognition crossed his face before he caught himself. “That’s not mine.”

“Bullshit.” I stepped closer, my fists trembling with the effort to hold myself back. “You’ve worn this thing every day for months. Don’t lie to me, Liam.”

He scoffed, catching the bracelet and shoving it into his pocket. “You’re losing it, man. Maybe you dropped it there yourself.”

The words ignited something primal in me. I grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him against the brick wall. “Where is she?” My voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely-contained rage.

Liam didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on mine, steady and unyielding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me!” I snarled, slamming him against the wall again. “You were in the old science building. You took her. Where is she?”

For a moment, Liam’s mask slipped. Guilt flashed in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Even if I did know,” he said coolly, “you think I’d tell you? After what you’ve done to her?”

“What I’ve done?” I hissed, my grip on him tightening. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand more than you think,” he interrupted, shoving me back hard enough to make me stumble. “You locked her in a fucking basement, Owen. No one’s supposed to be in that building, and you used it to hurt her. You don’t get to stand here and play the victim.”

His words cut deep, but they only stoked the fire. “You don’t know anything about us,” I snapped, stepping closer again. “You don’t know what she needs.”

“You're right. I don't know what she needs,” Liam retorted, his voice cold. “But I do know she didn't need whatever twisted fucking version of love you think you’ve been giving her.”

I took another step toward him, the distance between us vanishing as I stared him down. “You think you’re some kind of hero?” I growled. “That breaking into my space and taking her fixes everything?”

“No.” His tone softened, but his words hit even harder. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know I can’t undo the damage. But I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe from you.”

My breath hitched, the weight of his words settling heavily in my chest. “She’s mine,” I said, quieter now, the desperation bleeding into my voice. “She needs me.”

Liam’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “She needed you to let her go,” he said. “And you couldn’t do it. You locked her away because you couldn’t stand the thought of her being someone outside of you. That’s not love, Owen. That’s possession.”

The truth in his words hit like a punch to the gut, but I refused to acknowledge it. “You think you’re better than me?” I spat, my voice trembling with anger. “You think you’ve saved her?”

Liam shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I’m not better than you,” he said quietly. “I let this go on too long. But I’m done standing by. You don’t get to ruin her any more than you already have.”

Silence fell between us, thick and suffocating. The echoes of everything we’d done—and failed to do—hung in the air like a noose. Finally, Liam stepped around me, his shoulder brushing mine as he walked away.

“Keep looking if you want,” he said without turning back. “But you’re not going to find her. Not until she’s ready to be found. If she ever wants to be found.”

I stood there, frozen, as his words sank in. My chest heaved, my hands shaking at my sides. The leather bracelet was gone, tucked away in his pocket, but its presence still weighed on me.

Liam was right about one thing: I’d hurt her. But he was wrong if he thought I was giving up.

Not yet. Not ever.

Twenty-One

LIAM’S WORDS haunted me as I walked across campus, fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. You don’t get to ruin her anymore.

I’d heard the defiance in his voice, the finality, but I refused to let it end there. He thought he could take her away from me, hide her like she wasn’t mine—like she didn’t belong to me.

My steps quickened until I was practically running, my mind spinning with possibilities. If Liam wasn’t going to give her back, I’d find her myself. She couldn’t have gone far. She didn’t have the resources, the means to just disappear.

I reached her dorm and shoved the door open, slamming it shut behind me. Her scent hit me immediately, faint but unmistakable. It was like a drug, flooding my system and making my heart race. I tore through the room, my hands shaking as I yanked open drawers and rifled through her belongings. Her clothes, her notebooks, the little trinkets she’d collected—each piece felt like a fragment of her, something tangible to cling to.

I picked up one of her sweaters, pressing it to my face and inhaling deeply. It was pathetic, I knew that, but I didn’t care. She was slipping away from me, and I couldn’t let that happen.

Her desk was the next target. I ripped open the drawers, scattering pens and papers across the floor. A notebook caught my eye, its worn cover familiar. I flipped it open, scanning the pages for anything that might tell me where she’d gone. But it was just notes, neat handwriting detailing lectures and assignments. Nothing personal. Nothing useful.

My frustration boiled over, and I slammed the notebook onto the desk. I leaned forward, gripping the edge tightly, my breath ragged. “Where are you?” I whispered, the words barely audible over the pounding in my head.

When her dorm yielded nothing, I didn’t hesitate. I drove to her parents’ house, piecing together the location from vague details she’d mentioned in passing. The drive stretched on endlessly, every mile feeding the simmering panic in my chest. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

Her mother answered the door, her warm expression shifting to confusion the moment she saw me.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked, her voice cautious but polite.

I forced a smile, though it felt foreign on my face. “I’m Owen. I’m, uh, a friend of Kira’s. I was just wondering if she’s here.”

Her mother’s brows furrowed. “Kira? No, she’s not here. Why would she be? Is everything okay?”

I swallowed hard, the weight of her suspicion pressing on my chest. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just… I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. I thought she might’ve come home.”

Her mother shook her head, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “No, she hasn’t been here. We haven’t heard from her. Are you sure she’s okay?”

The panic that had been simmering threatened to boil over. I nodded quickly, stepping back. “Yeah, she’s fine. I’m sorry to bother you. Thanks.”

Her mother watched me closely, her unease palpable. “If you hear from her, can you tell her to call us? We’ve been worried about her.”

“Of course,” I said, turning and walking briskly back to my car. I could feel her eyes on me the entire way, her suspicion trailing after me like a shadow.

I slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel, my chest heaving. She wasn’t here. She hadn’t even told her parents anything. Where the hell was she?

The drive back was a blur. My mind replayed every interaction, every moment I’d spent watching her. The way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear during class, oblivious to my gaze. The way her lips curved when she read something she enjoyed, her concentration so absolute she hadn’t noticed me staring. I’d memorized her schedule, her habits, the little things that made her Kira. But now, all that knowledge felt useless.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the desperation had turned to something darker. I kicked the door shut behind me and dropped onto my bed, surrounded by the remnants of my search. Her sweater was still clutched in my hand, the fabric soft against my skin. I held it to my face again, inhaling deeply, as if it could somehow ground me. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

I stared at the wall, my mind racing. Images of Kira flashed behind my eyes, fragmented and disjointed. Her smile, her laugh, the way she’d looked at me with a mix of fear and defiance. The way her body had trembled under my touch, her gasps mingled with mine. She was mine. She’d always been mine.

But now she was gone, and the emptiness she’d left behind was unbearable. I felt like I was unraveling, every thread of control I’d carefully woven coming apart at the seams. My chest ached, the weight of my failure crushing me.

I picked up her notebook from the floor, flipping through the pages aimlessly. The neat rows of text blurred, my vision clouded by tears I refused to let fall. “Kira,” I whispered, the sound of her name breaking something inside me. “Come back.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered. The room was silent, except for the sound of my ragged breathing. I leaned back against the wall, clutching the notebook to my chest like it was some sort of lifeline. The darkness pressed in around me, suffocating and absolute.

I couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not ever.

The thoughts swirled, chaotic and consuming, as I sat there, drowning in my own torment. The only thing I knew with certainty was that I wasn’t done. Not yet. Not ever.

Twenty-Two

I WOKE TO SILENCE. No handcuffs, no cold basement floor, no oppressive darkness. Just the soft hum of central air and the faint scent of lavender. The room around me was unfamiliar—clean, bright, and far too big. For a moment, I thought I might still be dreaming, the kind where safety feels fragile, like a glass bubble that could shatter with the wrong breath.

My body ached with a deep, lingering soreness from days spent fighting against myself. My wrists bore faint marks from the cuffs and my chest was still tender beneath the bandages Liam had applied. I ran my fingers along the edges of the gauze, the touch grounding me in reality.

The room was pristine and impersonal, like something from a luxury hotel. It was too perfect, too untouched, which made it all the more surreal. I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting, and looked around. The only evidence that this space belonged to someone was the neatly folded hoodie draped over a chair, probably left there by Liam.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet brushing against the plush carpet. The softness startled me—a far cry from the cold concrete of the basement. I stood on unsteady legs, my body moving without much input from my mind, and wandered toward the door.

