Copyright © 2024 by Harmony West

Cover Design © 2024 by Beholden Book Covers

Published by Westword Press

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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9881181-4-5

For every sinner searching for her saint

“My babe would never fret none about what my hands and my body done.”

— HOZIER

CONTENTS

Note From S.T. Nicholson

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

Chapter 32

Continue the Story

Also by Harmony West

Acknowledgments

About the Author

NOTE FROM S.T. NICHOLSON

Dear Reader,

The book you are about to read contains graphic content. This story was written for those who prefer their romance dark and twisted. My muse is my obsession and I will not apologize for the lengths I’ll go to make her mine.

Proceed with caution. For more detailed warnings, visit www.harmonywestbooks.com.

Whether you’d like to skip over or skip to the sensual chapters in this book, you can find these scenes in Chapters 16, 21, 23, 24, 29, and 32.

Please note this book ends on a cliffhanger. The story continues in the sequel, His Sinner.

Enjoy.

- S.T. Nicholson

CHAPTER ONE

BRIAR

MY STUDENT IS STALKING ME.

I knew I should’ve gone into book publishing. But no, I had to fall for this beautiful, brick campus and college life. For the promise of what an education and an MFA from somewhere like the Auburn Institute of Fine Arts in the heart of Maine could offer its students.

Now, a student with a hard-on is trailing me like a puppy.

For a stalker, he’s impossible to miss. While the other students slumped into class in sweats and hoodies, he strode in donning a crisp button-up and slacks, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his glorious forearms prominently on display. His classmates are all burnt-out twenty-somethings with Starbucks addictions, but he’s clearly older. At least early thirties.

He spent the entire class glowering at his laptop screen, his dark, thick brows furrowed and pouty lips pursed. During the two-hour lecture in which Dr. Barrett droned on about how much our students will be expected to read and write for this course, my gaze was continually drawn back to his dark eyes and chiseled jawline, mesmerized. I thought the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen had barely even registered my existence at the front of the room, diligently and uncomfortably standing at Dr. Barrett’s side.

Apparently, I was wrong.

I stand my ground before I cross into the parking lot, shielding my eyes against the sun’s rays that somehow do little to warm the brisk September air. If he thinks he’s dragging me into his kidnapper van, he picked the wrong woman.

“Are you following me?” I speak loud enough that anyone passing by will hear. We’re on a university campus, for god’s sake. Does he really think no one’s going to witness him stalking me?

As he approaches, a lopsided smirk crawls across his lips. I mentally kick myself for not remembering his name. How the hell will Mack solve my murder if I can’t even text her the name of my kidnapper?

“I am following you,” he concedes. His low, rumbling baritone dances down my spine. My god, I’m getting turned on by a man’s voice. By the voice of a man who literally just admitted he’s stalking me. I seriously need to get laid. And run in the other direction. “But I’m only trying to be a gentleman.”

He holds out a thick tome with a black, minimalist cover and a distressed bookmark shoved inside. My copy of This Book Will Haunt You by my favorite author, S.T. Nicholson. If my house was on fire, I would save my cat and then I would save this book.

I snatch it from his hands, face warming. I can’t believe I didn’t notice my bag was about five pounds lighter. If I had gotten home and realized my copy was missing, I literally would have cried. A first edition of S.T. Nicholson’s bestselling book, before he blew up and hit the New York Times Bestseller list. My reminder that I’ve been his biggest fan from the beginning.

I'm an idiot for actually believing my student would have any interest in following me around campus. Too many true crime documentaries for my caffeine-addled brain. Even if he wasn’t my student, what interest would a man like him have in me? I’m no slouch, but I’m woman enough to admit that a man like him would only settle for the Megan Foxes of the world. I can pull them when I want to, but my dry-shampoo hair and bare face are hardly a step up from my students’ pajamas and unbrushed hair.

A relieved breath escapes my chest as I squeeze the book close. “Oh my god, thank you!”

His lips spread into a genuine smile this time, flashing a glimpse of perfect, dazzling white teeth. But it’s his eyes that make my heart stutter—the coal-black irises glinting with renewed interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone display that much enthusiasm for a book.”

“This is my favorite book. By my favorite author.” I stuff it back into my bag before I lose it again.

He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to shove him and flee before I fall madly in love with him. If I was capable of that. “And what is it about this author that you like so much?”

I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me about my favorite books. Maybe Trevor. He actually had the audacity to ask to borrow my copy of This Book Will Haunt You after he saw me lugging it around campus. I told him he could buy it online or borrow it from the library like the rest of us. He hasn’t said a word to me about the book since, so I doubt he ever read it.

“So many things,” I admit, the words already bubbling up and eager to escape. “I’m on the edge of my seat from page one. He’s the master of writing a creepy Gothic setting, and all of his books are deliciously dark. He writes murder so vividly, I swear to god if I found out he was an actual murderer, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

My student quirks a dark brow and lets out a surprised laugh. A sound that brings a lump to my throat. “Wow. That’s quite the praise.”

“Oh, I’m nowhere near done.” I’m on a roll now. Once someone gets me talking about S.T. Nicholson, it’s impossible to get me to stop. “He writes in a way that makes me feel . . . understood. Like in a way no one else in the world ever has. Not even my mom or my best friend, and they basically know everything about me. I know it sounds crazy, and it’s probably just me projecting on a parasocial relationship, but S.T. Nicholson feels like a kindred spirit. Like if we met, we would just . . . get each other.”

Even though I’m babbling now, my student’s smile hasn’t faltered. I’m amazed his eyes aren’t darting around, seeking an excuse to get the hell away from me. In fact, he’s somehow totally enraptured by my fangirling over an author he’s never heard of.

“He wears a mask to all his book signings too. He’s so committed to his anonymity that he never takes it off because he wants readers to judge his books solely based on his words. And he writes the best smut I’ve ever read from a male author.”

Another stunned laugh. “A glowing recommendation if I’ve ever heard one.”

He doesn’t even talk like an MFA student. Where the hell did this guy come from? Possesses model good looks, rescues lost books, and actually listens to a woman when she’s speaking. Too bad I’m his professor—assistant professor—or I’d invite him back to my place for a wild, passionate one-night stand right now.

“Sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.

“Saint de Haas.” That smirk tells me he’s anything but a saint. He steps closer with the confidence of a man who always gets exactly what he wants. “Maybe you could tell me more about this author and his books over coffee sometime.”

Shit. He can’t be asking me out. I can’t say no to a face that’s practically begging me to sit on it.

I take a step back, forcing myself away from the radiating warmth and allure of this stalker-turned-altruist. “Actually, as your professor, we should keep our interactions limited to the classroom.”

Even if he wasn’t my student, I wouldn’t agree to a date. I have no interest in men beyond sex, so there’s no point in getting to know each other. I swore off relationships a long time ago, and even a man this gorgeous and charming can’t sway me.

“I hardly think your job will be at risk over an innocent coffee and a public conversation.” Oh great. A man who doesn’t like to take no for an answer. He steps toward me again, a devilish smirk twisting his lips that weaves my stomach into a knot. “Unless you’re concerned about what you may want to do together in public.”

I choke on my own saliva for a second before squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “No concerns at all. I just hate coffee.” That is, I hate the absolute chokehold it has on me. I can’t make it out the door without downing two cups of the nectar of the gods. “Any conversations you’d like to have with me can happen in the classroom.”

Saint nods, taking the rejection shockingly well for a man who’s likely never been rejected in his life. A man probably born into wealth, handed everything he’s ever wanted as the singular male heir to some old-money fortune. A man with the kind of leisurely life that allows him to drop tens of thousands of dollars on one of the most expensive MFA programs in the country and still not pay attention in class. A man I have exactly nothing in common with other than a concern for books left behind by their forgetful owners.

“Very well. See you in class then, Briar.”

My spine stiffens. “It’s Miss Shea—I mean, Dr. Shea.” Even with a PhD I’ve worked nine years for under my belt, the title still doesn’t feel right.

He flashes that frustratingly beautiful smile. “Dr. Shea,” he corrects, dipping his head like someone pulled him straight out of a freaking Regency novel.

When he turns and heads in the opposite direction, I beeline for my car, certain I’m crimson at the sultry way Dr. Shea left his mouth.

That gorgeous, perfect, erotic mouth.

I freeze with my key fob out and swing my gaze back over my shoulder. But he’s disappeared into the crowd of students and faculty ambling across campus.

I never told him my first name.

CHAPTER TWO

SAINT

SOME WRITERS ASK Google how to kill their characters. I, however, possess hands-on experience.

Too bad my research is doing me little good now.

No matter how long I stare at this wretched screen, no matter how many walks I take or books I read, desperate for inspiration, the words never come. The word processor before me remains blank.

The professor running this godforsaken fiction writing class is entirely full of shit. Every bit of “wisdom” he spouts is pulled straight from his ass. Not a single mention of prose or character arcs or story structure in his five-page syllabus. Worse, all twelve of us in this room know he’s going to brush off the entire instruction of this course onto his assistant professor.

Briar Shea wants to fuck me. Why else would she be showing off her amazing tits in that low-cut top and wearing that suck-you-off red lipstick? Her long, mahogany hair falls down to her waist in loose spirals, big blue eyes framed with thick lashes, top cinched in at the waist, barely meeting her dark slacks and riding up to show off a sliver of her soft belly. I want to nip my way across, chin scraping the waistband of her slacks as my lips brush her soft skin from one hip bone to the other.

Before I swiped her favorite book from her bag and gallantly returned it, she came to class in shredded jeans and a frumpy top that didn’t do her an ounce of justice.

No, my biggest fan has a body that deserves to be immortalized in fiction.

She’s not wearing that outfit to entice the professor, that's for damn sure. She grimaces every time she catches his gaze lingering on her. Every time he makes some flimsy excuse to touch her.

Each brush of his skin against hers makes me want to pluck his eyes from his head before I set him on fire.

No. I can’t afford to get embroiled in her life. I’m here to write a book. This renowned MFA program is my last attempt at getting another manuscript in my agent’s waiting hands.

Admittedly, Briar is the reason I chose the Auburn Institute. Her five-star reviews dominate the retailer pages for every one of my books, all of them claiming the title of S.T. Nicholson’s biggest fan.

I tracked her reviews to a social media profile, where she’d been leaving flirtatious comments on my assistant-run account along with half of my audience. My readers are primarily women with a passion for books and masked men, and Briar is no exception.

From there, it was almost horrifyingly easy to discover where she lives and works. How convenient—my biggest fan a newly minted assistant professor at a prestigious creative writing MFA program, exactly the sort of program I hope will give me the inspiration I need to write more words.

Listening to her evangelize about my work nearly had me collapsing to my knees before her. Hers were the first positive words to break through the cacophony of negativity consuming my brain since I read the notorious review five months ago.

My fingers move on autopilot across my keyboard, pulling up the review I’ve bookmarked for convenient self-immolation.

A scathing one-star assessment in which the reviewer laments his inability to assign zero stars to my book.

This is my friend’s favorite book so I decided to give it a try. This is the worst drivel I’ve ever read in my life.

I’ve memorized the first two lines of the three-thousand-word review that I can only imagine took this reader an entire week to write. I’m no stranger to negative reviews or criticism—I welcome critique that can make my next books shine.

But it’s this reader’s presumptions of my character that have kept me awake at night. Propagating that I’m some sort of serial killer with a proclivity for somnophilia and necrophilia simply because those are the predilections of the protagonists I write. That I must have a criminal past to hide because I wear a mask to divorce my private identity from my public persona. His criticism not only attacks my character but completely annihilates the decade of work I’ve poured into my bibliography.

In this reader’s unique, ineloquent way, they’ve branded me a hack. A scourge on literature. Claiming that my Gothic horror novels are too full of violence, romance, and sex for the motifs, themes, or prose to bear any merit. That my contributions to literature ought to be shit upon before flushed down a toilet and set ablaze.

A review has never bothered me before. I’m confident in my work, satisfied with the novels I publish. I have fans across the world who buy every book I write and send letters professing their love for my books, and on occasion, me. Readers who pushed my fourth novel—published by the only small press that expressed a modicum of interest in it—onto the New York Times Bestseller list. Then my three previous titles followed.

Yet this review from an anonymous stranger on the internet has rendered me useless. Not a flicker of inspiration has struck since the night I poured a little too much gin and settled in with the review on my screen and a thumping heart in my chest. Not a word has been typed or scrawled. Not a single character has spoken in my ear nor one scene flashed in my mind.

Writer’s block at its worst. A block that no amount of refilling the creative well can overcome.

I’m a writer without words. A pen without ink.

That’s why I’m here. On a desperate, expensive quest for inspiration. For my lost muse.

After class, I’ll question Briar again. Discover exactly what she loves about my work so I can utilize that in my next manuscript.

“Complete the reading before class. See you next week,” Professor Molester calls before he plants a hand on the small of Briar’s back.

She steps out of his grasp, but she doesn’t fly off the handle like I’d expect from a five-foot woman who snapped at me for following her across campus.

Before I can intervene and whisk her away from Professor Molester for a conversation about her favorite author, my phone vibrates. Derrik’s name flashes across my screen.

By the time I tuck my laptop back in my bag and answer the call, my biggest fan is gone.

“Talk to me.” Derrik’s brusque New Jersey accent barks in my ear.

I head for the door, holding it open for a mousy classmate who flashes me a grateful smile. Out in the hallway, I scan the stream of students leaving their classes and workshops, Briar nowhere in sight. “You called me,” I remind him.

“Right. I’m making sure you didn’t enroll in that MFA program you were blathering to me about while you were drunk last month.”

“I wasn’t drunk.” I grit my teeth, slipping past a group of twenty-three-year-olds moving at the speed of a worm across wet concrete. “I was on the brink of total hopelessness and despair.”

Derrik sucks his teeth, and I can practically see him waving his hand in dismissal. “You’re always at your most hopeless when you’re drunk. Anyway. Please tell me you’re home in that big Gothic mansion your royalties paid for or you’re at some coffee shop you writers love to flock to.”

“I’m leaving class right now. If it helps, I’m heading to a coffee shop.”

Derrik sighs. “We talked about this, pal.” In the years that Derrik has been my agent, I’ve never appreciated him referring to me as pal. “You’re a multi-published, bestselling author. What the hell do you need an MFA for? The program is only going to take up more of your time, and you’ve already missed two deadlines for your next book.”

As if I’m not well aware of exactly how far behind schedule I am. I’ve been publishing a book a year consistently since my debut released, and I’ve never missed a deadline.