The hallway was wide and bathed in light from tall windows. Everything about this house screamed wealth, from the gleaming floors to the oversized paintings lining the walls. I traced a hand along the railing as I descended a grand staircase, my bare feet making soft sounds against the polished wood.

The house was silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. I passed through the living room, where more opulent furniture sat in perfect arrangement. It felt like a set piece in a play, a space too perfect to be real.

On the counter in the kitchen sat a note, its handwriting neat and precise.

Kira, Take your time. You’re safe here. -Liam

Safe. The word felt foreign. I wasn’t sure I even believed it.

I lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the note. Liam hadn’t come back. The absence of his presence left an uneasy void, but part of me was relieved. I didn’t have to face him, and pretend to be okay.

My eyes drifted to the phone he’d left for me, sitting next to the credit card. It was sleek and new, its glossy surface catching the morning light. I hesitated before picking it up, its weight feeling heavier than it should.

I sat at the table, staring at the screen as I powered it on. The blank home screen stared back at me, a fresh start that felt daunting. Liam had programmed his number into it—his name was the only one in the contacts list.

I opened the messaging app, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was I even supposed to say? The thought of asking for something felt... wrong, like I was imposing.

After a long moment, I typed:

Can I use the card to pay for a therapist near here?

I stared at the words, my finger trembling over the send button. My mind raced with excuses not to press it. What if he thought I was weak? What if he said no? But I couldn’t keep spiraling. Not anymore.

I hit send and placed the phone face down on the table, anxiety tightening my chest.

The vibration of his reply startled me. I flipped the phone over and read the single word:

Yes.

As I stared at the screen, the little typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. He’d wanted to say more but decided against it. The thought made my chest ache, though I couldn’t say why.

The confirmation felt like permission to move forward. I opened the browser and searched for therapists nearby, my hands shaking as I scrolled through the results. Most places had waiting lists or required weeks to get an appointment. It felt hopeless until I saw one with an opening tomorrow.

The receptionist was kind, her voice soothing as I stumbled over my words. “Tomorrow at 2 p.m.?” she confirmed.

“Yes,” I replied, the word coming out faint.

After hanging up, I set the phone down and stared at it, my mind struggling to process what I’d just done. Tomorrow. It was too soon, too fast. But wasn’t that what I needed?

The thought of talking to someone, of laying everything bare, terrified me. But the alternative was worse.

I stood and wandered back into the living room, my gaze landing on the massive windows that overlooked an expansive garden. The sun shone brightly, bathing the room in warmth, but it felt out of place. I wasn’t ready for so much light.

I curled up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. The house was too quiet, too big. Every shadow felt like it was watching me, and every creak of the floorboards reminded me of Owen’s footsteps on the basement stairs.

The thought of him was like a knife, cutting through the fragile calm I’d tried to build. His voice, his touch, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. I hated him. I loved him. I didn’t know how to separate the two.

But I knew one thing: I didn’t want to die. Not anymore.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. My life was a tangled mess of trauma and fear, and somewhere in the middle of it all was Owen.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt a flicker of something like hope. It was faint and fragile, like a candle in the wind, but it was there.

And for now, that was enough.

Twenty-Three

THE WORLD around me was unraveling, a slow, excruciating collapse that mirrored the chaos inside my head. My professors’ voices had become white noise, their lectures reduced to meaningless droning that I couldn’t bring myself to care about. The once-pristine notebooks I carried were now crammed with incoherent scribbles. Assignments piled up, and deadlines blurred into a single, suffocating haze.

Failing. I was failing at everything.

I’d been benched from hockey, my coach’s words still ringing in my ears. “Get your head on straight, Sinclair. You’re no good to the team like this.” I’d laughed at him—laughed—like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t. Hockey felt meaningless without her. Everything did.

My teammates had stopped trying to talk to me. Even Liam.. especially Liam. I’d overheard the whispers, the judgmental stares from guys who’d once slapped my back after every goal. “He’s lost it,” they’d muttered. And maybe they were right. Maybe I had.

Every waking moment was consumed by Kira—by the need to find her, to have her back. I’d torn through her belongings, retraced her steps, and scoured every corner of her life that I could get my hands on. But no matter how hard I looked, she remained out of reach. An invisible thread connected us, pulling taut every time I thought of her, but it led nowhere.

I sank into the worn couch in my dorm, the silence around me deafening. Her scent had faded from the sweater I’d stolen, and I hated myself for noticing. My fingers brushed over the fabric, gripping it tightly as if it could anchor me. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

My thoughts drifted to that night, the memory sharp and unrelenting. She’d been the perfect storm—wanting me even as she didn’t fully trust me, her vulnerability and her love creating cracks in my defenses. Kira had been an unstoppable force, pulling me in no matter how much I fought against it. I didn’t want to care about her. I didn’t want to like her. So I convinced myself that if I used her, I could destroy the hold she had over me.

Warning: Graphic Non-consent

The party had been loud, a cacophony of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. I’d been watching her all night, my gaze locked on the way she moved, the way she avoided the crowd. She’d been so out of place, so vulnerable, and it had drawn me to her like a magnet.

She hadn’t smiled at anyone. Her eyes were guarded, but there was a flicker of hope every time they scanned the room. When our eyes met across the crowd, she’d looked away quickly, a blush creeping across her cheeks. I’d caught her sneaking glances at me throughout the night, her attraction impossible to hide.

When she’d tried to slip away unnoticed, I’d followed, my footsteps silent as I trailed her through the dimly lit halls. She hadn’t seen me, not until I called her name softly, my voice barely audible over the muffled bass of the music.

She’d paused, turning to face me, her expression a mix of uncertainty and something softer. “Owen?”

I’d stepped closer, keeping my movements deliberate and unthreatening. “Come with me.”

She hadn’t hesitated, though her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides. “Where?”

“Somewhere quiet.” My voice had been gentle, coaxing, as I held out a hand. She’d stared at it for a moment before placing hers in mine. It was trembling, but she didn’t pull away.

The room I led her to was already prepared. The ropes, the blindfold, the gag—I’d set it all up earlier, planned every detail. It was sick. I knew that. But I couldn’t stop myself.

When we’d stepped inside, she’d glanced around, her brow furrowing slightly. “Why are we here?”

I’d turned to her, closing the door behind us. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her breath had hitched, her lips parting slightly. She’d looked at me like she didn’t believe what she was hearing, like she couldn’t possibly be the center of my world. But she had wanted to believe it. I’d seen it in her eyes.

“I don’t trust you,” she’d whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to,” I replied, stepping closer to her. “Just let me show you.”

There was something about the way Kira's breath hitched when I touched her that got under my skin. She was so responsive, so damn beautiful with her wide dark eyes and her body trembling beneath my hands. I traced my fingers down her arms, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. I leaned in, my lips grazing her ear. "Trust me," I whispered, and for a moment, I almost believed I deserved that trust.

I took my time undressing her, savoring each new inch of skin revealed to me. She wasn't fighting me, but her nervousness was palpable. It was a heady feeling, knowing I had this power over her. I guided her into the position I'd prepared, bending her legs just so, wrapping the rope around her thighs and ankles with practiced ease. I made sure the ties were secure but not too tight—she had to be comfortable, after all. Her hands followed, bound to her thighs, rendering her completely at my mercy.

She was exquisite like this, bound and vulnerable, her body displayed for me alone. I couldn't resist teasing her a little, running my fingers along the inside of her thigh before I attached the vibrator. She jumped, a gasp escaping her as it sprung to life against her. I couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction, at the unmistakable evidence of her arousal. She was wet, soaked for me, and I hadn't even really started yet.

The ring gag was next, stretching her mouth open, ready for me. I leaned in, my tongue delving into her mouth, exploring, claiming. She tasted sweet, with a hint of something darker, something that matched the twisted need inside me. I reached over, grabbing the blindfold, and in one swift movement, I plunged her into darkness.

With her sight taken away, all her other senses would be heightened. She'd feel everything more intensely, and I was the one who got to control that. The thought sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through me. I didn't want to like Kira. I just wanted to get her out of my system, to use her and move on. But here I was, pretending to care, to make her feel safe, all so she'd let me do these things to her.