I skip the coffee shop and stride out of the building, stepping into sunny, warm weather that is a hard contrast to the storm brewing inside my head. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

“You’re not still talking about that review.” Derrik is somehow utterly perplexed, as if he didn’t read the review himself when I sent it to him at three in the morning. “So he took some shots at you and your writing. It’s all just conjecture and assumptions. Your sales won’t be affected by one negative review.”

“I’m not concerned about my sales,” I snap. “I’m concerned about my inability to write. To continue creating my so-called drivel.”

“You don’t have to constantly prove yourself to everyone, you know. The value people put on your work doesn’t reflect on you as a person. The only reason you can’t write is because you’re letting a random stranger on the internet get in your head. Push the negative voices out and just focus on the story.”

Derrik isn’t an author. He can’t possibly understand how a single review disparaging both my work and my character has rendered that creative voice in my head entirely mute. “Let me worry about the writing, Derrik. When I have a completed manuscript for you to sell, then it’ll be your problem.”

I hang up before he can say another word. I’m not leaving Auburn until I find my muse.

CHAPTER THREE

BRIAR

“ARE YOU ANGRY-WRITING AGAIN?” Mack calls from my front door. Cookie jumps from my lap when she hears Ginger’s signature mew. “You’re going to break that poor typewriter.”

There’s something soothing about the clacking of the typewriter keys as I stab them during my wine-fueled writing sprints. Mom got this typewriter for me last Christmas, and it’s my go-to whenever I need to exorcise my rage out onto paper. Which, admittedly, is nearly every time I write.

“It’s that asshole professor’s fault,” I call, typing frantically.

The slimy feel of his palm sends a bone-chilling shiver down her spine.

Mack drops her keys and purse on my couch with a clatter. Despite having an office upstairs, I tend to write in the cozy corner of my living room, where my calico, Cookie, curls up on my lap and the TV drones in the background.

“Let me guess,” Mack says in her soprano lilt. “You’re on your fourth glass of wine too.”

“If it’s good enough for Hemingway, it’s good enough for me.” I drain the last dreg of my red wine and smack the glass back down on my desk.

I manage to finish typing my sentence about the liver spot on the evil boss’s drooping jowl before Mack drags me from my typewriter and into the kitchen to prepare our snacks for movie night. In the time that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Mack with makeup on or wearing anything other than her usual beige, frumpy clothes. Like she’s in witness protection. Which, I guess, she sort of is.

But despite her best efforts to go undetected, she has a sort of natural beauty that draws the eye. Beautiful, bleached blonde hair that falls to her elbows and bright blue eyes that are impossible to miss.

Wherever we go, people mistake us for sisters, which makes me smile like an idiot every time because one, Mack is gorgeous, and two, she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister. After seeing photos of her from before she left California and dyed her hair blonde, we look even more alike as brunettes.

In less than two years, we’ve gotten so close, we have keys to each other’s apartments in case one of us gets ax-murdered after a date or goes on a trip and needs the other to feed the cat. We adopted our cats together—Ginger and Cookie—and we bring our respective feline companion over so they can have a playdate whenever we binge-watch The Bachelorette—Mack’s choice—or spooky, Halloween-should-be-celebrated-year-round horror films—my choice. She’s my first emergency contact, even before my mother because my mother lives three hours away and Mack won’t ask any questions if I need her to help me move a body. Not that it’s ever come to that, but we do have a code word if the situation arises. Radishes. Another one of Mack’s selections.

There are few people in this world I tolerate, let alone love. Mack is one of them.

We settle in on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms between us while Ginger and Cookie chase each other around the living room, the occasional crash marking their path of destruction.

When I flick on my latest obsession, another serial killer movie, Mack sighs. “You know I only begrudgingly watch these movies with you, right?”

“I’ll never understand how you want to watch anything other than horror.”

“I’ll never understand how that’s all you want to watch. Next weekend, we’re having a Lord of the Rings marathon.”

I groan. I love those movies, but Mack has made me watch them so many times now, I can quote them from beginning to end. Through all twelve hours.

“How was your amazing job at the bookstore?” Admittedly, I express my jealousy over Mack’s job at least once a week. If I didn’t have nearly a decade of student loans to pay off, I’d love to sell books to readers all day.

But it’s for the best. If I worked there, I’d spend my entire paycheck on books and coffee, and Cookie and I would subsist on nothing but the stale pastries the bookstore throws out.

Mack pops an M&M in her mouth. “Not so amazing. I think they’re going to fire me.”

“Why the hell would they fire you? They can’t run the place without you. Who else is going to convince the book club grannies to try erotic romance?”

“They’re not doing great right now. They’ve already slashed the budget, and they cut Gunner’s hours back last month.”

“That’s because Gunner sucks. You don’t suck. They won’t fire you, and if they do, I’ll march my ass in there and harass them into rehiring you.”

She smiles. “This is why you’re my best friend.”

Ten minutes into the movie, after two members of the ensemble cast have been brutally and gorily hacked to pieces, Mack turns her attention to her phone. “I’m getting you back on dating apps,” she declares. “It’s about time you found love. You need orgasms to distract you from this unhealthy obsession.” She waves her hand at the television.

I toss a piece of popcorn at her face. “It’s a perfectly healthy obsession. And love isn’t real, so you’re not going to find it for me on a dating app.”

She peers up at me over her phone with a brow raised. “We’re not talking about unicorns and tooth fairies here. Of course love is real.”

I shake my head. “How do you still believe that after your ex?”

Normally, I avoid bringing him up because Mack hates talking about him, but she of all people should understand why I’m not in any hurry to date anyone.

She tucks her legs up under her chin and wraps her arms around them like a nervous teenager. “Yes, James was awful and definitely made me question whether this planet would be better off without men altogether. But my mom and stepdad are still happily married after twenty years. Their honeymoon never ended.” Mack’s mom and stepdad met when she was two, her stepdad stepping into the role her absent father left vacant. “I won’t allow James to take the belief in that kind of love away from me. I’ll never let him take anything else from me.”

“I know you won’t.” He’s already taken her home, her loved ones. For the past few years, Mack has been living the true crime documentaries I binge-watch. She moved all the way from California to Maine two years ago to escape her abusive ex. He threatened to kill her if she ever left him, so when she managed to escape, she ran as far as she could, leaving behind all the friends and family he’d cut her off from, and started over.

She’s never shown me a picture of James, but just thinking about that man makes my hands ball into fists. Mack is one of my favorite people in the world, and the thought of any scumbag hurting her makes me want to string him up by his balls.

“I guess it would be easier to believe in love when you’ve actually witnessed an example of it,” I admit.

Mack takes my hand and squeezes, even though I don’t need the comfort. I’ve accepted my father for the selfish asshole he is a long time ago. I’m over it. I’ve also accepted myself for the woman I am a long time ago—the kind who won’t put up with anyone’s bullshit.

“You never did tell me how you found out your dad was cheating on your mom,” she says.

“The worst way possible.” My stomach churns at the memory, even ten years later. “She and I were on the phone, making our dinner plans. I was coming back in the house from school and heading up to the bathroom to pee when I heard the shower running. Dad was never home from work that early, but I didn’t think anything of it until I heard a woman moaning in there with him.”

An ill-timed scream from the TV. Mack grimaces, but she shovels a mixture of popcorn and M&Ms in her mouth like my life is far more interesting than the slasher film. “Oh my god. What did you do?”

“I went fucking nuts. I threw the door open so hard, the doorknob busted through the plaster, and I tore the curtain off the rod. I threw it at the two of them before I could see their disgusting, naked bodies. But I’ll never forget the horrified look on my father’s face. He knew he was in deep, deep shit.” I shove the snack bowl toward her, appetite gone. “You and I should co-write a book about shitty fathers.”

“Not every guy is that shitty, though,” Mack insists, folding her legs under her. “What about your college boyfriend? Kyle or Tyler or something.”

“Kyler.” I roll my eyes just saying his name. “And he was exactly like the others. None of them could pass my tests.”

“Tests?”

“Yeah, you know, the tests you give them after a few months. When he starts to drop the chivalrous nice-guy act he was using to get in your pants, so you test him to reveal his true colors.”

Mack laughs. “I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Like when you have a random girl message him to test his loyalty or ask him basic questions about yourself to see if he’s actually into you or just into fucking you.”

She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a laugh while she swats my shoulder. “Briar! See, this is why you’re single. You go looking for problems. You chase men away before they can get too close and break your heart.”

I shrug. “If I don’t push them away, how do I know they’ll fight for me?”

Not that they ever do. Which only further proves my point.

In my early twenties, I bounced from boring loser to boring loser, none of whom could keep my attention for long or give me better orgasms than my vibrator.

The two or three who managed to stick around longer than six months, who managed to convince me that maybe I was actually capable of falling in love, always proved me wrong in the end. Eyes straying to another woman or giving up as soon as I started to push them away. As soon as I tested their loyalty to me, the supposed “love” they claimed to have for me crumbled.

I’ve learned my lesson. Love breaks you, and I won’t let it break me again.

Mack studies me like I’m a lab experiment. “So if you don’t believe in love, why do you read all those romance books?”

“Because it’s a fantasy. Reading about a fantasy is fun, but you know it’s not reality.”

She rolls her eyes and returns her focus to her phone screen. “Fine, no love then. Just sex. You definitely need to get laid.”

That I can’t argue with.

CHAPTER FOUR

SAINT

AS MUCH AS I hate to admit it, Derrik may be right. This MFA program is shaping up to be a complete waste of time. A week in, and I’m still at my wit’s end with this novel.

My professors are all unsuccessful poets and literary writers, most of whom refuse to allow their students to write genre fiction. I’ve asked each and every one of them how to break through writer’s block, and not one of them had anything useful to offer. No bit of advice I hadn’t already tried a thousand times. The truth of the matter is none of them have ever been in the position of having hundreds of thousands of readers anticipating your next book, hundreds of thousands of others waiting to read it out of spite, and an eager reviewer hungry to desecrate your latest work.

My cursor blinks back at me, and despite the hour that has ticked by in this coffee shop with an atmosphere perfectly conducive to writing, not a word has appeared on my screen.

At my side, my phone chimes with a text.

How is the book coming along?

Zayden Kingsley and I debuted in the same year, and we’ve been commiserating about the highs and lows of publishing ever since. His background in ethical hacking has contributed to the accuracy of his bestselling thrillers and has been a skill of his I’ve exploited once or twice.

Alas, my agent may have been right about this one. Still no progress.

Give it more time. You just got there. Surround yourself with creative minds and focus on refilling the well. I bet your muse is right around the corner.

A chair at my small table screeches as a woman sits down beside me with a latte clutched in her hands, a milky fern decorating the liquid’s surface. She’s pretty enough. Wide smile, blunt bangs, and fuck-me eyes.

I’m well aware of my effect on women, even when I’m not in my S.T. Nicholson mask and they’re unaware of the magnitude of success I’ve experienced in my career.

“Are you a screenwriter?” She bats her eyelashes.

I don’t bother with a smile. I’m not here to entertain the desires of twenty-one-year-olds with a starving artist fetish. “Novelist.”

She grabs my notebook before I can stop her, ripping off a corner from a perfectly pristine sheet of paper. I grind my teeth, but before I can tell her to fuck off, she scribbles on it with my pen and pushes the scrap of paper toward me.

“You should include a woman named Rachel in your novel.” The paper features her name and number in loopy, careful writing.

“My girlfriend wouldn’t like that very much.”

She shrugs, not at all bothered. “A girlfriend isn’t a wife.”

So that’s the kind of woman I’m dealing with. I clench my jaw, pull out my phone, flick through a few photos, and show her the screen.

The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen, with her thick mocha hair and ocean-blue eyes. A black dress that clings to her every curve and that dazzling smile outlined with ruby lipstick from a night out with friends.

I only saved a few of the photos from Briar’s social media. Enough to satiate me whenever my fingers itch to visit her profile. To hit Follow and find out how she’d react to her favorite author’s interest in her.

“A girlfriend who will become my wife. You can’t compete with my biggest fan.”

The woman’s lips purse and relief flows through me the second she leaves. But now my mind has latched onto Briar. This insatiable urge to know where she is, what she’s doing, what she’s thinking right now. Maybe she’s at home, reading one of my books. Maybe she’s masturbating to the explicit sex scenes I write exactly for readers like her. God, I’d love to see that.

Then it occurs to me: I can.

CHAPTER FIVE

BRIAR

WHEN I GET HOME, I furiously type five pages before I’ve calmed down enough to swipe on dating apps at Mack’s instruction. She wants to video chat tonight so we can discuss my options, of which I’m sure there will be few.

I’m tempted to call Mom to bitch about my job, but I’ve stopped venting to her about Dr. Barrett because it horrifies her every time and all she does is repeat that I need to report him. As if I didn’t go to the administration the first time it happened when we started working together in preparation for the new semester. Only to suffer through the provost’s soliloquy about how men can’t even compliment a woman these days without being accused of sexual harassment and how men are the real victims. I stomped out of the room before he could finish his rant, well aware that my rudeness could cost me my job but better that than going to prison for gouging his eyes out.

As an assistant professor, my job duties do not include coffee runs or getting groped by my sixty-five-year-old boss. But when he asks for a cappuccino, I happily waltz my little ass to the coffee shop on campus so I can escape his lecherous eyes and wandering hands.

The second time Dr. Barrett stroked my arm during class today, I wanted to snap at him to stop touching me, but this job is too important for me to risk. He has my dream job—a tenured professor at the most reputable creative writing MFA program in the nation. There’s only one thing I love as much as writing and that’s working with other writers, sharing feedback and advice and support, watching them flourish and grow. I won’t let some old creep ruin that for me.

Now, I flick on the TV and a true crime docuseries while Cookie settles onto my lap. A wine glass and bottle are both within reach because I know I’ll need them tonight to get through all the photos of men holding up fish and dead deer heads.

I swipe through profile after profile—Mack would be scolding me for swiping left on so many—until I get a message from a guy named Austin. He’s handsome, though his look leans too frat-boy for me. But he’s one of the few options who isn’t proudly displaying a dead animal in his photos, so I respond to his dull Hey with an equally uninteresting, How are you?

Good. You’re gorgeous. I don’t like to waste too much time on this app. Can I buy you dinner?

My brows lift. He’s direct, but I like that. I wish more people wouldn’t waste time beating around the bush. If you want a date, say that. If you want to fuck, tell me. Let’s figure out if we’re on the same page before we waste our time.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I scan the room and the dark windows. I’m alone except for Cookie purring in my lap, but I feel like I’m being watched.

Probably because the true crime docuseries is loudly narrating the stalking and murder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman.

Maybe Mack has a point. My obsession with true crime and horror films is starting to make me paranoid.

I turn off the TV, pet Cookie, chug some wine, and force my focus back on Austin’s message.