I stepped back, admiring my handiwork. She was a sight to behold, bound and blindfolded, the vibrator humming against her, her body already starting to squirm. I could see the conflict in her, the way she was fighting her own responses, but it was a battle she was destined to lose. And I was going to make sure of that.

I didn't even bother stripping down. I just unzipped my jeans, freed my cock, and there it was—her mouth, open and ready for me, courtesy of the ring gag. I watched her, her cheeks flushed, blindfolded, and desperate. The vibrator did its job, making her moan and gasp around my shaft the moment I pushed inside.

Gods, she was something else, arching into the sensation, her body betraying her as she sucked in rhythm with the pulsing toy. I wrapped her braids around my fist, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, and then I drove deep, pressing her face against my groin. She gagged, and I felt her throat constrict around the head of my cock, an exquisite sensation that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my balls.

She could take me, all of me. I marveled at it, at her. The sounds she made, the way she struggled to breathe, to adjust—it was intoxicating. I didn't just want her mouth; I wanted to consume her, to possess every inch of her. And as her orgasm hit, her body shaking, her screams muffled by my cock buried in her throat, I held her there, feeling her convulse around me.

I lost track of how many times she came. Her cheeks were flushed, tears rolling down from under the blindfold, and her hands—those delicate, bound hands—clawed at her thighs, desperate for release. But I wasn't about to let her go. Not now, not ever. She was mine, and I'd make sure she knew it, every second of every day.

My thrusts grew more urgent, more demanding. I could feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my balls tightening. "You like that, don't you, you little slut?" I murmured, my voice barely more than a growl. "You love having my cock in your mouth, making you choke, making you come over and over again."

She moaned in response, her body quivering, and I knew I was close. I gripped her braids tighter, using them to guide her movements, to control her completely. And when I finally came, it was with a harsh groan, my hips jerking as I emptied myself down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, her body still trembling from the remnants of her own pleasure.

I pulled back, my cock slipping from her swollen lips with a wet sound. The remains of my cum spilling from her open mouth to fall onto her chest. I gazed down at her, flushed and panting. She was a mess, and I'd made her that way.

I should've felt satisfied. I'd just fucked her mouth like it was my right, and she'd taken it, every damn inch of me. But as I watched her, still bound and helpless, a new wave of fury washed over me. The fucking vibrator was doing its job too well, and her hips were moving in these desperate, little circles, trying to get more friction, more of anything that would send her over the edge again. Her loud moans, seemingly amplified by the gag forcing her lips open, were driving me insane.

She was supposed to be a one-time thing, a way to prove to myself that I could have her and then discard her like all the others. But every time I looked at her, every time I heard those needy sounds she made, it was like she was digging her claws deeper into me. I was obsessed, and I hated it.

In a fit of rage, I pulled out the earbuds I'd stashed in my pocket and jammed them into her ears. She flinched and gasped, but there was no escape. I used her thumb to unlock her phone, pairing it with the earbuds, and then I cranked up the volume until her music was blasting, drowning out everything else—including the sounds of her own pleasure and the voices of the partygoers just outside the door.

I stood there for a moment, watching her struggle against the sensory overload, her body writhing in a way that was all kinds of fucked up. It was wrong to enjoy it, but I did. I fucking did.

Leaving her there, I stepped out into the hall and beckoned to the group of drunken frat guys who'd been eyeing us with a mix of curiosity and envy. "She's all yours," I said, my voice thick with anger.

They didn't need any more encouragement. They piled into the room, their eyes hungry as they took in the sight of Kira, bound, gagged, and unable to hear a thing. They were animals, each one eager to take his turn with her mouth. And I watched, damning myself with every passing second.

I told myself this would be the end of it, that seeing her used by these mindless drones would cure me of whatever sickness I had for her. But it didn't work. If anything, it made things worse. The more they took from her, the more fucked I felt. She was mine, and watching them with her only fueled the fire raging inside me.

I didn't stay long. I couldn't. The sight of her, the sounds she was making—it was too much. I turned on my heel and left the room, the sounds of her music, the grunts of those assholes, and the moans of her release as they cheered faded behind me as I made my way through the crowd.

I needed air. I needed to clear my head, to get as far away from Kira as possible. I'd thought that having her, breaking her, would be enough to exorcise her from my system. But it was becoming painfully clear that it would take a lot more than that.

Now, sitting alone in my dorm, the memory made my stomach churn. I’d crossed a line that night, a line I could never uncross. And yet, some part of me still believed it had been necessary.

I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. “Where are you, Kira?” I whispered, my voice breaking. The question hung in the air, unanswered, a cruel reminder of how far she’d slipped from my grasp.

My phone buzzed on the table, and I grabbed it, hope surging through me. But it wasn’t her. It was my coach, another reminder of how far I’d fallen. I didn’t answer, letting the call go to voicemail. What was the point? Hockey didn’t matter anymore. Classes didn’t matter. Nothing mattered without her.

I stood abruptly, the motion sending the notebook on my lap tumbling to the floor. I paced the room, my thoughts spiraling. She was out there somewhere, and I couldn’t reach her. Every second that passed felt like another brick in the wall separating us, and I was suffocating under its weight.

But I couldn’t give up. I wouldn’t. Kira was mine. She’d always been mine. And no matter what it took, I’d find her. I’d make her see that we belonged together. That she needed me as much as I needed her.

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door, the cold air hitting me like a slap as I stepped outside. The campus was quiet, the night stretching endlessly before me. My breath formed clouds in the air as I walked, each step a silent vow.

I’ll find you, Kira. I swear it.

Twenty-Four

THE WALK back to my dorm felt like a trudge through quicksand. Every step was heavy, dragging me closer to a place I wasn’t ready to face. Liam had insisted I take as much time as I needed, but there was no escaping the fact that I still had things here—pieces of me I’d left behind in the chaos.

It had been weeks since I last stood in front of this door, and now, as I stared at it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. My hand hesitated on the handle, the quiet hallway amplifying the hammering of my heart.

I pushed the door open, and immediately, unease coiled around me like a noose.

The air felt sterile, devoid of the life I’d left behind. My bed was perfectly made, the faint scent of cleaning supplies hanging in the air. My desk, once cluttered with notebooks and pens, now looked pristine, unnaturally neat.

This wasn’t how I left it.

My pulse quickened as I stepped inside, my gaze darting to every corner, searching for what didn’t belong. That’s when I saw it—the iPod and Kindle, sitting side by side on the desk. Their presence was a punch to the gut, a cruel reminder of a life I was trying to escape.

A small folded note rested beside them, the sight of it making my breath hitch. My hands trembled as I picked it up, the handwriting instantly recognizable.

“For when you’re ready.”

My knees buckled, and I sank onto the edge of my bed, clutching the note in one hand while my other hovered over the iPod. Memories of Owen’s voice filled my mind, soft and earnest, from that weekend before everything shattered.

My fingers brushed against its smooth surface, a thousand emotions clawing at me as I picked it up and scrolled through the playlist.

The song titles blurred through the tears welling in my eyes—Take Me to Church, I Found, Mine.

I hesitated over the last one. The title felt too personal, too raw. But my thumb hovered there, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

I pressed play.

The opening notes seeped into my skin, soft and deliberate, each word slicing through the armor I’d built around myself.

“…And I am certain, no

That you and I are crashing course

Driven by a holy force…”

I closed my eyes, the lyrics coiling around my thoughts, dragging me into a dark, intimate embrace I wasn’t sure I could escape. The melody felt like Owen himself, pulling me back into his orbit, his voice threading through the cracks in my resolve.

Memories hit me in waves—his touch, the way he’d looked at me as if I were the only thing that existed in his world. And then the darker ones, the things I tried so desperately to forget. His obsession, his control. The way he’d taken everything I thought I knew about myself and twisted it into something unrecognizable.

My chest tightened as the song swelled, the raw emotion in the lyrics mirroring the chaos inside me. I hated him. I hated how much he consumed me, how deeply he’d embedded himself into my soul.

But more than that, I hated myself for still feeling drawn to him.

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. I ripped the earbuds out, the silence that followed almost deafening. My hand clenched around the iPod, my knuckles white as I stared at it, my vision blurred.

The note lay crumpled at my feet, discarded like a piece of trash. I wanted to throw the iPod after it, to sever this tether to Owen completely. But I couldn’t.

I stood abruptly, pacing the room in frantic steps. The walls felt like they were closing in, each second stretching unbearably long. I couldn’t stay here. Not with these memories. Not with his ghost haunting every corner.

But as I grabbed my bag, ready to leave, my fingers brushed against the iPod again. My grip faltered, and I stared at it, torn between rage and longing.

Without thinking, I slipped it into my pocket.

It was instinctual, automatic, like it had a hold on me I couldn’t break.

As I shut the door behind me, the weight of the iPod pressed against my leg with every step. I told myself it was nothing, that I’d get rid of it later.

But I knew the truth.

I wasn’t ready to let it go.

I wasn't ready to let him go.

Twenty-Five

THE NIGHT BLED into my hands, each face flashing through my memory like a grotesque slideshow of failure. There hadn’t been just three of them. No, there were far more—wolves drawn to the scent of blood that I had unleashed. I had opened the door that night, had beckoned them inside, and now their names and faces clung to me like a disease.

I wasn’t doing this for vengeance. Vengeance was selfish. This was for her—for Kira.

She’d given me her trust, shaky and fragile as it was, and I’d torn it apart. I’d failed her in ways I couldn’t even begin to reconcile. But I could make this right. I would make this right.

The first one was sitting at a bar, laughing too loudly, surrounded by people who probably didn’t even know what kind of man he was. It was disgusting.

I waited until he stepped outside, fumbling with his phone as he stumbled toward the parking lot. His arrogance made him careless, blind to the figure stalking him in the shadows.

“Owen?” His voice broke the quiet before I could speak, recognition flashing across his face. “What—what are you doing here, man?”

The way he said my name—like we were friends, like I wasn’t about to ruin his entire life—made my blood boil.

“You,” I growled, stepping out of the shadows. “You don’t deserve to say my name.”

Confusion flickered across his face before realization set in, his expression twisting into something panicked. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”

“You don’t want trouble?” My voice was low, dangerous. “You made trouble the moment you touched her.”

“I didn’t—”

I didn’t let him finish. I grabbed his collar, slamming him against the car. His phone clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he clawed at my hands.

“She was mine,” I snarled, my face inches from his. “And you thought you could take her from me? Like she was nothing?”

“She wanted it!” he cried, his voice desperate, his words scraping against my last shred of control. “You—you’re the one who brought us in! You’re the one who—”

My fist collided with his face before he could finish, the crunch of bone and cartilage echoing through the quiet parking lot. He groaned, blood pouring from his nose as he sagged against the car.

“She didn’t want you,” I hissed, my knife slipping into my hand. “She never wanted any of you.”

His screams filled the air, sharp and short-lived. By the time I was done, his arrogance was gone, replaced by pain and fear. He wouldn’t be laughing again anytime soon.

They weren’t hard to find. Men like them rarely were.

The second one had been easy to track through his social media. He was just as predictable—loud, overconfident, flaunting his gym sessions and his nights out like trophies. He knew me, of course. Everyone on campus did.

“Sinclair?” he said when he saw me standing in his doorway. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The weight of my presence was enough to make him falter, his bravado slipping as he stepped back into his apartment.

“You’re the hockey guy, right?” he said, his tone wary. “Look, if this is about that girl—”

“It’s exactly about that girl,” I interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

He tried to push past me, to run, but I was faster. I shoved him back, pinning him against the wall. “Do you even remember her name?” I asked, my voice a low growl.

“What?” He shook his head, his confusion quickly turning to panic. “No—I mean—”

“That’s what I thought.” My knife pressed against his throat, the edge biting into his skin just enough to draw blood. “You don’t even remember her, but you thought you could take something from her. From me.”

“She was already there!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “You—you tied her up! You brought us in! It wasn’t just me—”

“And now it’s just you,” I said coldly, silencing him with a swift, calculated strike.

The rest of them knew me, too. That was the thing about being the golden boy on campus. My name carried weight, whether I wanted it to or not.

Some tried to reason with me, their voices trembling as they reminded me of our shared circles, our mutual friends.

“Come on, Sinclair,” one of them pleaded, his back pressed against the wall of a dingy frat house. “We’re on the same side here!”

Others tried to fight back, their desperation driving them to lash out. But it didn’t matter. I was stronger, faster, more driven by a purpose they couldn’t comprehend.

One by one, I hunted them down. I made them pay by taking away from them the part of them that touched her. And with each act, the weight of my guilt grew heavier, even as the fire of my obsession burned brighter.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the world outside was beginning to blur. Blood stained my clothes, my hands, my thoughts. I looked at myself in the mirror, my reflection barely recognizable.

The man staring back at me was a stranger—his eyes hollow, his face gaunt, his body trembling with the aftermath of violence.

But it wasn’t regret that I felt. It wasn’t remorse.

It was love. Twisted, broken, all-consuming love.

Kira had unraveled me, stripped me down to my rawest, most primal self. And I’d do it all over again.

I reached out, my bloody fingers brushing against the glass.

She was mine.

And no one—no one—would ever hurt her again.

Twenty-Six

THE SOFT HUM of the heater filled the quiet space around me, blending with the faint rustle of leaves outside the window. Liam’s house was so still, the silence pressing in on me. It was nothing like the chaos of my dorm or the overwhelming noise of campus life. Here, there were no distractions, no excuses. Just me, and the thoughts I couldn’t outrun.

I sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at my phone. The calendar notification stared back at me, a reminder of the therapy session I’d been avoiding. After my first appointment, the therapist had suggested scheduling a month’s worth of sessions. At the time, I’d nodded along, too exhausted to argue. But now, as I stared at the screen, the idea of unpacking everything again made my stomach churn.

The iPod on the nightstand caught my eye, its sleek surface glinting faintly in the dim light. Memories of last night clawed at me—the way Mine had wrapped around me like a dark, intimate secret. It had opened something I wasn’t ready to face.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. There wasn’t time for that now. Therapy came first.

By the time I stepped into the waiting room, my pulse was a steady drumbeat in my ears. I sank into the chair by the window, clutching my phone like a lifeline until the door opened, and Dr. Rose greeted me with a warm, patient smile.

Once inside her office, I settled into the familiar couch, my legs curling under me like a shield. Dr. Rose sat across from me, her hands loosely clasped in her lap, waiting.

“So, Kira,” she began after a beat, her voice calm and grounding. “How have you been since our last session?”

I hesitated, staring at the carpeted floor as if it might offer answers. “I’ve been... okay. I mean, not great, obviously. But not terrible either.”

She nodded, her gaze steady but gentle. “Okay is a start. What’s been on your mind?”

I bit my lip, fingers picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I listened to something,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper. “A playlist someone made for me.”

“Someone?” she prompted softly, though her tone suggested she already knew who I meant.

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Owen.”

Dr. Rose’s expression didn’t change—not a flicker of judgment or surprise. “And how did that feel?”

“Complicated,” I admitted, the word feeling inadequate to describe the storm raging inside me. “It brought up a lot of... feelings. About him.”

“Feelings can be tricky like that,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “They’re rarely just one thing.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “Yeah, no kidding. I hate him. I should hate him. But I don’t. Not completely.”

Her silence urged me to continue, and I forced the words out, each one feeling heavier than the last. “It’s like… he’s this gravity I can’t escape. No matter what he’s done, no matter how much he’s hurt me, there’s still this... pull. And I hate myself for that.”

Dr. Rose tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not unusual to feel conflicted in situations like this. Love and anger, longing and resentment—they’re not mutually exclusive. You can feel all of them at once, and that doesn’t make you weak or broken.”

I frowned, my chest tightening. “It feels like it does. Like I should just be able to cut him out of my life completely. Like I should want to.”

“And yet,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “here you are, unpacking those feelings instead of running from them. That’s not weakness, Kira. That’s strength.”

Her words hit something deep inside me, and my throat tightened. I looked away, blinking back the sting of tears. “I just... I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“Maybe it’s not about making it stop,” she suggested. “Maybe it’s about understanding where those feelings come from and deciding what you want to do with them.”

I let out a shaky breath, the weight of her words settling over me. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s not. But healing rarely is.”