Thank you. Dinner sounds good if it’s tacos.

Maybe he’ll make some joke about how we shouldn’t eat spicy food if we want to fuck after, but all he sends is a four-word response.

We can do tacos.

When?

Tomorrow, if you’re free.

I screenshot the conversation and send it to Mack, who immediately calls me. “Um, do you have a date for tomorrow?”

I grit my teeth. “I hate you for making me do this.”

“You love me,” she singsongs. “But why the hell did you suggest tacos? I thought your goal was to get laid.”

“Because if he turns out to be a total dud, at least I’ll get tacos out of it. And if I shit myself while we’re fucking, I never have to see him again.”

Mack cackles. “I love how insane you are, Briar. Text him that you’re free. I can’t wait to hear all the nasty details.”

As soon as we hang up, I do as she instructs.

I’m free. I can send you the address of a great pub.

Awesome. See you tomorrow.

I still can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m being watched, exacerbated by the silence that’s interrupted only by Cookie’s purring and the hum of the overhead light.

Standing slowly, Cookie mewling in protest, I flick off the light before slinking over to the window. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before I peer outside, scanning my tiny square yard for an intruder.

I know I won’t find anyone the same way I know I won’t find anyone hiding under my bed or behind the shower curtain, but I’m still going to check.

Except when my eyes land on the trunk of the oak tree that separates my property from my neighbor’s, I catch a flash of movement.

A shadowy figure is slouching back against the bark. Most of his body is hidden by the darkness, but I’m certain it’s a man. Are his arms crossed? Like he’s just . . . hanging out on my property. Watching me.

My heart stops.

Oh my god.

I pry the window open and stick my head out, heart hammering against my ribcage now. “Hey, asshole! This is private property!”

He doesn’t move. I wish I could make out some feature of his face, but all I can see is a hard edge that drifts below his chin.

Something solid and black.

A mask.

This motherfucker is skulking around my property in a mask.

“It’s still September, asshole! Not Halloween yet!”

He doesn’t budge, maintaining his casual posture like he couldn’t give less of a shit that I’ve spotted him. That I’m well aware he’s committing a crime.

The kind of man who doesn’t care about getting caught.

The most dangerous kind.

I can practically hear Mack screeching in my ear to call 911. “I’m calling the cops!”

I scramble back, legs smacking against my desk in my hurry to lunge for my phone on the couch. I dial 9-1 and race to the window to make sure he’s still there, to give them the most accurate description I can get of a man hidden entirely in shadow.

But he’s gone.

CHAPTER SIX

SAINT

I DON’T LET her escape after class this time. Once the clock ticks down to the final five minutes, my bag is already packed. As soon as Professor Molester dismisses us, I’m at her side, leaning against the podium with my arms folded, but she doesn’t recognize my posture. If only I’d worn my mask.

“I’d like to get your opinion,” I tell her before the professor can corner her.

Briar’s blue eyes are wide for a second, darting between me and the professor seated a few feet from us, monitoring our exchange. He’d probably love to watch me fuck her too.

“Uh, sure. What can I help you with?”

“It’s about a book.”

I pretend to dig in my bag until Professor Molester sighs and rocks his ancient body out of his chair with a huff. “See you next week, Briar.” He squeezes her shoulder as he brushes past her because he can’t not touch her, and I’m tempted to knock him out right here.

But I clench my jaw and nearly snap my phone in half instead. When I kill him, there can’t be any witnesses to an argument between us. No clues, no connection, no trail to follow.

As I type in the passcode on my phone, I give Briar a full view of the screen.

She lets out a short, surprised laugh. When I lift a brow, she asks, “Sorry, is your passcode 0229?”

“It is.”

“That’s my birthday,” she explains. “Funny coincidence.”

I shake my phone. “Then it’ll be easy for me to remember. I’ll be sure to get you something nice.”

She smirks like she thinks I’m joking. “You could track down S.T. Nicholson for me and get him to sign my book.”

“Done.”

Her head tilts like she doesn’t get my sense of humor, but what she truly doesn’t get is that none of this is a joke to me. “So what did you want my opinion on?”

I click on the review and hand her my phone. Surprise flickers across her features like she didn’t expect me to hand it over to her so willingly, but she drops her gaze to the screen and reads, muttering some of the words under her breath while injecting her own curses, brows creasing adorably.

When she reaches the end, she rolls her eyes. “Half of this review is factually inaccurate and the other half is like he’s willfully misinterpreting the author’s intent.”

I can’t help it—a wide smile blooms across my lips. “Really?”

“He acts like an author can’t possibly have a vivid imagination. That he must be some deranged serial killer or a necrophiliac or something to be able to write about those things. You and I both know that’s not true.”

A thrum of panic zings through me before I remember she knows me as Saint de Haas, the MFA student, not S.T. Nicholson, the multi-published bestselling author. “Right. Some believe writers can write only based on their own experiences.”

“Exactly. And what kind of person complains about the sex scenes in an erotic horror novel? Hello, it’s in the genre. ‘Gratuitous’? ‘Too detailed’? How can a sex scene in erotica be too detailed? This guy is projecting because he hasn’t been laid in five years, that’s for sure.”

I grin, leaning on my elbows to get closer to her. To admire the soft edges of her jaw and cheekbones, the gentle slope of her nose and pout to her lips. “And you’re so certain the reviewer is a man?”

“Positive.”

“How so?”

“You can tell by his diction and his obvious misogyny. He thinks all erotic novels are written for women, and he hates women.”

“I believe you’re right. I’ve read some of S.T. Nicholson’s work, based on your high recommendation, and I’d say he’s rather fond of women.”

She grins. “I hope so, because whenever I meet him, I’m throwing myself at him. He can leave the mask on—I don’t care.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

My head tips back with a laugh. This girl is something else. Something special. “And what about the ending? Did you also find it cheap and predictable?”

I expected the ending to be divisive, of course. The protagonist is poisoned by his worst critic, but the poison isn’t enough to stop his heart entirely. When he awakens, he’s been buried alive in a coffin. He kicks through the lid, and that’s where the novel ends. Without closure regarding whether he escapes his early grave or dies there.

The reviewer took care to explain in great detail why he found the ending mediocre. Repeatedly referring to it as predictable despite claiming it hadn’t been adequately foreshadowed.

Briar props her chin in her hand. “What did you think of it?”

“I believed it to be satisfactory.”

She scoffs. “It was far better than satisfactory. Any other ending would’ve been a disservice. The whole book is a masterpiece, especially that ending.”

I’ve never heard anyone speak so passionately about my work before, not even my agent or editors. I’ve met readers all over the world, some of whom have cried when they met me. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t realize she’s speaking directly to the author and I know her passion is genuine.

“Why are you teaching instead of writing?”

She stiffens. A sore subject. “I’m doing both. I’m sure I’ll get plenty of writing done on our retreat.”

“What retreat?”

A playful little smirk plays on her lips. “Were you not listening to Dr. Barrett’s two-hour lecture on our syllabus? At the end of next semester, we’re going on a writing retreat. We haven’t determined a location yet, but we should have something reserved soon.”

“Sounds like just what you need.”

“I’ve always wanted to go on a writing retreat. Write all day long without any obligations except meals and nightly baths.” Briar hands my phone back, and she’s surprised when I slip my phone in my pocket with one hand and catch her fingers with the other before she can withdraw.

Her fingers are surprisingly delicate for a woman so fiery. I’m certain she’s thrown a few punches in her lifetime. But her skin is so pure, so soft and unblemished. My thumb strokes over her knuckles, and she sucks in a breath. But she doesn’t pull away.

My gaze travels up to hers, blue eyes wide as she watches me. I would stare into those beautiful eyes all day if not for those lips. Plump and pouty, begging to be claimed.

She yanks her hand from my grasp and steps back. “I, um, need to leave.” She scrambles to stuff her belongings in her bag, and I grin. She can’t hide the effect I have on her.

I follow Briar out the door, and she scurries off. The temptation to follow her is nearly impossible to resist, but I have a manuscript to write and a deadline I can’t miss.

The library is quiet, the only sounds the click of keyboards and the shuffle of pages. I settle in at a corner table, pulling out my laptop as the all-too-familiar dread washes over me.

Except this time, when my fingers rest on the keyboard, words appear on the screen. Followed by more, until I’m lost in the story, my writer’s block long forgotten.

Thirty minutes later, my word count sits at fifteen hundred words.

I haven’t written that much in months. I’ve never written that much in half an hour.

Briar’s words ring in my ears. The excitement and passion in her radiant blue eyes.

I’m writing because of her. I’m certain of it.

I fire off a text to Zayden.

You were right. I’ve found my muse.

Briar Shea is my muse. The source of inspiration I lost. The muse I came here to seek, finally found.

I may actually be able to send my agent a completed manuscript. Because of her.

To keep writing, to finish my book, I need more of her.

All of her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRIAR

SAINT DE HAAS almost kissed me. I’m lucky no one else was still in the classroom or they could’ve reported us. If I get fired, I’m screwed. And I’m sure as hell not throwing away my career over a horny student. No matter how much I longed—for a brief, fleeting moment—to feel his lips on mine.

The brush of his thumb along my knuckles alone was enough to make my heart stop. Before I remembered he’s my student and entirely off-limits.

Mack texts me as I’m swiping on the last of my mascara.

Do you want me to be your wing ma’am? I can sit at a nearby table to keep an eye on him.

I snort. Mack would absolutely sit alone at a nearby table during my date with Austin if I asked her to.

I’ll be fine. But keep your phone on in case I need help moving a body.

Just remember our codeword.

I snap a photo for her in my full-length mirror and my phone buzzes with her response as I’m grabbing my purse.

You are SO getting laid tonight!

Mom calls when I’m rushing out the door. Allotting myself two hours to get ready still wasn’t enough to get me out the door on time. “Hey, sweetheart. Oh my gosh, you will not believe the dinner I had tonight. I need to give you the recipe—”

“Hey, Mom. I can’t talk long. I’m on my way out.” I need to cut this conversation short now before she launches into a step-by-step guide about how she made her latest Pinterest recipe.

“Before you go, have you heard from your father yet?”

I stop dead on the sidewalk in front of my house. A woman pushing a stroller scowls as she skirts around me. “What? Why would I hear from him?”

I haven’t spoken to my father since the divorce was finalized and I fully plan on keeping it that way.

“Mutual friends of ours are getting married. Remarried, actually. They split, divorced for a few years, got back together again, called it quits again, got back together. It’s a whole thing—”

I nearly snap at her to get to the point. I love her more than anyone in the world, but she somehow always finds the worst possible times to call. I won’t be surprised if Austin is balls-deep in me tonight and my mother decides that’s the best time to video chat.

“Anyway, your father may be invited too. So he might be in town in a few months, and if he is, I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

My nose scrunches, and I shield my eyes against the descending sun as I hurry to the pub. If he has a single brain cell left in that dense head of his, he’ll stay far away. “Are you still going to the wedding if he does?”

She scoffs. “Of course. I’m not letting his nasty ass get in the way of celebrating my friends on their special day.”

I snort. “Some special day. They’re blowing tens of thousands of dollars for a few hours that will pass in a blink, she’ll be so stressed she’ll throw up five times, and he’ll still be fantasizing about the bachelor party where he had five pairs of fake boobs in his face. Only to get divorced for the second time two months later.”

Mom gasps. “Briar! I hope you don’t actually feel that way about weddings. Your wedding will be beautiful! Marriage is a wonderful thing.”

How she can still believe that after the shitshow that was her marriage to my father is one of life’s greatest mysteries. I have exactly zero plans of ever getting married. “I really need to go, Mom. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Oh, that’s right! I’m so sorry I’ve kept you! Where are you headed?”

I dodge a couple strolling hand in hand on the sidewalk and grit my teeth, knowing Mom is going to read way too much into this, planning my wedding by tomorrow and the nursery next week. “Actually, I’m . . . going on a date.”

Mom gasps before squealing in delight, and I hold back a sigh. Fucking Mack. This is all her fault. “Oh, honey! I’m so happy to hear that! How did you meet him? Is he handsome? Where are you going? You know where you two should go—”

“I met him online.” I’m already regretting these heels. The pub Austin and I agreed to meet at is only two blocks away, but my flat feet have grown accustomed to my far comfier vans and slippers.

“Online?” The enthusiasm has disappeared from Mom’s voice now. She believes every man you meet online is a predator. She’s not far off. “Just be careful. Text me the address where you’re meeting him. And call me as soon as you’re home and safe.”

After seeing some mystery man lurking on my property the other night, I’m not entirely sure how safe home really is anymore. But I’m not the kind of idiot who will tell her paranoid mother that.

A family of four slips through the door of the pub ahead of me. Thank god I’m almost there.

“I will,” I promise my mother.

“Did you bring your pepper spray?”

I catch the door before it shuts and slip inside. “I gotta go, Mom!”

Austin is already waiting for me at a round table in the corner. He looks exactly like his pictures, thank god. Thanks to the layer of makeup, so do I. He stands to shake my hand, which is oddly formal, but he does pull my chair out for me.

For a second, I almost think he stands a chance until he launches into a monologue about his qualifications like this is a job interview. He spends twenty minutes raving about his father’s law firm and how he’ll be a partner at just twenty-eight. To make matters worse, I only have nachos to distract me because apparently, they’re all out of tacos. I didn’t even realize that was a possibility.

I’d love to excuse myself to the bathroom and call Mack to stage a run-in and get me the hell out of here, but I need to get fucked tonight. It’s been over a year, and this dry spell needs to end now that my vibrator’s taken a shit and Mack reactivated all my dating profiles. Austin’s personality may not do the trick for me, but his body might.

He offers to split the check, which makes me cringe internally and consider not inviting him back to my place at all. I don’t give a shit about paying for my own meal, but I operate under the premise that whoever asks the other person out should be the one to pay. Plus, his initial proposition to me was literally Can I buy you dinner?

While he’s in the restroom, I text all of this to Mack, who only asks:

Are you still going to fuck him?

Jury’s out. We’ll see how the makeout sesh goes.

When we leave the bistro, we hover awkwardly on the sidewalk. “So,” Austin says, “did you want to keep the good times rolling?”

Ugh. I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this. I grab his hand. “I was thinking we could go back to my place.”

A surprised grin flashes across his square face and he nods.

The glint of gold on his wrist catches my eye, and I lift his hand to eye level, examining the trim of gold around the oval clock face. “I like your watch.”

“Thanks. It’s a Rolex.”

I roll my eyes, but thankfully, he doesn’t notice. Too busy asking me inane questions the rest of the way to my house, all of which I barely offer more than one-word answers, too preoccupied with wondering if I remembered to clean the bedroom and if any of my sexy lingerie still fits.