I glanced down at my hands, twisting them together in my lap. “What if... what if I can’t?”

“You’ve already shown that you can,” Dr. Rose said, her warm, understanding gaze steady on me. “You’ve scheduled these sessions. You’ve talked openly about your feelings. That makes you resilient and brave.”

I stared at my hands, twisting the fabric of my shirt. “It doesn’t feel brave. It feels... wrong. Like I’m betraying myself for still feeling this way.”

Dr. Rose leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but unwavering. “Feeling conflicted about someone who’s hurt you isn’t betrayal, Kira. It’s human. Trauma bonds can complicate emotions in ways that feel impossible to untangle.”

I let out a shaky breath, the weight of her words settling in my chest. “He—Owen—he traumatized me. But I can’t stop... caring about him. I hate myself for it.”

“You’re not the first person to feel this way,” she said gently. “Loving someone who has hurt you doesn’t erase the pain or make what they did acceptable. But it’s important to separate your feelings for him from the harm he caused. Your love doesn’t absolve him, just like his actions don’t erase your feelings.”

Her words hit me harder than I expected, and my throat tightened as I fought back tears. “I just—I don’t even know who I am outside of all of this. I don’t want to be stuck anymore. I want to move forward, but I don’t even know where to start.”

“You start by deciding what you want for yourself, Kira,” Dr. Rose said, her voice steady. “Not for him, not because of him—for you. What does healing look like for you?”

I hesitated, unsure of how to answer. But then, a flicker of resolve sparked inside me. “I want to take back what’s mine,” I said quietly. “My space. My choices. My life.”

Dr. Rose nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “That’s a powerful place to start.”

The sun was lower in the sky by the time I returned to Liam’s house. I set my keys down on the counter, the familiar quiet wrapping around me like a blanket. The session had left me drained, my emotions raw and exposed, but for the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of something else. Something close to hope.

I moved through the house, tidying up the little messes I’d left behind. The act of cleaning was small but grounding, each task reminding me that I could still control something, even if it was just the state of this temporary home. I wiped down the counters, folded the blanket on the couch, and finally returned to my room.

The iPod was still on the nightstand, untouched since last night. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it held all the answers to questions I wasn’t ready to ask. My hand hovered over it, hesitating.

With a shaky breath, I picked it up and slipped it into the drawer. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Dr. Rose’s words replayed in my mind: Maybe it’s about understanding where those feelings come from and deciding what you want to do with them.

I didn’t have the answers yet. But as the heater hummed in the background and the last traces of daylight faded from the window, I realized something important.

I didn’t want to die anymore.

The thought was both terrifying and liberating, a fragile step forward in the endless sea of chaos. I wasn’t fixed, but I was beginning to find my footing.

My hand drifted to my pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the new phone Liam had given me. My heart thudded in my chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that seemed to echo the chaos in my mind.

Text him.

The thought was like a whisper in the dark, a dangerous temptation that I couldn't ignore. I pulled out the phone, the screen casting a harsh glow in the dim room. My fingers hovered over the keypad, hesitating.

I swallowed hard, my mind a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but they refused to form, caught in the tangled web of my emotions.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. I could still hear Dr. Rose's voice in my head, gentle and reassuring. "You have the power to reclaim your life, Kira."

My eyes fluttered open, determination settling over me like a cloak and I began to type. When I was done, I stared at the screen, my heart pounding in my ears. The message was simple, yet it held the weight of the world.

With trembling fingers, I hit send.

Twenty-Seven

I SENT the text last night: Meet me at the park. Noon. It had taken almost an hour to type those seven words and another thirty minutes to hit send. But as I sat on the weathered bench overlooking the frozen pond, I knew there was no going back. The winter air bit at my cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, as if daring me to flinch.

The park buzzed faintly with life—families walking dogs, kids bundled up and chasing each other across the snow-dusted paths. It wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. It was just the right amount of noise to remind me I wasn’t alone. Not really.

I pulled my coat tighter, my gloved hands gripping the edge of the bench as if it could anchor me. The tension in my chest coiled tighter with each passing second. I’d planned this. I’d told myself this confrontation was necessary, that it was the only way to take back control of my life. But now, as the moment loomed, doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve.

The sound of heavy footsteps crunching on gravel snapped my attention forward. Owen.

He walked toward me, his pace uneven, as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. His disheveled appearance was a far cry from the polished golden boy I’d once known. His hair was messy, his clothes rumpled, and dark circles framed his eyes like bruises. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw hesitation in his gait, like he was second-guessing every step.

I hated the way my chest tightened at the sight of him, hated the flicker of something unnameable stirring beneath my anger.

He stopped a few feet from the bench, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Kira,” he said, his voice rough, like he’d been swallowing glass.

“Sit,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. My tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “This happens on my terms.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening like he wanted to push back. But then he nodded and lowered himself onto the far end of the bench. The distance between us felt like a canyon, yet still too close for comfort. I positioned my body towards him, the cold air amplifying the heat of my rising fury.

“You took everything from me, Owen.” My voice trembled, but it didn’t falter. “And you told yourself it was for my own good. Do you even understand how twisted that is?”

He flinched, his shoulders curling inward as if my words were physical blows. “I didn’t want to hurt you in the basement,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I thought… I thought you needed it. That you needed to feel something to stop you from leaving me.”

I shook my head, disbelief twisting in my chest. “You thought pain was the answer? That breaking me would somehow save me?” My voice rose, bitter and raw. “And the party? That wasn’t about saving me, was it? You wanted to hurt me.”

He froze, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t deny it. “I—” His voice cracked, and he exhaled shakily. “Yeah. I wanted to hurt you that night. I wanted to hurt you so badly you’d stop haunting me. So I could stop…” He trailed off, unable to meet my eyes.

“So you could stop wanting me,” I finished for him, the words tasting like bile on my tongue. “You thought destroying me would fix you.”

“No! That’s not—” He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists on his lap. His head dropped, and he exhaled shakily. “I thought it would push you away from me. I thought if I hurt you enough, you’d stop being in my head. I didn’t think it would… I didn’t think—”

“But it did!” My voice cracked as the words tumbled out, sharp and cutting. “And you didn’t stop it, Owen. You let it happen. You didn’t just hurt me—you fucked up my life!”

His head dropped, his shoulders trembling under the weight of my words. For a moment, I thought he might cry, but when he lifted his gaze, his eyes were dry, filled with a raw, unfiltered desperation. “I hate myself for it,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I hate myself every second of every day for what I did to you.”

“Good,” I spat, my tone as icy as the air between us. “You should.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. I could hear the distant laughter of children playing, the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. But none of it mattered. The weight of this moment pressed down on me, forcing me to confront the man who had turned my life into a waking nightmare.

“You don’t even understand what you took from me,” I said finally, my voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “My safety. My trust. My sense of self. You… you shattered all of it. And for what? Because you were scared? Because you couldn’t handle your own feelings?”

“Kira,” he began, his voice breaking. “I… I didn’t know what I was doing. I was out of control. But I never stopped… I never stopped caring about you.”

I stood abruptly, the motion startling him. “You don’t get to say that,” I said, my voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to twist this into something about care. What you did wasn’t care, Owen. It was ownership. It was control. And it was evil.”

He rose too, his hands reaching out before falling uselessly to his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll spend the rest of my life being sorry. I—”

“Good,” I cut him off, my voice cold. “Because I’ll spend the rest of mine undoing what you did to me.”

I turned and walked away, my boots crunching against the gravel path. I didn’t look back, even when I heard the sharp intake of his breath, the sound of him breaking behind me.

With each step, the weight on my chest lifted, just a little. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was walking toward something instead of running away.

Toward myself.

Twenty-Eight

THE DORM FELT SUFFOCATING without Alex. The empty side of the room was a glaring void, stripped of the personality it once held. The faint smell of his cologne still lingered, mocking me with a ghost of what used to be normal. I hadn’t expected him to stay—not after everything he knew. His disgust had been clear when he left, and I couldn’t blame him. No words had been exchanged when he packed his things. He’d just given me one last look, filled with revulsion before the door slammed shut behind him.

I didn’t need his words to know what he thought of me. I deserved every ounce of it.

Now, the silence in the room was deafening. The hum of the mini fridge, the faint creak of the building settling—it all grated on my nerves. I sat on the edge of my bed, my leg bouncing uncontrollably, the rhythm pounding in time with my thoughts. My phone sat heavy in my hand, the light from the screen glaring back at me. The words I needed to say to Kira were a storm in my head, loud and relentless. No excuses. No justifications. Just the truth.

My fingers trembled as I typed.

I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know something. I avenged you. Every single one of those bastards who touched you at that party—every one of them—I found them, and I made sure they’ll never hurt anyone again. I didn’t do it for redemption. I did it because I couldn’t live with what I’d done to you, what I’d allowed to happen. If you want proof, I’ll give it to you. If you want to report me, go ahead. I won’t stop you. I’ll be waiting in the basement of the science building. I’ve removed the door, so you’ll know you can leave whenever you want. I won’t stop you.

The moment I hit send, my chest tightened , like the room itself was holding its breath. My hands trembled as I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed the bag I’d prepared. My thoughts spiraled into a vortex of anxiety and grim determination.

The items felt heavier than they should, like they carried the weight of my sins. And maybe they did. They weren’t just objects; they were symbols. My surrender. My penance. My offering.

The short drive to the old science building was unnervingly quiet. The streets were lined with the skeletal remains of trees long since stripped by the wind, their branches clawing at the empty sky. My tires crunched over loose gravel as I pulled up, the engine’s hum dying abruptly as I turned it off.

The basement door leaned against the wall where I’d left it, stripped of its purpose. It looked almost pitiful, a useless piece of wood that no longer protected anyone—not that it ever had. I stepped inside, the cold, damp air wrapping around me like a shroud. My breath fogged in front of me, dissipating into the darkness.

Every step felt deliberate, like I was marching toward my own execution. And maybe I was. The old concrete walls seemed to close in, the faint smell of mildew sharp and acrid. Memories of Kira in this space flooded back unbidden, each one cutting deeper than the last. Her screams, her defiance, her pain—they all played on a loop, a haunting melody I couldn’t escape.

I dropped the bag by the air mattress I’d set up beneath the exposed pipe. The knife clattered as I laid it out, the sound sharp and final in the stillness. Each item I placed on the mattress felt like a piece of myself being laid bare. The cuffs clicked shut around my wrists, biting into my skin as I tugged at them, testing their hold. Solid. Unforgiving. Just like I deserved.

I threw the key across the room, watching as it skittered into the shadows. A one-way trip. I wouldn’t be getting out of this unless Kira chose to let me. And if she didn’t come, well, that would be the answer I deserved.

The mattress sagged as I lowered myself onto it, the cold seeping into my skin. The gag, ear plugs, blindfold, and knife sat beside me in a neat row, their presence a silent accusation. The silence pressed down on me, thick and suffocating.

This was it.

The text was out. The door was gone. The cuffs were locked. There was no escape—just the way it should be. If Kira came, she’d find me here. Exposed. Vulnerable. At her mercy. If she didn’t… I wouldn’t last long like this. The thought didn’t scare me. It felt right.

The air felt heavier now, the silence pressing in from all sides. My chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as I stared up at the beams above me. Every creak and groan of the old building seemed amplified, a reminder of how alone I was. My mind raced, replaying everything that had led me to this point.

The party. The basement. Her smile before everything broke. The way her eyes lit up when she thought no one was looking. I had destroyed all of it. Every beautiful, fragile piece of her. And for what? My own selfish need to control, to possess?

I closed my eyes, the cold air burning against my skin. For the first time, I let myself feel the full weight of what I’d done. The memories, the guilt, the unrelenting ache of knowing I’d ruined her—all of it crashed over me like a tidal wave. This wasn’t about redemption. Redemption was a luxury I didn’t deserve. This was about giving her a choice. A way to take back the control I’d stolen.

If this was my last moment, I could live with that.

For her, I could die with that.

Twenty-Nine

I NEVER THOUGHT I'd step foot in that science building basement again. The very thought of it made my skin crawl, my heart pound, and my breath hitch. But there I was, descending the grimy stairs, the scent of mildew and old concrete filling my nostrils, a taste of dread on my tongue.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was gone, a gaping maw inviting me into the belly of my own personal hell. I hesitated for a moment, my hand gripping the cold metal railing, my breathing shallow. But then, I thought of Owen, of the pain he'd put me through, the way he'd manipulated and used me. My resolve hardened, and I stepped into the room.

There he was, the boy who'd turned my life into a nightmare, handcuffed to the same pipe he'd once chained me to. The sight of him there, at my mercy, sent a jolt of satisfaction through me. He looked up as I entered, his eyes bright with a sick sort of excitement.

"Kira," he breathed, his voice trembling with anticipation. "I knew you'd come."

I didn't respond. Instead, I walked over to him, my steps measured and deliberate. I examined the handcuffs, ensuring they were secure. I didn't want him squirming free at the last moment. Next to him laid a ball gag, a blindfold, a knife, and earplugs. I picked up the ball gag, the material rough against my fingertips, and I remembered the way the ring gag had pried my mouth. I remembered the blindfold, the way it had plunged me into darkness, and the earphones, the way they had isolated me in a world of loud music and sensation.

With a sense of grim determination, I fitted the gag into Owen's mouth, feeling a twisted sense of justice as he struggled to adjust to the intrusion. I secured the blindfold over his eyes, cutting off his line of sight, and I pushed the earplugs into his ears, severing his connection to the outside world.

For a moment, I just stood there, looking down at him, bound and helpless. This was the boy who had tormented me, who had taken pleasure in my pain. And now, he was offering himself up to me, believing that this would somehow balance the scales, that this would somehow make things right between us.

But it wouldn't. Nothing could erase what he'd done. No amount of revenge could undo the damage.

I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving him there in the darkness, alone with his thoughts and his guilt. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the empty room, a haunting reminder of the time he'd left me there, at his mercy.

I emerged from the basement into the chill of the evening air, the taste of freedom sharp and sweet on my tongue. I got into my car and started the engine, the familiar hum a comforting presence in the chaos of my thoughts. I drove without really seeing the road, my mind a whirlwind of emotion.

It wasn't until I found myself parked outside a sex shop that I realized where I was headed. I sat there for a moment, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty. I'd never been to a place like this before, had never had a reason to. But things were different now. I was different now.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, the neon lights of the shop casting a lurid glow on the pavement. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, the scent of leather and lube heavy in the air. The shop was a maze of shelves and displays, filled with items I couldn't even begin to understand.

A young woman with purple hair and a nose ring approached me, her expression friendly and non-judgmental. "Can I help you find anything?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic.

I nodded, my throat tight with nerves. "I need... I need something to help me take control," I said, the words feeling strange and foreign on my tongue.

The woman smiled, her eyes understanding. "I think I can help with that," she said, leading me deeper into the labyrinth of the shop.

The weight of the bag on my arm felt like a badge of honor as I descended the stairs once more. My heart thrummed with anticipation, a stark contrast to the fear that had previously gripped me in this place. I was no longer the helpless girl cowering in the dark. I was stronger now, braver. I was in control.

The basement was just as I'd left it, the air heavy with the musk of Owen's helplessness. I approached him slowly, taking in the sight of him. The boy who had once seemed so powerful was now reduced to this: drooling around the ball gag, his body wracked with sobs that echoed off the cold, concrete walls. I watched him for a moment, feeling a surge of power course through me. It was intoxicating, this sense of dominance, but it was tempered by the reminder of why I was here, of the pain he'd caused me.

I reached for the knife he'd left beside him, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. Owen jumped as I cut away his clothes, the fabric falling away to reveal his bare skin. He melted into the air mattress the moment he realized it was me, his body going slack with relief—or perhaps it was resignation.

I rolled him onto his stomach, his arms twisted awkwardly above his head, his body exposed and vulnerable. I stepped back for a moment, taking in the sight of him like this. Naked, bound, and at my mercy. It was a moment I wanted to savor, to imprint on my memory. This was my revenge, my retribution for all the ways he'd hurt me.