As we approach my house, I scan the yard for the masked man in the shadows.

“Everything all right?” Austin asks.

The yard is empty. We’re alone. Yet I still can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe once you find a masked man staring at you through your window, you never shake off that feeling. “Yep. Just fine.”

I lead the way into the house, Cookie darting off to hide as soon as she spots Austin behind me. The only person she likes to be around is Mack. She even hides when Mom visits. I nearly sigh in relief when I spot the empty sink. My house is cluttered, but at least it’s organized clutter.

“Do you want a tour?” I ask, regretting the words the instant they leave my mouth. Who actually wants a tour of someone’s place before a casual hookup?

He pins me back against the door, smiling. “I want a tour of something else.”

Normally, being pushed up against a door would instantly turn me on, but for some reason, not even a flutter of arousal stirs in my belly.

Austin presses his body into mine, already hard, though I’m not totally sure if that’s an erection or just the fabric of his jeans.

Saint’s face flashes in front of me, his body the one bracing above mine, the feel of his cock long and hard pressing against me. A promise of what’s to come.

I shake the image out of my head, forcing myself to focus on Austin.

His mouth lands on my neck, but he doesn’t take the opportunity to suck or bite. He trails feather-light kisses along my skin that do absolutely nothing to get me in the mood. The combination of nachos and cheese sit heavy in my stomach, and I press his hands to my tits, hoping that’ll make me feel something. Anything.

He leaves his palms flat against them for a second before massaging like he’s a gynecologist performing a breast exam.

I cringe and bite back a laugh before gently pushing his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m not really feeling well. I think I need to call it a night. But thank you for dinner. I had a . . . great time.”

Sure, I’m stretching the truth to stroke his ego, but after tonight, I never have to see him again. Better to lie and survive the night than be honest and end up on Dateline.

He smiles, believing the lie and hugging me a beat too long. I pat him awkwardly on the back before he finally pulls away and I have to suppress my sigh of relief. “No problem. Text me, and maybe we can actually get you those tacos.”

I manage a weak smile, holding the door open and waving as he heads for the sidewalk. He seems like a decent guy. Mind-numbingly dull and entirely too self-important, but nice enough. Maybe something’s wrong with me that I can’t bring myself to like a decent, available guy. Instead, I daydream about my student. The wholly forbidden fruit.

I shut the door and sigh. Time to order a new vibrator.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SAINT

THE BASTARD HAD his hands on her.

Through the window, I had a clear view of him touching my muse. Taking what’s mine. I was two seconds from breaking down the door and handling him myself when Briar pushed him off and sent him on his way. I’ve still got a grin plastered across my face. That’s my muse.

She already knows I’m the only one she wants.

The scumbag waltzes down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. My sharp breaths echo in my mask, face heating and hands curling into fists.

I slip my mask off, waiting for him to stroll down the dimly lit sidewalk before I follow.

Every second he was alone in that house with her, I longed to rip his hands off.

Briar is brilliant enough to earn a PhD and land a position as an assistant professor in a distinguished creative writing program, but she didn’t think to get a background check on her date. If she did, she would’ve discovered that Austin Emmons has a few girlfriends, none of whom seem to know about the others’ existence. He gets them hooked on coke, his drug of choice, so they won’t find out about each other, or if they do, they’ll be too strung out to care. Then he sells their bodies to fund his own addiction. A cursory glance through his medical records showed he also has not one but two venereal diseases that I’m certain he had no intention of disclosing to Briar before climbing into bed with her.

Certainly a man with plenty of enemies, who all would have any number of reasons for wanting him dead. No one will miss him too much.

He touched her. He tried to take what’s mine.

With his death, he and Briar will both learn an important lesson: no one touches her but me.

She is mine, to have and to hold, from this day forward. ’Til death do us part. And even in death, I won’t let the universe take her from me.

She’s my muse, no one else’s. And Briar will soon learn that I don’t share.

Austin doesn’t notice the shadow at his back. We’re alone, an advantage of small towns. With the exception of the bar crowd, no one’s ever out past nine.

No one will witness what’s about to happen to Austin Emmons at the hands of his shadow.

“Austin?” I call, forcing a jovial lilt to my voice despite the fury raging in my veins. “Austin Emmons?”

He turns, brows drawing together when he spots me.

I pat him on the shoulder, beaming. “How’ve you been?”

“Uh, sorry.” He takes the gloved hand I hold out to him, shaking it despite his confusion. “Do we know each other?”

“Austin, I’m hurt.” I let out a boisterous laugh that puts him at ease. “Fellow Princeton alum.”

Only a man this pretentious would include Princeton alum in his social media bio six years after graduation. “Right.” He nods, playing along so he doesn’t look like the asshole. “Sorry, man, I’m terrible with names.”

“John.” I squeeze his shoulder, glancing around us before ducking in close. “Listen, I’ve got a baggie of the good stuff on me if you want some. I’m already blitzed.”

That finally pulls a real smile from him. “Yeah? How much do you want for it?”

I wave my gloved hand, pulling the baggie out of my pocket and discreetly slipping it into his awaiting palm. “Don’t worry about it. Call it a favor from an old friend.”

He claps me on the shoulder, grinning. “You’re the best, man. Text me sometime. We’ll party like the good ole days.”

Oh, Austin. Your party days are over. Along with the rest of them.

The laced coke will be lethal. His body won’t be discovered until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

But Briar will know Austin’s death for what it really is: my gift to her.

No other man will touch her. She’s mine. And I will eliminate anyone who comes between us.

CHAPTER NINE

BRIAR

COOKIE IS MEOWING and scratching to go outside. When I open the door for her, I spot something glinting on the porch.

I crouch and scoop it up. The gold trim surrounding the oval clock is somehow familiar.

Austin’s watch. It must’ve fallen off after he left last night.

I dial his number, knowing it’s stupid to call a man I fully plan on ghosting, but the least I can do is return his watch. Especially so he doesn’t come back looking for it.

“Hello?” a husky female voice answers.

Shit. Does he have a girlfriend? A wife? Fuck me. I cannot be the other woman. We only went on one shitty date, for god’s sake. I shouldn’t have to get roped into this shit. “Um. Hi! Sorry. I was just looking for Austin.”

The woman sniffs, and my spine goes rigid. “This is his sister, April.”

Sister. Thank god. “Oh, okay. I was calling because Austin left his watch, and I was just—“

“Actually.” Her voice catches. “He won’t need it. He . . . passed away this morning.”

My hand flies to my mouth. Austin is dead? I was just inviting him back to my place last night, and sometime between leaving with blue balls and now, he died? How the hell does that even happen? This is my actual nightmare. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Can I . . . can I ask what happened?”

“We don’t know for sure yet.” Her voice is on the edge of a sob now. “But the police suspect an”—She swallows, the last word shaky—“overdose.”

Jesus. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I didn’t even know Austin took drugs. I literally talked to the guy for two hours. Of course my first date in over a year would wind up dead the next day. “I’m . . . so sorry. Um . . . do you . . . want his watch?”

“His . . . watch?” April’s tone shifts from despair to dubious.

My heart thunders. This was a mistake. “If you give me an address, I can send it.”

“Who are you?”

“Um.” I fight the overwhelming urge to hang up, block her number, and pretend I never met Austin. “Briar.”

“Austin never mentioned a Briar.” April’s tone is biting, and even though she’s a grieving sister, part of me wants to smack her.

“We only met last night. First date.” Horrifyingly, a manic giggle escapes. I bite my lip. “But if you give me an address, I’ll just send you the watch.”

“I’m not comfortable giving out my personal address to a stranger. You can drop it off at the funeral home during the service.” Without another word, the line goes dead.

Fuck. I stare at the dark screen in disbelief. Not only is Austin dead, but now his sister is obviously suspicious of me.

This date literally couldn’t have gone any worse. I need a long, hot shower to scrub off the ghostly feel of Austin’s hands on me.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mack.

How was the date? Am I interrupting a steamy morning after?

I call her and she answers within seconds. “If you’re calling, it must’ve been really terrible or really great.”

I literally don’t even know how to put this situation into words. I feel bad for him, but I also barely knew him and can’t bring myself to mourn a total stranger.

“You’re staying eerily silent,” Mack says slowly. “Please say words before I start panicking and show up with my ax.”

“You have an ax?”

“Briar! The date.”

“Right.” I swallow, take a calming breath, and spit it out. “Um, he actually . . . died.”

“Oh my god!” Mack shouts. “You fucked him to death?”

“No! He died sometime after he left my place last night. This morning, I found his watch on my front porch, so I called his phone and a woman answered—”

Mack gasps. “Was it his wife or his mom? I’m honestly not sure which one would be worse.”

“It was his sister.”

“Oh, good. So what happened?”

“They suspect it was an overdose.”

“Wow,” she breathes. “Like intentional or accidental?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think they know yet.” I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d just assumed it was accidental, but what if Austin killed himself? Surely he wouldn’t kill himself just because I rejected him last night. But what if he’d been dealing with shit for months, and my rejection was the final straw? My heart thunders. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

“Have the police contacted you?”

“No,” I say slowly. “Why would they?”

“Because you might’ve been the last person to see him alive. That’s crazy. You go on a date for the first time in forever and he dies the next day.”

“Thank you for the recap,” I grumble.

“Holy shit. It feels weird to ask now, but . . . how was the sex?”

“We didn’t hook up.” Great. Now I have to speak ill of the dead. “The date was a dud. He groped my tits and I felt nothing. Zero chemistry. Which . . . I guess is for the best now.” If I had fucked him and he’d died the next day, the news would’ve been even harder to swallow.

“Just watch what you say when you talk to the police,” Mack warns.

“Why? I didn’t do anything to him.”

“You and I know that, but they don’t. They can twist your words and implicate you in ways that would make your brain hurt.”

“Is that what they did to you when you reported your ex?”

“James was law enforcement. That’s how he got away with it for so long.” A bitter edge to her normally jovial tone. “They always take care of their own.”

“Thank you for the warning, but I don’t think I have anything to worry about,” I tell her, even as April’s skeptical words ring in my ears. “We had dinner, we came back to my place for five minutes, and I sent him home.”

“Okay. Just don’t go into too much detail. And if their questions start to make you uncomfortable, tell them you won’t speak to them anymore without a lawyer.”

“You should be my lawyer.”

“I probably could pass the bar exam with how much I’ve researched.” Before she hangs up, her tone turns serious again. “Be careful, Briar.”

CHAPTER TEN

SAINT

FOR A WOMAN OBSESSED with true crime, Briar certainly has no conception of self-preservation. Leaving her second-story windows open while her vibrator drones? Any creep could be out here listening. She’s lucky I’m the only one out here.

I want to know which book of mine she’s reading, which scene has gotten her so wet that she needs a vibrator pulsing against her clit to come to my words.

To get her to fall for me, to be my muse forever, I need to prove my devotion to her. Learn everything about her, exactly what makes her tick. What makes her smile, what makes her laugh, what makes her wet, what makes her come. What she loves, what she fears, what she desires. Whether she prefers my fingers, my tongue, or my cock.

Luckily, I already know which books she loves and everything about her favorite author.

Once she falls asleep, I’ll enact step one of how I’ll learn the rest.

Her moans when she comes sing out the window, and my cock throbs.

“Fuck, Briar,” I hiss, fists clenching as I fight the urge to scale this house, climb through that window, and make her come again on my cock.

Soon enough, she’ll get that lucky.

Her light shuts off. Maybe she’ll peer through the window again, scoping out the yard to find her masked savior waiting for her in the dark.

A smile pulls at my lips at the memory of her yelling at me from the window. My balls tighten at the thought of being the only one who could break her. Tame her. The only one for whom she would drop to her knees.

Saliva floods my mouth, envisioning the way she’ll fight against me until she finally gives in.

Tonight, she doesn’t come to the window. After fifteen minutes of waiting in silence, I try the front door, and I’m relieved when the knob doesn’t turn. She’s smart enough to lock her door at night, even if she’s not always smart about who she lets waltz through it.

But when I nudge a window, I shake my head. Getting in her house shouldn’t be this easy. A simple matter of popping off the screen and sliding the window up.

I grit my teeth. Doesn’t she know there are deranged people who could hurt her? The least she can do is lock her windows.

Unless this is her way of inviting me in.

In the darkness broken up only by the occasional nightlight, a cat darts away from my feet. I quietly kiss at her, but Cookie hides until she hears the crack of a tuna can opening. I dump the food into her bowl and scratch her back while she feasts.

“When I return, make sure you let your mom know that we’re friends,” I murmur.

While Cookie devours her tuna, I examine the layout of Briar’s home. I need to place the cameras strategically to obtain the best angles, where I’ll get the most footage of her without her spotting them. Luckily, the ridiculous amount of clutter in her house presents the perfect opportunity for discreet placement.

I plant a camera in the kitchen and another in the living room before heading upstairs, managing to ascend in total silence until the top step creaks beneath my foot.

Any moment now, Briar will leap out of her bedroom, screaming and swinging a bat.

Three seconds tick by.

Four.

Five.

Other than the jingle of Cookie playing with a toy in the living room, the house remains silent.

Briar’s bedroom door is wide open. She’s asleep on her stomach, mouth ajar and drooling while her vibrator charges on the nightstand next to her. I bite back a chuckle. She has no idea the kind of restful sleep the future holds once I get my hands on her.

Her soft snores make me want to crawl into bed and pull her close, but that will need to wait. Another night.

I hide the final camera, pointed at her bed and monitoring her every breath.

On my way out, I scratch Cookie behind the ears and lock the rest of the windows. I slip out the way I came in and pop the screen back into place.

Briar is so lucky she has me to keep her safe.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BRIAR

A POLICE CRUISER sits in my driveway when I pull in. I almost hope they’re here to investigate my touchy-feely boss, but of course, there’s no way they could know about Dr. Barrett since the administration blew me off when I reported him.

The scowls on both the officers’ faces deepen when they spot me.

I climb out of my car and allow myself a small sigh. All I wanted to do was come home after a long day of dodging Dr. Barrett’s unwanted advances and curl up on the couch with Cookie, a glass of wine, and a slasher film about a young woman who exacts bloody revenge on all the men who wronged her. Is that too much to ask?

“Can I help you?” I call.

The male police officer is the first to step forward and extend a hand to me. “Briar Shea?”

I take his hand reluctantly and shake it. I can’t remember whether you can avoid identifying yourself to a police officer, but I know it’s illegal to lie about your identity. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Officer Rosario.” He nods to the female officer at his side. “This is Officer Smith. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Austin Emmons.”