The harness and dildo felt foreign in my hands as I held them up, the silicone cool against my skin. I fastened the harness around my hips, adjusting the straps so that it fit snugly over my clothes. I looked down at Owen, his body trembling with anticipation—or was it fear? I couldn't tell, and honestly, I wasn't sure I cared.

I picked up the bottle of lube, turning it over in my hands. I imagined the slickness of it, the way it would ease the passage of the dildo into Owen's body. But then I thought better of it. This wasn't about pleasure—not for him, at least. I wanted him to feel discomfort, to understand just a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on me.

I spat on the dildo, the saliva glistening briefly before beginning to dry. It wasn't much, but he didn’t deserve the comfort and I wasn’t heartless to leave him completely without. I positioned myself behind him, the head of the dildo nudging against his entrance. I placed my hands on his hips, feeling the tension in his body, the way he seemed to hold his breath.

And then, with one swift motion, I thrust forward, driving the dildo into him. He gasped, a strangled sound that was muffled by the gag. His body tensed, his muscles clenching around the intrusion. I could feel the power dynamic shifting between us, the balance of control tipping in my favor.

Thirty

PAIN. That was the first thing I registered, a sharp, unyielding burn that felt like it was splitting me open. I'd always prided myself on being in control, on being the one who administered pain, not the one receiving it. But now, as Kira thrust into me with the harness, I understood why anal sex was feared. It was the ultimate loss of control, a surrender that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

She hadn't used enough lube—just spit that did nothing to ease the passage of the toy. Each push forward was a battle of wills, my body reluctantly yielding to her insistent advance. The initial shock wave of discomfort rippled through me, and I couldn't help but groan, the sound muffled by the gag in my mouth.

I'd always thought of myself as invincible, but in that moment, I was helpless, exposed in a way I'd never allowed myself to be before. It was a humbling experience, one that stripped away the layers of dominance I'd always worn like armor. The pain was intense, a fiery ache that seemed to consume me, but there was something else there too—a flicker of something darkly pleasurable that I couldn't quite ignore.

Kira's rhythm was relentless, each stroke of her hips sending a jolt of sensation through me. The discomfort was still there, but it was beginning to morph into something else entirely. When she shifted her angle and hit my prostate, the sensation was so intense, so overwhelmingly good that I bucked back against her instinctively, needing more despite the pain.

She paused, her body tensing above me, and I knew she felt it too—the change in the dynamic between us. I was no longer just her victim; I was a participant in this twisted dance of power and pleasure. She adjusted her grip, lifting her leg to change the angle, and then she was fucking me with a precision that was almost cruel. Every thrust hit that sweet spot inside me, and despite the initial agony, I found myself spiraling towards an orgasm that I hadn't expected, hadn't thought I deserved.

My cock hardened, betraying my body's response to the relentless stimulation. Endorphins flooded my system, a drug more potent than any I'd ever taken. The pain and the pleasure became indistinguishable from one another, a maelstrom of sensation that dragged me under and refused to let go.

And then it happened. The world shattered around me as I came harder than I ever had before, my body convulsing beneath Kira's as I rode the waves of my release. I was dimly aware of the tears streaming down my face, the salty tang mingling with the taste of the gag. I was crying, but I wasn't sure why. Was it the pain, the pleasure, or the realization that I'd finally felt Kira's lips on my skin again from the gentle kiss on my back?

The aftershocks of my orgasm were still pulsing through me when she pulled out, the absence of the toy leaving me feeling strangely empty. I lay there, panting, trying to process what had just happened. I had orgasmed without my cock even being touched, while in pain, and I didn't know how to feel about it.

She moved away from me, pushing me back onto my back before removing my blindfold. I watched her through half-lidded eyes, my mind racing as I tried to make sense of the turmoil inside me.

I'd never been so completely at someone else's mercy, and the experience had changed me in ways I couldn't fully comprehend. Kira had given me a taste of my own medicine, and it had been both terrifying and enlightening. I'd always thought I understood pain, control, and domination, but Kira had shown me that there was so much I didn't know, so much I had yet to learn.

As I lay there, broken and exposed, I realized that I didn't want this to be the end. I wanted—no, needed—to understand Kira, to understand the depth of her resilience and the strength that lay beneath her quiet exterior. I wanted to be the one to protect her, to cherish her, to make her understand that she was worth more than the pain I'd caused her.

But most of all, I wanted to be worthy of her forgiveness, even though I knew I didn't deserve it. Kira had shown me mercy when I'd shown her none, and it was a gift I could never repay. I'd started this game of power and control, but Kira had finished it, and in doing so, she'd taught me the true meaning of surrender.

I was lost in the echo of my own thoughts when I felt Kira's hand close around my cock. It was still semi-hard, the remnants of pleasure lingering in the aftermath of what she'd done to me. Her touch was firm, almost clinical, but it brought me back to the present with a jolt. I looked up at her, my vision still blurred from the tears that had tracked down my face, and I was struck by her beauty.

Her skin was like polished obsidian in the dim light, smooth and flawless. Her platinum white braids cascaded over her shoulders, a stark contrast to her dark complexion. Her lips were full and glossy, parted slightly as she concentrated on her task, and her cheeks were flushed with the exertion of dominating me so completely. There was a fierceness in her eyes that I'd never seen before, a wild, untamed energy that took my breath away.

I was proud of her. So fucking proud. She'd taken back her power in a way I never could have anticipated, and she'd done it with a grace and determination that left me in awe of her strength. She was no longer the shy, quiet girl I'd first met. She'd transformed into someone formidable, someone who refused to be a victim any longer.

As I watched her, I felt my cock respond to her touch, hardening fully despite the fact that I'd just experienced one of the most intense orgasms of my life. She saw it too, and there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she reached down to remove the harness and the toy that had been inside me. She stripped off her pants and underwear, revealing the soft curves of her body. I'd always thought of Kira as delicate, but there was nothing fragile about her now.

She took her panties and used them to blindfold me once again, plunging me back into darkness. I felt the mattress dip as she moved closer, and then I felt the heat of her body as she straddled me. She reached down, positioning my cock at her entrance, and then she sank down onto me in a single, fluid motion.

The sensation of her wet heat enveloping me was almost too much to bear. She set a brutal pace from the outset, riding me with an intensity that bordered on savagery. Each thrust drove me deeper inside her, the friction of our bodies creating a symphony of moans and gasps that filled the room.

I could feel everything—the slickness of her arousal, the tight clench of her muscles, the way her body seemed to mold itself to mine. My hands were still cuffed above my head, leaving me at her mercy, and I reveled in the feeling of being completely and utterly at her disposal.

I didn't care that I was still deafened by the plugs. All that mattered was the connection between us, the raw, unbridled passion that threatened to consume us both. I couldn't see her, but I could feel her, every inch of her, from the way her breath hitched when I thrust up into her to the soft whimpers that escaped her lips and echoed against my skin when I found that spot inside her that made her lose control.

And then I felt the cold press of metal against my chest. The blade was sharp, the pain exquisite as she carved her name into my flesh, just as I had done to her. I bit into the ball gag to fight against the sting, but I didn't try to squirm. I wanted this—needed it, even. It was a reminder of what I'd done, a permanent mark of my love and my regret.

When she was finished, she leaned forward, putting all of her weight on the fresh wounds. The pain was intense, but it was nothing compared to the pleasure that followed as she began to move again, her hips undulating in a rhythm as old as time.

I could feel the warmth of my own blood trickling down my chest, mingling with the sweat that beaded on our skin. The pain seemed to heighten my other senses, making the feel of her body surrounding mine even more intense. I could hear the wet slap of our flesh meeting, the ragged pant of her breath, the low, guttural moans that I couldn't hold back.

She rode me harder, faster, her movements becoming erratic as she neared her climax. I could feel my own release building, a tight coil of tension that threatened to snap at any moment. And then it happened—a wave of pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain, washing over me in an unstoppable tide as we came together, our bodies shuddering in unison as we reached the peak of our passion.

I lay there in the dark, every part of me throbbing—my chest, my ass, my cock, my very soul. It was as if she'd set off a series of explosions within me, leaving me torn apart and pieced back together in the span of a few hours. I felt the cool air against my skin as she cleaned me up, the antiseptic sting of the alcohol on my fresh wounds.