At least now I finally know Austin’s full name. I manage to nod and offer a “Sure,” even as my body temperature rises. Mack was right—I could’ve been the last person to see Austin alive, and now the police want to know what I know. So this should take no time at all.

“Great,” Officer Rosario says, and Officer Smith flips open a notepad. “So you spent your evening with Austin Friday night. Is that right?”

“Not the whole evening,” I correct in a rush. “Only, like, two hours or so.”

Shit. Did that sound guilty? I could’ve just said yes. God, I hate talking to cops.

“Can you tell us a little more about what you and Austin did during that time?”

I nod, spotting Cookie hop up onto the windowsill behind the officers, meowing for her dinner. “Um, we met at the pub a couple blocks down, we walked back here, we chatted for a few minutes inside, and then he left.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Officer Smith asks, not looking up from the notepad she’s scribbling on.

“No, he didn’t,” I admit, not realizing this until now. I just assumed Austin would head home, but he never actually told me where he was going. “Have you found out yet whether the overdose was accidental?”

Smith finally looks up from her notepad and lifts a sculpted brow. “You think it wasn’t?”

Shit. That was the wrong question to ask. “Uh, no. I mean—I have no idea. He and I literally met that night. We didn’t know each other very well.”

Now it’s Rosario’s turn to raise his brows. “You didn’t know him well, but you invited him into your home?”

Great, now I have to combat slut-shaming from a cop. “Look.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I was looking to get laid that night. But I quickly realized there was zero chemistry between us, and I asked him to leave. He didn’t seem like a rapist or a serial killer, so I took my chances.”

Rosario flushes and Smith clears her throat. “Right. Thank you for your . . . honesty. Did you and Mr. Emmons engage in any recreational drug use that evening?”

I quickly shake my head. “No, I don’t do drugs. I mean, I used to smoke weed on occasion, but I didn’t smoke with anyone other than my best friend because she’s the only one I trust to keep me from eating all of the food in my house when I’m high. To be honest, I didn’t even know Austin did drugs. The topic never came up.”

Mack would be elbowing the shit out of me right now. I’m definitely oversharing. A bad habit whenever I feel any sort of tension in a social interaction.

“So you didn’t observe Mr. Emmons taking or acquiring any sort of illegal substance that evening?” Rosario asks.

“No, definitely not.”

“Great. Well, we’re very sorry for your loss,” Rosario says, making me shift and bite my lip before I can accidentally blurt, Don’t be. We weren’t close.

“Um. Thanks.”

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Briar.” Rosario extends his hand to me again as Smith finishes scribbling and flips her notepad shut.

“No problem. Oh! Actually, I still have his watch. I offered to send it to his family, but maybe you could give it to them?”

The officers exchange a look, and I instantly regret opening my big mouth. “How did you come into possession of Mr. Emmons’s watch?” Smith asks.

“He must’ve dropped it on his way out. I found it on my porch the next day.”

Another look, and I want to scream that there’s no need for their silent conversation because I didn’t drug Austin before he left my house, if that’s what they’re thinking.

They nod and let me duck into the house. My cheeks burn as I grab the watch from the bowl by the door. Smith is already shaking open a plastic baggie when I return, dropping the watch inside like it’s some sort of evidence.

They’re clearly suspicious of me. All I got was a shitty first date and now I’m roped into a potential homicide investigation.

“Have a good day, Briar,” Rosario calls, while Smith doesn’t bother casting me a backward glance.

I wait until the cruiser is out of sight before letting out the breath I’ve been holding and heading inside to feed Cookie. That shouldn’t have felt like an interrogation, but it did. If they haven’t ruled Austin’s death accidental yet, maybe they’re just checking all the boxes.

I head for the pantry where I keep Cookie’s cat food, but she’s no longer in the window and already crunching. Either she still has food leftover from breakfast—unheard of—or she got into the trash again.

“Damn it, Cookie—” I round the corner into the kitchen only to find a tall man looming in the corner, arms folded casually and a sinister smile across his face.

A scream rips from my throat, sending Cookie darting out of the room as I lunge for a pan. I hold it up like a bat, all too aware of how terrible I was when we played baseball in P.E. and that I haven’t been to a gym in months. I’m pretty sure the last time I broke a sweat was when the elevator was out of order in the Ramsey Center on campus and I had to climb the fifteen flights to the top floor.

But now I’m going to need to somehow fight off the intruder in my kitchen.

Saint de Haas.

The asshole played it off that first day of class like he wasn’t stalking me, and now here he is in my house. Definitely stalking me.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I screech.

He hasn’t budged an inch, not at all intimidated by the pan held above my head. His easygoing smile makes me want to rip his hair out. “I was wondering the same thing about Austin Emmons.”

“Wh—Austin?” My brain scrambles to put the pieces of this insane puzzle together. Two seconds ago, even I didn’t know Austin’s full name. “How do you know him?”

Maybe they’re friends. Relatives. Maybe he thinks I’m somehow responsible for Austin’s death, just like the cops. That I’m the one who gave Austin the drugs that killed him.

Saint shrugs. “He and I became acquainted after your . . . date.” The smile finally falls from his face, mouth souring.

My grip on the pan tightens. “Look, I didn’t have anything to do with him turning up dead, okay?”

Saint laughs, his entire face morphing with delight as his head tips back. Despite the fear churning in my gut, the musical sound makes my heart flutter. My stupid, stupid heart. “I know. Didn’t you get my gift?”

I freeze. “What gift?”

“The watch. On your porch.”

My blood runs cold. Austin’s watch didn’t fall off when he left my house.

Saint took it off Austin’s body and left it there. For me.

My stomach flips, nausea building. “Why did you leave that on my porch?”

He steps forward now, and I jerk the pan up higher, but he doesn’t cower in the slightest. “As a memento. To remind you of what I’m willing to do for you. The lengths I’ll go. The sacrifices I’ll make.”

My eyes sting at the raw terror consuming me. This man is nothing close to a saint. And far more dangerous than I thought. “Did you do something to Austin?”

Another step. And another. He’s in the middle of the room now, growing taller with every inch of distance he closes between us. He may be the tallest man I’ve ever seen. Well over six feet. His dark, wolfish eyes dance, glued to me like there’s nothing else in the room.

“I only gave him what he most desired,” Saint purrs. “In turn, he gave me what I desired—his nonexistence. His permanent severance from you.”

“You—” My pulse echoes in my ears, head spinning so hard, I can barely form the words. “You knew he would die?”

“Of course. How else could I ensure I’d have you entirely to myself?”

Bile rises in my throat. Austin’s death wasn’t an accident.

Saint knew the drugs he gave Austin would kill him. Saint killed him.

“Why?” I gasp, the pan dropping to my side as my arms grow weak. “Why would you do that? I didn’t even like him. He was innocent.” My voice breaks on the last word.

I’m living a true crime nightmare. This man played coy when I accused him of stalking me, gaslit me into thinking I was overreacting, and now he’s in my kitchen confessing to murdering my date.

And I’m going to be next.

Saint closes the space between us too quickly for me to react, swiping a thumb across my cheek and taking the tear with him. My breath catches at his touch, his nearness. The mouthwatering smell of his cologne floods my nose. “Don’t cry for him. That bastard wasn’t innocent. He lied to you from the beginning. He hid dark secrets from you. His girlfriends—of which there are many—function as his drug mules unless he can make more money selling their bodies to the highest bidders. I’m sure he also failed to disclose his highly contagious venereal diseases to you. A far worse morning-after discovery than his death, I assure you, muse.”

I can’t process everything he’s telling me. He could be lying about Austin. But I barely spoke to Austin for more than a couple of hours. Maybe he really was the clean-cut lawyer set to take over his father’s firm like he wanted me to believe. Or maybe he was the dangerous sex trafficker Saint claims.

It’s Saint’s word against a ghost’s, and I have no reason to believe either of them.

Every word I whisper comes out shaky. “What did you just call me?”

Saint grins. “You’re my muse.”

A hand swipes a strand of hair behind my ear, and I jerk back, swinging the pan in his direction.

He catches it with ease and rips it out of my hand, sending it flying behind him with a crash.

I cringe against the sound, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t let that terrifying grin falter. “I couldn’t write again until I met you. You are my inspiration, Briar. You are the ink in my pen, the words on my page, the voice in my head, the name tattooed on my heart.” He steps close again, and this time, I don’t have a weapon to aim at his head. “That’s why I can’t let anyone else have you. You belong to me now.”

“I don’t belong to anybody, you sick fuck,” I spit, backing up out of his reach. “Get out of my house. I’m calling the cops.”

If only I’d walked in the house seconds earlier, I could’ve run back out the door and flagged them down. Gotten him arrested on the spot so I wouldn’t be living this nightmare.

His smile still doesn’t waver. “You’re not going to do that because you don’t have any proof.” Somehow, he’s completely sure of himself. “Not to mention I did you a favor. He would’ve ruined you if he’d gotten the chance. I stopped him—I protected you. I’m your saint.” He grabs my hip, pinning me in place as I fruitlessly attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. “And you’re my sinner.”

I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. A six-foot-five boulder to my five-foot pebble. “I’m not your anything.”

“On the contrary . . .” He pulls out his phone, showing me the lock screen. My stomach drops. A photo of me. A selfie smiling at the camera, at a cafe back in my dissertation days when caffeine was my sleep replacement. He must’ve dug through months of posts to find that one. “You’re my everything.”

He reaches in his back pocket and flips open his wallet. Another photo of me, this one showing off everything from head to toe in a little black dress during a rare night out with the girls while I was getting my master’s. He cropped my friends out, leaving me the sole object of his obsession.

I crush my hand to my mouth, attempting to hold back the feral sound that aches to escape. Something between a horrified cry and a bloodthirsty scream.

Finally, I manage to grind out, “You keep . . . photos of me?”

I barely even know him and he’s already acting like I’m his girlfriend. No, like I’m his possession.

His next words flow like warm, liquid chocolate. “If I could imprint you on my brain, I would.”

Stupidly, the words make my heart squeeze. The same declaration of love S.T. Nicholson wrote in This Book Will Haunt You. He knew that was my favorite book, and he memorized one of its best lines. One I have highlighted and underlined.

I shake myself. He’s a stalker. He just broke into my house. Worse, he’s a murderer. He may not have killed Austin with his bare hands, but he did intentionally give Austin a lethal dose of drugs. He knowingly ended a life. In some sick, twisted way, he thinks he killed for me.

“You were the one in my yard that night. Wearing a mask.”

“I was.”

My mind spins at how readily he confesses to his crimes. Trespassing, stalking, murder. Like he’s proud. Like his crimes somehow prove his devotion to me rather than his madness.

“8793506.”

I frown. “What the hell is that?”

He smirks. “Your driver’s license number.”

I scramble for my purse, digging for my wallet until I find my license. Of course my goddamn phone isn’t in here. I probably left it out in the car, distracted by the police cruiser in my driveway and the cops at my door.

I examine my license. 879—

Shit. He memorized my fucking driver’s license number. I whirl on him. “Are you trying to steal my identity or something?”

“Only your heart, muse.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.

“I’ll call you whatever I want, sinner. You’re mine. You belong to me now.”

His words sicken me. I’m not some piece of property for him to own. For him to simply decide to take as if I don’t have a mind or will of my own. “Stop saying that,” I growl.

Saint closes the distance between us again, and I’m sick of this dance, so this time, I don’t back down. I don’t step away. I keep my chin high, craning my neck to stare up into his eyes. A dark, glinting gaze that shouldn’t turn my core molten.

“Why are you here, Saint?” I repeat. “Why the fuck did you break into my house? To kill me?”

Even as I will strength and fury into my voice, it cracks on the final words.

He shakes his head, gliding a thumb down from my hairline to my jaw. I try not to let the effect his touch has on me show, hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps on my skin. “No, Briar. I would never hurt you. Never.” His low baritone is so resolute, I almost believe him.

If he wasn’t an intruder in my home who’d just confessed to murder, I might.

“Then why. Are. You. Here?” I repeat, every word tinged with fury.

His voice lowers as he leans down until his breath grazes my skin with every word. “Because it’s your turn to get what you most desire.”

A shiver rolls down my spine. “How the hell would you know what I most desire?” I challenge.

“Because, muse, I know you. I’m going to know you to your very core.”

I don’t move as his inky eyes, his sharp jawline, his pouty lips, get closer. Too close, until my eyes involuntarily flutter shut and his mouth brushes against mine, making my breath catch and heart leap into my throat.

His soft lips send electricity pulsing through my veins, stomach somersaulting with a violent mix of adrenaline, nerves, and impossibly . . . lust.

He keeps his mouth gentle, a smooth, enormous hand cradling my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheek.

Until I gasp and come to my senses, shoving him away as hard as I can. The unexpected strike knocks him back. But only a step. “Get out.”

A panty-melting smile crosses his face. The sound that escapes his lips is somewhere between a soft groan and a breathy laugh before he whispers, “Fuck.”

My stomach flips. As he heads for the door, my chest fills with a confusing mix of relief, longing, and disappointment, my lips still tingling and heart thundering.

Holy shit. Did that just happen? My stalker kissed me.

And I let him. After he broke into my house.

I was in shock, that’s all. A fear response—fight, flight, or freeze. I froze.

I’m in fight mode now.

I scramble to snatch up the pan he tossed to the floor like it was made of cardboard and hold it above my shoulder again, just in case he gets the wrong idea about that meaningless kiss.

“Someday,” he promises, lips curled up, “you’ll let yourself give in to what you want, muse. To all of it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

SAINT

KILL HER.

My muse thought I was waiting in her house to ambush her. To hurt her. The thought churns my stomach. All I want is to protect her, keep her, love her, worship her.

Someday, she’ll realize that.

Today, Briar ventures away from the syllabus, delving into plot structure and story beats while Professor Molester types on his laptop, ignoring her lecture. Her cheeks flush adorably as her excitement grows with every new bit of knowledge she imparts, though her bright blue gaze continues darting in my direction. Perhaps making sure I’m not moving from my seat to lunge at her.

I would love to, but for a far different reason than she fears.

After Briar finishes her lecture and answers a few questions from the class, Professor Molester reminds us about the writing retreat next semester. “Local author S.T. Nicholson has graciously offered his private residence for the week of our retreat.”

Briar’s eyes light up at the mention of her favorite author. I knew that would make her happy.

“Attendance isn’t mandatory but highly recommended.”

I don’t miss the salacious way his gaze roams over Briar’s body like he’s hoping this secluded writing retreat away from campus will be his opportunity to truly get his hands on her. Like she’s his for the taking.

My fists clench in my lap.

“You can sign up now if you’re interested. Bri—Dr. Shea will collect names. You have until the end of the semester to make your final payments.” Professor Molester murmurs something in my muse’s ear on his way out. I’ll start digging his grave tonight.