Even with the earplugs in, I could sense the shift in the atmosphere, the tension that had been there since she'd first walked into the basement now replaced with something softer, something more akin to tenderness.

She removed the gag first, and I worked my jaw, the muscles sore from being held open for so long. Then she took her panties from blinding me, and for the first time since this whole ordeal began, I looked into her eyes and saw something other than fear or anger or pain. I saw calmness.

The earplugs were the next to go, and suddenly, the world was awash with sound again—my own breathing, the rustle of fabric as she moved around the room, the soft thud of my heartbeat in my ears. She uncuffed me last, and I brought my arms down slowly, the blood rushing to my fingertips.

I watched as she dressed me, her movements efficient and practiced, as if she'd done this a thousand times before. It was strange, being cared for in this way, especially by her. I was used to being the one in control, the one who did the caring, but in that moment, I was helpless, and I had to rely on her completely.

She helped me to my feet, her arm around my waist to support me as we made our way out of the basement. I don't know how she managed to get me into the car, but the next thing I knew, we were driving through the silent, sleeping campus, the world outside the car window a blur of shadows and streetlights.

By the time we reached my dorm, I was half-asleep, the events of the night catching up with me. She half-carried, half-walked me to my room, managing to get my key out of my pocket and unlocking the door without any help from me. She laid me down on my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, tucking me in like a child.

And then, to my complete surprise, she crawled into bed with me. She wrapped her arms around me, her body a warm, comforting presence against my own. We lay there in silence for a long time, just breathing each other in.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "I forgive you," she said, and the words washed over me like a balm, soothing the raw, aching parts of my soul that I thought were beyond repair.

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Instead, I pulled her closer, pressing my lips to the top of her head in a silent vow to do better, to be better. For her. For us.

"I forgive you," she said again, and this time, I believed her. It was a gift, one that I knew I didn't deserve, but one that I would cherish for the rest of my days. With those three words, Kira had given me a second chance, and I was determined not to squander it.

We lay there in the quiet of my dorm room, the events of the night fading into the background as I focused on the steady rhythm of her breathing. I knew that there were still challenges ahead, that our journey was far from over, but in that moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was there with me, and she had forgiven me.

As sleep claimed me, I held onto that thought, letting it carry me into the depths of a dreamless slumber. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace, and it was all thanks to her—my Kira, my savior, my everything.

Thirty-One

I WOKE up as the first hints of dawn cast a soft glow through the curtains and the room still held the chill of early morning. Owen lay beside me, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. His features, usually so sharp and commanding, were relaxed, almost boyish in their serenity. I watched him, the warmth of his body seeping into mine where our skin met beneath the tangled sheets.

As I studied his face, the realization crept over me like the slow spread of sunlight across the room. I wanted more from him. The intensity he brought into my life was terrifying, yet addicting. He had shown me that he would go to any lengths for me, even when those lengths were twisted and dark. My love had transformed, morphing into something raw and real, something that was uniquely 'us'.

I didn't want the safe, predictable kind of love that was sung about in pop songs or depicted in romantic comedies. I was drawn to the all-consuming nature of Owen. In his eyes, I was the center of the universe, the gravitational pull that held his world together. His obsession was a double-edged sword, cutting deep but also making me feel more alive than I ever had.

I watched him wake up, the sleepy confusion in his eyes slowly giving way to awareness, and then to something else entirely when he saw me there. His gaze sharpened, and the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile that felt like it was just for me.

"I love you," I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. It was the truth, as raw and real as the feeling itself. His eyes widened, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then he was on me, his body pressing mine into the mattress, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was both a question and an answer. "I love you, Kira," he murmured against my mouth, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. "God, I've been waiting to hear you say that."

His hands roamed my body, mapping out every curve and contour as if it was the first time. There was a reverence in his touch, a tenderness that made my heart ache and my body sing. He kissed me deeply, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before diving in to explore the sweet depths of my mouth.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel the weight of him against me. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me and setting my nerves alight. His erection pressed against my center, the heat of it searing through the thin layers of fabric that separated us.

Owen's hands slipped under my shirt, his fingers skimming my sides before he pulled the fabric over my head and tossed it aside. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of me, the flush on my skin, the way my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. He dipped his head to capture a nipple through the lace of my bra, sucking and nipping until I was a writhing mess beneath him. I arched my back, pressing myself further into his mouth, reveling in the sensations that coursed through me.

With deft fingers, he unhooked my bra and discarded it, his hands replacing the fabric as he cupped my breasts, his thumbs circling my sensitive peaks. I moaned, the sound mingling with our heavy breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets.

He trailed kisses down my stomach, his hands slipping under the waistband of my panties and pulling them down my legs. He settled between my thighs, his breath hot against my most intimate place. "This," he said, his voice thick with desire, "this is mine." And then his mouth was on me, his tongue parting my folds and finding my clit with unerring precision.

I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair as he worked me into a frenzy. He knew just how to touch me, how to drive me to the brink only to pull back and start all over again. It was torture and bliss, a sweet agony that had me teetering on the edge.

When he finally slipped a finger inside me, curling it in that come-hither motion that he knew I loved, it was enough to send me over the edge. My orgasm crashed over me like a wave, washing away everything but the feeling of Owen's mouth on my skin and the sound of my own cries echoing in the room.

As the aftershocks subsided, he kissed his way back up my body, his erection nudging against my entrance. I reached between us, wrapping my hand around his length and guiding him inside me. We both groaned as he filled me completely, the connection between us almost too much to bear.

He moved slowly at first, each thrust measured and deliberate. But as our bodies found their rhythm, the pace quickened, the intensity building with each passing moment. I clung to him, my nails digging into his back as he drove into me again and again.

"Look at me, Kira," he commanded, and I opened my eyes to find him staring down at me with an intensity that took my breath away. "I want to see you when you come for me."

And I did, my body shattering around him as he found his own release, his name a prayer on my lips. We clung to each other, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts pounding in unison.

As we lay there, spent and breathless, he kissed me gently, a sweet contrast to the fierce passion that had consumed us just moments before. "I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with a warmth that I felt down to my very soul.

And in that moment, as I traced the outline of the bandage on his chest that hid my name, I knew that no matter what the future held that we belonged to each other, completely and irrevocably.

Find a typo?

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Thanks for helping me keep this book as flawless as my characters pretend to be!

What next?

Welcome to Bound by Stitches

So, here’s the thing—I have this whole universe filled with dolls. Not your grandma’s dolls, mind you. These are haunted dolls that are dark, seductive, and sometimes downright unhinged. Each one has their own story to tell, and trust me, they don’t hold back.

Bound by Stitches is a 12-book series of standalones, each a complete story with its own twists, turns, and a lot of spice. You can dive in wherever you want—there’s no right or wrong place to start. Just pick the doll that catches your eye and go from there.

There’s something for everyone:

• Quinn Hawthorne brings the chaos with why-choose romances.

• Mae Celeste delivers intense, dark M/F love stories.

• And when we team up, you get delicious menage à trois tales that walk the line between obsession and devotion.

Curious where it all begins? Dolls of Ruin is the free prequel that sets the stage for this beautifully twisted world. Or, skip straight to the doll that calls to you—it’s all fair game.

If you’re into exclusive content, early sneak peeks, or want to preorder the next obsession, you can find all of that at ruthlessreaders.com.

The dolls are waiting. The only question is… are you ready?

About the Author

Quinn Hawthorne and Mae Celeste aren’t just pen names—they’re the chaos-driven, dark romance-obsessed alter egos of an American author who believes in serving you stories with bite.

Quinn writes polyamorous adventures dripping with spice and tension, while Mae delivers swoon-worthy monogamous romances that still leave you gasping for air. And when the two of them team up? Expect nothing less than a devilishly hot ménage that will set your Kindle on fire.

Representation isn’t just a buzzword here—it’s a commitment. Their books unapologetically include neurodivergent, plus-sized, LGBTQIA+, pagan, witchy, and mentally-ill characters, because that’s who they are, and that’s the world they live in.

Together, Quinn and Mae are here to remind you that love isn’t one-size-fits-all, and the darker the story, the sweeter the ending.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Blurb

Hey there!

Dedication

Content Warning

Owen’s Playlist to Kira

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Find a typo?

What next?

About the Author