Once he’s out the door, she straightens her shoulders in her seat and rests the sign-up sheet in front of her. I wait until everyone else has gone through the line before grinning at her and signing my name.

She scowls and darts a glance around the room before leaning forward and hissing, “I don’t think you’ll be going on the retreat.”

“But I’m so looking forward to spending more time in your company.”

“That’s unfortunate because you’ll be in jail by then.”

I raise an amused brow. “Jail? Is that so? And how do you propose you’ll make that happen?”

She snatches the sign-up sheet, stuffs it in her bag, and heads for the door. “By proving to the police what you’ve done, obviously.”

I stick by her side as she heads for the sub stand. Before she can place her order, I call, “Two ham and cheese subs on wheat bread. Four slices of ham, two slices of Provolone each, and a dash of mayo. Thank you.”

Briar narrows her eyes at me. “You memorized my order?”

“Told you I know you.”

“Why did you order two?”

“I love what you love.”

She scowls. “Next time, I’m ordering turkey with tuna, mustard, and pickles.”

I chuckle. My muse has a sense of humor. “Then I can’t wait to watch you gag.”

She chokes on air until the student worker behind the register hands her a bottled water. I follow her outside and sit beside her at the umbrella table, her nose scrunching in that adorable scowl again. “I don’t dine with murderers,” she hisses. “You need to leave me alone.”

“That will be difficult to do as your student. I was actually hoping we could spend more time together.”

She unravels her sandwich, feigning casual disinterest. “You won’t be my student for long because, like I said, you’ll be thrown in jail for your crimes.”

“All of my crimes?”

Her gaze finally darts to me again, and my god, those watery blue eyes have me entirely engulfed. “Have you killed other people?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I lean back, shrugging. “The only murders I commit are fictional.”

Her mouth twists in disgust. “How can you be so . . . cavalier about it? You’re sick.”

“What do you write?” I want to know what kind of stories plague her mind, keep her up at night with the gnawing need to get the words out of her head and onto the page.

Briar’s gaze narrows at the change in subject. She glances around like she’s plotting her escape, but she remains rooted in place. Perhaps she already knows she’ll never get away from me.

She flashes me a wicked smile. “I write psychological thrillers about women who kill men.”

I chuckle. She thinks she’s going to scare me off, but there’s nothing she could say or do that would make me want her any less. I rest my chin in my hand. “What kind of men?”

“Adulterous husbands, mostly. But I’m thinking my next book will be about a masked stranger who stalks a woman and breaks into her house before he finds himself hanging upside down by the balls as he bleeds out.”

I let out a hearty laugh. “That sounds like a fun romp. You’ll have to let me read it.”

“Oh, I plan on dedicating it to you,” she mocks in a sickly sweet voice that makes my cock swell.

“I hope so.” I lean closer, and the only sign of her increasing heart rate is the flare of her nostrils. “You’re not a woman to be messed with, are you?”

“And yet, here you are.”

“So why do you let Professor Molester grope you?”

She emits a shocked snort at the nickname. “Apt name,” she admits. “I don’t let him grope me. I went to the administration, they did nothing about it, and he has my dream job. He’ll be retiring soon, and I plan on squeezing a glowing recommendation out of the old creep before he does.”

“Via what means? A blowjob?”

“Victim blaming now?” she snaps.

“Not at all.” I clasp my hands together and lean closer. She swallows. “Say the word and I’ll make your problem go away.”

Her eyes widen before she leaps to her feet and hisses, “I can’t believe I have to say this: stop killing people. Stay out of my house, and leave me the hell alone.”

I stand, fixing her with an easy smile before I stroll away. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, muse.”

“Can’t do what?” she calls to my back. “Can’t do what?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BRIAR

HURRICANE MACK BURSTS into my office while I’m hanging up a murder board. She rushes over to clutch my arm and shake me. “Oh my god! You will not believe what happened to me today. So remember how I said I had a bad feeling the bookstore was going to fire me? Well, they did—”

“Those assholes!”

“So I was crying into my Starbucks while browsing for romance books—”

“As one does.”

“And this insanely attractive man asked if I was okay. And of course, I blubbered to him about how I was buying comfort books I can’t afford after getting fired and he offered to pay for my books!”

My eyes practically bug out of my head. “Oh my god. I hope you immediately eloped.”

“Not exactly, but he did ask me what I did for work and then he offered me a position as his personal assistant! Apparently, he’s an author! Can you believe it?” Her eyes are lit up in delight.

“It literally sounds like a dream. I’m so jealous I could rip your head off right now.”

She dismisses my threat of violence with a wave. “You’re a professor. You’ll still be making more money than me and doing a way more interesting job. I’ll be answering his emails and running his social media.”

“I’m an assistant professor. Did he say how much it pays?”

“He said he’ll be sending a contract over, but he asked if thirty dollars an hour would be acceptable.”

I sputter into my coffee. “Thirty? Yeah, you’re officially dead to me.”

“He’s really cute.” She’s practically glowing. “I can ask if he’s single and set you up with him if you want.”

I scowl at her. Has she already forgotten the absolute shitstorm after my date with Austin? “Um, no. You saw how it went the last time I tried dating.”

“Think of it this way: The worst has already happened. So the next guy will definitely be your soulmate.” Mack shakes me again. “Come on, Briar. He’s an author. He’s hot and he buys books for sad women in bookstores! I couldn’t imagine a more perfect man for you if I tried.”

I shrug her off. “What’s his name?”

“Ugh. He told me his pen name and he sent me an employment contract to sign, but I can’t remember.” She pulls out her phone. “Let me check—”

“Whatever. I’m not dating anyone for at least another fifty years.”

She slips her phone back into her pocket with a sigh and finally acknowledges my murder board. “What are you doing?”

I explain what happened with Saint to her. The bastard broke into my house, kissed me, and confessed to murder. Then offered to kill for me again.

The worst part? The kiss is the moment I keep replaying most.

“So he was just standing there in your kitchen?” Mack repeats from my desk chair, her mouth hanging open. Cookie and Ginger are both attempting to curl up on her lap, neither doing so successfully.

“Yep.”

“And then he confessed to murder?” she whisper-shouts the last word, glancing around like Saint might be lurking somewhere and overhear her.

Hell, he might be. With his track record, he could be lingering outside my window right now.

Just to be sure, I peer out into the yard. Nothing but sunlight shining down on the grass and oak tree. He’s smart enough not to trespass in the middle of the day, at least.

“Yes.”

“And then he kissed you.”

“You’re all caught up.”

After that day Saint broke into my house, I realized he was right: I don’t have any proof that he killed Austin. His confession doesn’t mean jackshit, especially if I go to the cops and he denies it. They’re already suspicious of me. If I try to throw someone else under the bus—despite him being the actual guilty party—that’ll only increase their suspicion of me.

I need to be smarter than him. I need to get proof to take to the police. If I can do that, I’ll get him locked up for stalking me and killing Austin, and I won’t have to triple-check whether I’ve locked the door every night and patrol my house with a baseball bat.

Though the way he ripped that pan out of my hands and casually tossed it over his shoulder makes me think he’d simply wrench it from my grasp and snap the bat over his knee.

He said he’d never hurt me, but why else would he break into my house? Why watch me from my yard in a mask? Why kill a man for simply touching me?

Saint de Haas is an unhinged stalker. A dangerous man. Sultry words and soft lips aren’t enough to convince me he’s anything but.

Too bad for him, I’ve watched entirely too much true crime to let him get away with this shit. Between me and Mack, we’ll serve this bastard the justice he deserves.

“You need to start keeping a log of all the instances he stalks you so you can take everything to the police. The more evidence you have, the more likely they’ll be able to charge him.”

Mack is the only one I know who’s ever dealt with something like this—an ex who stalked and terrified her so much, she fled to the other side of the country.

I don’t want to be forced to flee my home, my life. Especially because Saint doesn’t seem like the type to let a little distance come between us. Even though we’re a mere few weeks into the semester, his obsession already runs deep.

Muse.

He thinks I’m his muse, his inspiration. Without me, he can’t write. He needs me. Which means he won’t let me go without a fight.

Too bad for him, I’ll fight back harder.

“Do you really think we can get enough evidence?” I ask Mack. “So many people knew what your ex was doing and verified your story, and he still got away with it.”

“But James was an officer. Unless Saint has connections we don’t know about, law enforcement won’t have a motive to cover it up.”

I shake my head. It’s sick that Mack had to deal with that. “I have no idea what kind of connections he has.” A smile blooms across my face. “Maybe it’s time to stalk the stalker.”

“Before you Google him, you should delete anything on social media that could give away more about your identity. And make sure you don’t post your location.”

Just as I’m about to follow Mack’s instructions, my ringtone blares. An unknown number. I swipe my thumb across the screen while Mack crouches on the floor to play with Cookie and Ginger and their favorite toy mouse.

“Hello?”

“Briar?” The rough, gravelly voice is instantly familiar, even though I haven’t heard it in over a decade.

My stomach twists into a tight knot. “Why are you calling me?”

Mack’s gaze flashes up to me in concern.

“I’m going to be back in town for a wedding in a few months. I wanted to make plans to stop by and see you so we can catch up.”

Catch up. Like we’re old war pals and not an estranged father and daughter. What the hell do I even call him now? Dad? Father? He hasn’t earned those titles. “I’m not interested in catching up.”

My father blows out a slow breath. I can’t even picture where he is or what he looks like now. Hopefully, he’s as ugly now as he is on the inside. “I know what happened between me and your mother affected our relationship too, but I want to fix it. I’ve been working on myself—”

“I don’t really give a shit.” Out of all the times he could try to weasel his way back into my life, he had to pick when I’m already dealing with a predatory boss and an obsessive stalker. “You should’ve been working on yourself when you were cheating on my mother.”

“You’re right,” he admits. “The way I treated your mother was wrong. I want to make amends. Make things right.”

My blood is boiling now. If I could reach through the phone to punch him, I would. “Leave her alone. She’s better off without you.”

He gives a humorless chuckle. “Believe me, I know. I burned that bridge with your mother a long time ago. But you’re still my daughter. I want to be a father to you, if you’ll let me.”

Every word that leaves this man’s mouth is bullshit.

“No. Kindly stay away from me and Mom. And don’t call me again.” I hang up, heart pounding like I just ran ten miles.

“Was that your father?” Mack asks.

“Yep,” I grumble. “Mom warned me he might try to contact me. Their friends are getting remarried, and they’re both invited to the wedding.”

Mack’s eyes widen. “Do you think they’re going to get back together?”

“Hell no. My mom is way too good for him.”

“Are you going to see him while he’s in town?”

I bark a mirthless laugh. “Definitely not.”

Mack’s brows knit together. “You don’t think it might be good to get some closure?”

“I got my closure. My father is a cheating, narcissistic asshole who doesn’t deserve the ground he walks on.”

“I’m just saying you’re obviously still upset about it. Usually, that means you haven’t gotten the closure you need. You don’t have to spend holidays together or go to daddy-daughter dances, but you can at least get to say your piece and bury the hatchet.”

“Give me a hatchet and I’ll happily bury it in his chest.”

She shakes her head but can’t help grinning. “Have I ever mentioned how insane you are?”

“Don’t worry about me, Mack. Believe me, I moved on a long time ago.” Most days, I hardly remember my father exists. His absence from my life has only removed unnecessary stress. “Now. Back to stalking my stalker.”

First, I need to go through my social media accounts and make sure I don’t have any other identifying information displayed publicly.

I open up the only social media I bother using on a semi-regular basis, mainly to post cute pictures and videos of Cookie. A quick scroll through my posts makes my pulse pick up speed.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“What?” Mack jumps up, sending Ginger and Cookie scrambling out the door.

I spin to show her my screen. “The asshole deleted all the photos with my exes. He only left the selfies, the photos from college, and the photos with you, Mom, and the cats.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. He’s already this possessive of you.”

“I know! And how the hell did he hack my account?” I’m not his girlfriend or his muse or whatever the hell else he wants to call me. He doesn’t get to control me like this. Control what I post, who I spend time with, who touches me.

“Despite his poor decision-making, I think he may unfortunately have a few brain cells in his head,” Mack admits.

“This is all your fault, you know.”

Her eyes pop. “My fault?”

“You reactivated my dating profiles against my will! So I was forced to go on a date with a human trafficker, Saint overdosed him, and now here we are.”

She folds her arms. “Saint was stalking you before your date. You said you saw him watching you while you were inside your house.”

“Yes, but I need someone to yell at right now, and he’s not here.”

“So what are you going to do in the meantime? You can’t keep teaching when he’s a student there. Are you going to ask for time off?”

“I can’t. I barely make enough to pay my bills as it is, and the benefits are shit. I can’t afford to take the time off. And I’ll be damned if I run from him.” Mack flushes and I want to kick myself in the head. “Shit, I didn’t mean like you. I’m glad you ran from James. That’s the only thing you could’ve done. He was an abusive, toxic asshole. You fought as much as you could—you didn’t have any other options. That’s what I want to do now. Figure out all my options and fight as hard as I can.”

She squeezes my hand and gives me a small smile. “We’ll fight this together.”

Her smile pulls one from me. With Mack by my side, no one will stop us.

Saint de Haas has no fucking clue who he’s messing with.

A black BMW is following me.

At first, I thought it was another commuter on their way to work. Until I purposely made a left turn with my right turn signal on.

The BMW’s signal changed and followed me.

Now, I make a turn in the wrong direction, no longer entirely sure how to get to campus from here.

The BMW is still behind me, maintaining a few car lengths of space between us as if that will somehow keep them inconspicuous.

The windows are too tinted to make out the driver. But I have a good idea who’s behind the wheel.

I slam on the gas. Fuck this. If Saint wants to follow me around, I’ll pull into a spot and confront him.

My GPS guides me to the Auburn campus, and when I finally turn into the parking lot, the BMW coasts by.

I grit my teeth. Of course the bastard couldn’t bring himself to face the music.

My racing heart has finally slowed by the time I sit on a low brick wall warmed by the sun, prop my laptop open, and search on Google: Saint de Haas.

Not a single social media account pops up. I grab my phone and type his name into every app I have downloaded, and none of the accounts that appear belong to him. Not a single Saint de Haas to be found. What kind of person doesn’t have social media?

The kind of person with something to hide. Like stalkers and murderers.

Luckily, my search isn’t totally in vain. There are a few hits on Google featuring Saint’s name.

An article from a Massachusetts boarding school boasts him as one of their highest-performing students. An exceptional writer who won a prestigious national award for high school students.

I grind my teeth. Of course he’s some genius, creative prodigy. I wonder when he turned into a psychotic stalker or if he was one back then too.

Someone sits down right beside me and I’m about to snap at them to give me some space until I spot who it is and relax.

“Have I ever told you that you look like someone I used to know?” Trevor flashes his signature, toothpaste-commercial smile.

“But did she have my wonderful personality to accompany our stunning good looks?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, and Trevor laughs. “Shouldn’t you be patrolling?”

He’s wearing his uniform—jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and a black jacket with the word SECURITY emblazoned across the back. He’s freakishly tall and burly with a buzzcut that’s just starting to grow back and a five o’clock shadow. The complete opposite of toned, clean-shaven, dark-haired Saint.

I grit my teeth and push his face out of my head.

Trevor holds out a sandwich for me. He knows I forget to pack a lunch and wake up too late for breakfast most days. He’s the golden retriever type—always chatting amiably with faculty and students on campus with a smile for everyone, feeding the hungry and cheering up the downtrodden.

We’re work friends. When we spot each other on campus, we catch up and chat about the insignificant parts of our lives—the coworkers and bosses who annoy us, the food in the cafeteria that day, the surprisingly decent weather—but our friendship exists only in the bubble of campus. I don’t have room in my life for more friendships, and I’m sure Trevor has more than enough to keep him busy.

“I am patrolling.” He nudges me with an elbow. “Making sure you’re not looking at any pornographic images on my campus.”

I laugh and snap my laptop shut. “I wish. My search is a lot duller than that, unfortunately. Thanks for the sandwich.”

“No problem. It’s ham, cheese, and mustard—your gross favorite.”

I stick my tongue out at him before tucking the sandwich in my bag. My favorite is mayo, not mustard, but I’ll be hungry enough by lunch not to care.

“You doing research?” he asks.

“You could say that,” I admit. Trevor tilts his head and waits for me to continue. “I . . . think I may have a stalker.”

His brows furrow and his voice lowers. “A stalker? Why do you think that?”

“I mean, he basically admitted it to me when he broke into my house.”

“He broke into your—” Trevor stops himself from shouting, glancing around to see if anyone noticed his outburst. He leans closer and whispers, “He broke into your house? Did you call the police?”

“Um.” I clutch my laptop to my chest. “I was going to—”

“Briar, you didn’t call the police? You have to report this.” His eyes are wide, terrified for me.

“I will. Once I have proof.”

“Listen to me: You’ll get the proof, but you need to establish a paper trail.”

“I’ll report it after class,” I promise.

“Thank you.” He’s genuinely relieved. “So what have you found out about him so far?”

“Nothing, really. I know his name and the boarding school he attended. There isn’t any information about him after he graduated. No social media, nothing.”

“Maybe I can talk to one of my buddies down at the station. See if they can run a background check on the guy for us.”

“You have cop friends?”

“Yeah, I was one.”

This is news to me but not exactly surprising. Trevor takes his job far more seriously than any of the other guards on campus. “Why aren’t you anymore?”

He shrugs. “Got tired of it. Wanted something more lowkey.”

“You definitely came to the right place. Nothing ever happens here.” I gesture to the sprawling campus enveloped in autumnal beauty. “Well, except when I get a stalker.”

Trevor’s brows furrow. “He’s followed you to campus?”

“He’s a student.”

He drags both hands down his face. “Jesus.” When he finally drops his hands, he meets my eyes with an imploring puppy gaze. “Does he seem dangerous?”

“Um. I’m pretty sure every stalker is inherently dangerous.”

Trevor doesn’t laugh at my pathetic attempt at deflective humor. “I mean, do you think he’s capable of worse than following you around campus?”

I nod and whisper, “Yes.”

Far, far worse.

“Fuck,” Trevor hisses, shaking his head before he places a hand on my arm reassuringly. “This is what we’re gonna do: Whenever he’s around, you call or text me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I manage a small smile but shake him off. “Thanks, but I don’t want to put you at risk. If he sees you near me, definitely if he sees you touching me, you’ll have a target on your back too.”

Trevor stands, glowering. “I can handle that douchebag.”

I almost want to tell him that Saint has literally already killed someone, but I bite my tongue. Trevor is trying to help me, to make me feel better. But even with Trevor patrolling campus, even if he offers to show up whenever I call, that doesn’t mean he’ll get to me when I need him.

After my father cheated on my mother, and we discovered he’d had multiple affairs with dozens of women over the years, I learned you can’t rely on any man.

I need to stop Saint myself.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SAINT

BRIAR THINKS by avoiding her house as much as possible, she’ll deter me. Even after Austin, she still has no idea the lengths I will go to for her.

She’s the only patron in the Auburn Institute’s library, one hour remaining until the place closes for the night. Bags under her eyes as she pours over a thick tome in front of her make my spine stiffen. The only reason she should be losing sleep is because she’s spending all night coming on my cock, not because her fear is keeping her awake.

Soon, she’ll learn she has nothing to fear from me.

I slide into the seat across from her and her head jerks up, tossing the hair that’s fallen onto her delicate, round face. Her crystal-blue eyes narrow on me, and she moves to stand until I grab her hand.

She’s frozen, unsure whether to fight or flee.

“I found your wishlist.”

“What wishlist?” she demands, snatching her hand from my grasp but remaining in her seat. A victory.

“Your book wishlist.” I smirk when her eyes widen. “Don’t act so surprised. It’s public information.”

“So did you buy me a new book then?” Sarcasm drips from her every word.

I flash her a wicked grin. “I bought you every book.”

She blinks a few times, processing the information and trying to remember exactly how many books were on that list.

“You should expect them soon. I selected the fastest available shipping option.”

“I . . .” She searches my face like she’s waiting for the catch. “I don’t know what game you’re playing—”

“No games, muse. I’ll admit, I started reading one.” I lean closer, elbows on the table. “Didn’t think there would be an explicit public sex scene on page one. Glad I finally discovered what you’re into.”

She leans back, rolling her eyes even as I’m certain her heart is pounding. “Those are just fiction. They don’t say anything about me.”

“They say everything about you. Everything you want me to do to you, spelled out right there in black and white.”

Her eyes flare. “I don’t want you to touch me. In fact, don’t even look at me.”

“The heroine denied what she wanted too. But we both know you’re already soaked at the thought of me eating your pussy right here, where anyone could see.” Granted, we’re the only two in the library, but anyone could walk in at any moment.

She leans forward, challenging me. “You’re disgusting. Tell me, who else have you killed?”

“You want to know?”

She blinks, startled by my concession. “Yes.”

“The man who attempted to molest me.”

Her expression changes. Fiery blue eyes softening, brows lifting, perfect lips falling slightly apart. “What happened?”

“My mother was a sex worker. She worked out of our little apartment, but she did her best to keep me from seeing or hearing the worst of it. All I knew was my mother had a lot of friends who came in and out, some we saw often and others we saw once and never again. One of them—” I swallow, plagued by images of that monster even years later. “One of them used her to get to me.”

Briar goes rigid, hanging on to my every word. But she doesn’t interrupt or push for more information before I’m ready to give it.

He was short, scrawny, and balding. The type of man my mother typically serviced. Reserved and didn’t say much in or out of the bedroom. He was a repeat client, returning every week, but eventually his visits didn’t include trips to my mother’s bedroom. He’d bring us food or a toy for me. My mother started smiling when he showed up, excitedly announcing whenever he was on his way.

He convinced us to trust him. Convinced us that he was a different type of man. Safe.

Until he knocked on the door one day when my mother wasn’t home. While she was out getting groceries, he finally took advantage of his opportunity to get me alone.

For some, their brains erase the trauma from their minds, replacing it with nothing but darkness.

I remember every second of that afternoon.

Never open the door for anyone but me, Saint. But I made an exception when I spotted him through the peephole, knowing my mother wouldn’t mind. He was safe. He watched as I played with my new toy on the floor—a racecar that I sped through our thin, threadbare carpet and over the coffee table with the wobbly leg.

He said I should try my toy in my room. I nodded and sat on the floor, the one room in our apartment that my mother insisted was entirely and solely my own. That even she wouldn’t intrude on unless she smelled food rotting. A woman who had long forsaken privacy and autonomy wanted as much of it for me as she could give.

While I zoomed the car in the narrow space between my bed and window, the door creaked open. A sound that still haunts my dreams, the creeping shadow of his lanky body intruding on my space.

I didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him that my mother said this room was only for me. He was a friend. I’d never had a friend in our apartment, let alone my room. What could it hurt?

He sat on the edge of my bed and patted it. “Come sit by me.”

I did, bringing my car with me and rationalizing why he wanted us to sit on the bed, which was far more comfortable than the floor.

“It’s pretty hot in here, isn’t it? We should take our shirts off so we don’t get them all sweaty.”

Normally, it was never hot in my room, especially in the winter. Some nights, we could see our breath, even when we slept under as many blankets as we could find. But now that he mentioned it, sweat was pooling under my arms. So I nodded and took my shirt off.

But he didn’t do the same.

When he reached toward me, I assumed it was to take a turn playing with my new toy, but instead, his hand landed on my arm.

I froze. He’d never touched me before. The only person I was accustomed to touching me was my mother, when she’d hug me every time I entered or left a room or when she’d stroke my hair as she read me a bedtime story, ensuring me that someday, I’d write the stories I’d read to my own children.

Still, I talked myself down from the panic, even at ten years old. He was a friend. He was kind. He was safe.

Then his hand drifted up my arm and caressed my cheek, turning my stomach. My body temperature spiked, and the panic was raw and real as my heart thundered.

This touch did not feel friendly or safe.

“Do you like when I touch you?”

Behind him, my bedroom door slammed open, ricocheting off the wall as my mom stomped into the room, dark eyes blazing like simmering coals.

He immediately retreated, dropping both hands into his lap and scooting as far away from me on the mattress as he could. I waited for the bile to spray over him as my mother witnessed what he’d been doing to me, saw me with my shirt off as he touched me.

“What the hell is going on?” The screech that left her mouth was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Animalistic. Primal.

“Nothing. We were just checking out Saint’s new toy.” His gaze swung back to me, and the bile rose in my throat. “Right, champ?”

“Don’t fucking look at him!” she screamed, yanking him from the bed with a kind of strength I didn’t know she possessed.

He stood two inches shorter than her, but he was still stronger.

Yet in that moment, he wasn’t.

From my bed, I watched as my mother held a knife to the monster’s throat and sliced him open. Then she dropped the blade, clutched her hands into fists, and beat him until they both came back bloody.

His eyes shut and he stopped moving. She stood, eyes wide and hands shaking. In disbelief. Horror.

Her instincts had kicked in. To protect me. And she’d taken a man’s life.

My mother’s wide gaze swung to me. “Saint, I need you to—”

Before she could finish, the man’s eyes sprung open.

He launched at her, moving faster than I could catch my breath. In a blink, he had her pinned to the wall with his hands around her throat.

“Mom?” I called, and though her mouth hung open, she couldn’t answer.

Her nails slashed at his hands, but she wasn’t breathing.

She hadn’t sliced him deep enough. The wound at his throat was superficial, bright red but hardly bleeding.

Her cheeks were morphing to a deep shade of crimson as her body fought for the oxygen he wouldn’t let her have.

He was killing her.

My mother’s knife glinted on my bedroom floor.

I slipped off the bed, wrapped my hand around the handle, and plunged it into his back.

He cursed and his hands around my mother’s throat loosened just enough for her to gasp in a breath.

I stabbed him again. And again. His blood spilled onto my hand.

He tried to run from me, and that was the first time I ever felt bigger than a grown man. More powerful.

My mother collapsed to the floor, clutching at her neck as she tried to suck air into her lungs and regain her strength.

The man managed to push his way out my bedroom door, but he fell to his knees and onto his stomach when the blood loss became too much.

I wouldn’t let him get up again.

With both hands, I stabbed him everywhere I could. Until a crimson stain pooled beneath him with so much blood, I thought the whole room would flood with it. Until I could no longer lift my arms because they shook too much.

His pleas and groans and gurgles on his own blood finally stopped.

I didn’t notice my mother was standing by his feet until she said, “We have to make him disappear.”

I took his feet while she lifted him under the arms. We heaved and sputtered as we dragged him to the bathtub, where my mother ordered me to grab bleach and bags from under the sink before scrubbing the blood off me, handing me my shirt, and sending me to the grumpy neighbor’s apartment a floor down.

The old woman allowed me through the door with great reluctance and threw a blanket that smelled like mothballs over me as I spent the night on her couch. My mother finally came for me in the morning, and we carried the bags I’d brought to her out the door, disposing of them in various dumpsters around the city.

When we returned home, the bathtub reeked of bleach and was polished cleaner than it had ever been, even when we moved in.

“How many times did it happen?” she asked me.

“Just that time.”

She crouched to the floor so she was eye-level with me, stroking both my arms. “Where did he touch you?”

I pointed to my arm and my face, and when I stopped, she hugged me and sobbed.

The monster was never found. But he wasn’t done hurting us.

My mother and I hopped from city to city after that, never staying in one place long. I was oblivious as to why, and she refused to explain.

Until I finally got my answer. When the monster’s brother left my mother’s dead body in an alleyway.

He’d been chasing us since he discovered one of us had ended his brother’s life. He assumed it had been my mother.

I didn’t protect her the way she protected me. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I failed her.

I’ll never make that mistake again. Certainly not with Briar.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Your mother sounds like an incredible woman,” Briar says now. She’s twisting her hands together, distressed at the images that now plague her mind.

I wish I hadn’t needed to fill her head with them, but if she’s going to fall for me, if she’s going to be mine forever, she needs to know me. Just as I need to know her. All of the darkest parts.

“She was the only person I had in the entire world.”

“My mother and I are close too.” Briar manages a small smile. Happiness flutters in my chest that she still has her mother. “So what did you do to him?”

“To him?”

“The man who . . . killed your mother.” She swallows, gaze cast down on her fidgeting hands. “You murdered a man for daring to lay his hands on me. I’m sure you did much worse to your mother’s killer.”

I try to suppress the dormant rage that simmers beneath the surface. Warren Marshall is dead to me, even if he still breathes. “Believe it or not, I spared his life. Even though I despised him for what he did, part of me understood. That in his shoes, I’d do the same.”

Her brows lift. “So you didn’t go after him?”

“Of course I went after him—he killed my mother. But I took someone he loved; he took someone I loved. So I stopped at cutting off his ear.”

“That’s disgusting. Please don’t tell me you’ve held onto it like some sick trophy.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

She snorts. “Give it to my father. He lost his in a dog attack.”

“Really? When you introduce me, I’ll have to offer it to him.”

Her mouth sours. “I’m not introducing you to anybody, and I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Why not?”

“He cheated on my mom. He betrayed us.” Her eyes are stormy, the wound still festering. “Mom and I agonized for years over why my father didn’t seem to care about us the way a man should care about his family. Why he was always aloof, why he’d bail on every family outing and movie night. In most of my childhood memories, Mom is the only parent present. Then, when I was seventeen, we finally figured out why. My father had been cheating on Mom with dozens of other women. She immediately filed for divorce, and I haven’t spoken a word to him since. My life has only improved without him in it.”

My heart aches for her. That she’s had to go through her entire life wondering why she wasn’t loveable. Why she wasn’t enough. I long to torment him for making her feel that way for even a second.

“I would never do that to you,” I assure her.

Briar’s head tilts, brows scrunching. “Do what?”

“Cheat on you. Abandon you. Make you question my love for you.”

She scoffs. “You don’t know me. You can’t possibly love me.”

“What have I told you, Briar? You’re my muse. Where you go, I follow. What you need, I give. What you crave, I provide. I am yours to use as you see fit. To fulfill all your desires. And you are my inspiration. You are the pen that writes my words. The body that owns my cock. The laugh that owns my heart. The mind that owns my soul.”

She stares at me, letting this sink in. She’s so standoffish, so wary of me, because the one man in her life who was supposed to love her unconditionally failed to do so. He hurt her, betrayed her. Showed her that love isn’t real, that men can’t be trusted. That to open your heart to someone is asking them to break it.

Her heart has already been stomped on, torn into pieces. Now she’s protecting it fiercely, dating and sleeping with men she has zero interest in so it won’t hurt when they leave. So she won’t be broken when they don’t love her the way she deserves.

She’s my muse, but I’ll be her Saint. The one who convinces her love doesn’t have to hurt or break you. That love is what puts the pieces of your shattered heart back together.

Briar stands abruptly, shoving her book back into her bag. This Book Will Haunt You. “I’m heading home.” She points her finger in my face. “And you’re not following me.”

I grin, following her out the door. “Whatever you say, muse.”

She strides through the building and out the door to the parking lot as if those tiny, perfect legs can carry her faster than mine can keep up. She wraps her arms around her middle, teeth chattering. “Shit, it got fucking cold.”

“Good thing you’re in the presence of a gentleman.” I slip off my jacket and drape it across her shivering shoulders.

“Get this thing off me,” she snaps.

I chuckle. “So you can keep shaking like a leaf? I’m keeping you warm, muse. One way or another.”

Her nostrils flare at the innuendo. “Shaking like a leaf is a tired metaphor. No wonder you can’t write.”

A devilish grin twists my lips. “Will you be my muse tonight?”

She stops at her car and bites her lip but can’t help asking, “What exactly does that entail?”

“Give me a kiss, and I’ll write you a chapter. Wrap that pretty mouth around my cock, and I’ll write you a book.” She grimaces and opens her mouth to vehemently object, but I’m not done. I stroke my thumb down her cheek until it comes to rest on her delicately pointed chin. She doesn’t push me away. “Let me come inside that perfect pussy, and I’ll write you enough books to fill a library.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRIAR

“HOW MANY DAMN books did you order?”

I wince against Mack’s crackling voice over the Bluetooth speaker in my shitty beater Honda and flip down the visor to shield my eyes from the sun. “I didn’t order any books.”

“Well, there are three boxes of them sitting outside your house. Like, heavy ones.”

My eyes practically bug out of my head. Saint said he found my mile-long wishlist online. I guess it really wouldn’t be that hard to find. I have a link to it right in my social media bio. Still, the fact that he’s spent his evenings alone, hunting for information about me, should send a shiver down my spine.

Yet it’s not a shiver racing down my spine now—it’s a thrill.

No one else has taken an interest in my books and writing as much as him. No one has ever simply gone to my wishlist and ordered me a book outside of a holiday or birthday.

That night in the library has been playing on an infuriating loop in my head for the past few days, especially when I’m reminded of him every time I spot the jacket in my passenger seat that I keep forgetting to return to him.

As soon as he wrapped the jacket over my shoulders, the intoxicating scent of him enveloped me, like ink and fresh paper, a new book cracked open for the first time.

Then liquid heat spread to my core at his seductive words. Let me come inside that perfect pussy, and I’ll write you enough books to fill a library.

He’s the last person who should be turning me on. The last person I should feel an ounce of sympathy for. He could’ve made up that entire sob story about killing his would-be molester and discovering his mother’s dead body after the molester’s brother retaliated.

But somehow, even though he’s a deranged stalker and murderer, I trust what he told me is real. I’m sure a childhood like that could fuck up anyone enough to end up like him.

When I pull into the driveway, Mack and I carry each of the boxes together to get them inside, huffing and sweating by the time we drop the last box in the middle of the living room floor.

Saint really did buy every book on my wishlist for me. I thought he was full of shit. I guess my assessment of him at the start of the semester was accurate—he’s the type of wealthy man with money to burn. But if I get to benefit from it somehow, I’m not complaining. As far as I’m concerned, buying me all the books on my wishlist is the least he can do after stalking and terrorizing me.

Once we drop the final, back-breaking box on the floor, Mack blurts, “I think I have a crush.”

“What?” I pant, hands on my hips as I catch my breath. She hasn’t been interested in anyone since her crazy ex. “On who?”

“His name is Zayden Kingsley—”

“Zayden Kingsley?”

Her brows lift. “Yeah. Do you know him?”

I want to shake her. “Mack, you worked at a bookstore. How do you not know who Zayden Kingsley is?”

“Oh, yeah. He writes thrillers.” She waves casually, as if she’s not talking about having a crush on one of today’s bestselling writers in the thriller genre. “Anyway, since I’ve basically taken over my boss’s inbox, I’ve been emailing back and forth with Zayden. He’s so easy to talk to and really funny and he signs off all his emails with a cute little x.” She might as well have hearts bursting from her eyes.

“So that’s why you like your new job so much. You spend all day chatting with your new boyfriend.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning as she tears into a box to examine my stash. “I like my new job because it’s fun and creative and bookish. And Zayden isn’t my boyfriend. I wouldn’t even call us friends. It’s more like . . . pre-friendship.”

“So . . . an acquaintance?”

“Yes. But an acquaintance who’s funny and interesting and looks really good in his author photos.”

“I think I actually had one of his series on my wishlist.”

Mack gushes over each book she pulls from the box. She’s the only person I know who reads more voraciously than I do, but she almost exclusively reads rom-coms. She lifts up a special edition hardcover of S.T. Nicholson’s debut. “Hey! This is that author I’m working for!”

My mouth falls open. She has to be kidding. There’s no fucking way Mack randomly bumped into my favorite author on the entire planet in a little indie bookstore before being handed a job offer on a silver platter. “You’re working for S.T. Nicholson? You’re shitting me.”

“He’s literally the best boss I’ve ever had. Although he’s having me run five separate giveaways this month, and the logistics are a lot more complex than you would expect. You like his books, right?”

I snatch the hardcover out of her hands. “Like his books? I live to read every word that god of a man writes. You’re his fucking personal assistant? I officially hate you.”

“I tried telling you I could set you up with him! I still don’t know if he’s single, but I can ask. Oh my god, what if we went on a double date? You and S.T. Nicholson, and me and Zayden Kingsley! That would be so cute!” When she opens up a copy of a hockey bully romance, a note falls onto her lap.

I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that Mack knows my favorite author. That he might be single. Not that he’d necessarily be interested in me if he was. And who knows, maybe the face beneath the mask isn’t what I’d want at all.

“Muse, may you think of me when his belt is around her throat. Oh my god!” Mack cackles. “Who sent these to you? Please tell me he’s available for marriage.”

I snatch another book out of the box, a sweet rom-com with a pink cover. Another note inside. Muse, someday you’ll love me as much as you love reading.

My heart skips pathetically before I snap the book shut, tossing it back in the box.

“My stalker.”

Mack’s brows shoot up. “Seriously? How do you know?”

“He told me he found my wishlist and he bought every book for me.”

Her hand flies to her chest. “Don’t hate me, but if he wasn’t a stalker and a murderer, I’d tell you to marry him.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad about the stalking and killing people part.”

She tsks, missing or ignoring my sarcasm. “It really is.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SAINT

BRIAR IS on full display in front of the camera I hid in her bedroom. Her tits are perky, nipples peaked beneath the thin silk pajama top. Her legs are crossed in front of her, one of the books I purchased for her spread open across them.

I make the live footage from the camera full screen on my desktop, the only light in my office illuminating from my view of Briar’s bedroom.

My cock stiffens when she tosses the book aside and her silk shorts ride up, already barely covering her ass. She slips out of the room and I growl, frustration building in my balls, begging for release.

I sigh when she returns, a different book in hand, and grin when I catch a glimpse of the spine.

S.T. Nicholson.

She’s cast aside a new book for my debut, a favorite with a creased spine and worn edges. She lies on her bed this time, flipping open to the exact scene she’s earmarked with a pink flag.

When her hand drifts down her shorts, I groan. “Briar.”

My office chair isn’t the most comfortable spot in the world, but it’ll have to do. My buckle clinks as I unfasten it and roll my zipper down, cock already so hard it’s almost painful.

Her breasts rise and fall with each heavy breath. My words have this effect on her. My words make her want to rub that sweet clit and bring herself to that height of pleasure. Someday, it’ll be more than my words.

I stroke down my cock, precum already beading at the head. The thick vein on the underside of my shaft pulses at the sight of her, hair splayed out across her pillow, her smooth skin on display, so little left to the imagination.

Too soon, she pulls her hand out of her shorts.

“No, muse,” I whisper, agonized. “Keep going. I need to see you come for me.”

She props the book open on the bed beside her—my side when I finally claim it—and fumbles around beneath her nightstand until she grasps what she’s desperately searching for.

Briar picks my book back up and slips the vibrator down her shorts.

I moan when the buzzing starts and her breath catches. Her eyes roll back in her head for just a second before she’s forcing them open again, gaze darting across the page. I’m dying to know which page she’s on. Which words of mine are arousing her this much.

I pump my cock slowly, even as my balls tighten and ache for every drop of cum to shoot out. But I can’t come before her. I need to see what she looks like, hear what she sounds like, when my words bring her to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

“Agh!” she moans, hips jerking up as the vibrator continues droning and pleasure mounts.

My abdomen tightens, and I won’t be able to stop myself from coming soon.

Her tongue wets her lips and I need to taste her. Need to feel her, to be inside her as she squeezes her tight pussy around my cock and begs me for her release. “That’s it, muse. Show me what you look like when you come. Let me see it.”

“Fuck,” she hisses, back arching and eyes squeezing shut as the next words spill from her mouth on a loud moan. “Oh my god! Saint!”

Cum shoots from my cock, hitting my keyboard as she writhes in bed, book discarded as she moans and imagines that I’m the one wringing the pleasure from every cell in her tight, perfect body.

“Briar!” I gasp, teeth clenching with every hot spurt of cum.

I don’t give a fuck about the keyboard I just ruined as we come down from our orgasms together, panting and almost satisfied. I’ll never be fully satisfied again until I’ve had her.

She tosses the vibrator on her nightstand and discards the book, reaching for her phone as she slips under the blanket. I clean myself before grabbing my own phone.

You’re so beautiful when you come.

Next time, I’m going to make you scream my name.

Her pouty lips purse when she spots the notifications from me. When she reads the texts, she lets out a small gasp and leaps out of bed. “Bastard!”

She flies to the window, yanking it open despite the cool autumn air, sticks her head out, and shouts something I can’t decipher. Probably something about how I’m a psycho and need to leave before she calls the police.

After a few seconds, she pulls back in, unable to find me waiting in the darkness, and slams the window closed. Her thumbs punch at her phone screen.

You’re a creep. You need to leave me alone.

If you wanted me to leave you alone, you wouldn’t have moaned my name when you came.

She seethes as she types back now, flicking the light switch and plunging her room into darkness.

Fuck. Off.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BRIAR

TREVOR GESTURES me over to his car when I reach the campus parking lot before class.

“I can’t stay for long,” I huff, struggling to balance the mountain of binders and five-page short stories from my students. Dr. Barrett is supposed to be the one reading and grading stories, but he passed the workload off to me yesterday, so I was up until two a.m. slogging through pretentious literary fiction and swearing under my breath while I read Saint’s short story, by far the best in the class.

Bastard. He shouldn’t get good looks and talent.

His writing almost reminds me of S.T. Nicholson’s, if my favorite author opted to write literary fiction in lieu of his pulse-pounding Gothic horror romances. Saint’s diction and long-winded sentences are reminiscent of S.T. Nicholson’s books but without the heart and soul that make S.T. Nicholson’s books so addictive and memorable.

Now that Saint knows S.T. Nicholson is my favorite author, he’s probably been studying his work so he can write like him. Some twisted, insane way of making me like him more.

I still can’t believe he was spying on me while I was using my vibrator. My cheeks flush at the memory. He heard me call out his name. I can’t think of a more mortifying moment in my life, and there have been plenty.

But when I ran to the window, I couldn’t find him. Maybe he’d left once I finished.

God. I’ve never had my privacy invaded like this before. He’s the most frustrating man on the planet. He constantly crosses boundaries without an ounce of remorse, but then he sends me every book on my wishlist and says things that make my toes curl. The dissonance is driving me nuts.

“No problem. I won’t keep you.” Trevor reaches into his car before slipping a sheet of paper on top of the stack in my hands and taking the entire stack from me.

“You don’t have to do that. I’ve got it.”

“I’m not letting you walk around campus carrying all this while I’m right beside you. It would make me look like a jackass.” He flashes his golden retriever smile.

I take the paper he pulled from his car, walking alongside him to campus. “So what is this?”

“Your stalker’s background check.”

My eyes nearly cross at all the tiny words across the page. Will the background check reveal the childhood that Saint recounted for me? A life with a mother who was forced to sell her body to provide for her child, only to lose her life at the hands of a violent man.

“Thank you,” I manage. “But can you give me, like, the quick summary version of this?”

“Sadly, there’s not much.” Trevor steps up onto the sidewalk, careful to balance the precarious stack in his hands. “We know where he was born, where he grew up, and where he went to boarding school. He was taken in by his grandparents at age twelve after his mother died, but they shipped him off to boarding school pretty much immediately. After that, the guy’s managed to keep a low profile. Definitely somebody with something to hide.”

“Where did he grow up before he went to boarding school?”

“We don’t really know where he and his mother lived most of the time. The grandparents claimed she was a dropout, a drug addict. They didn’t even know they had a grandson until they got the news their daughter was dead. They lived in some small town called Nicholson, New York.”

Movement in my peripheral vision draws my attention to a tall, slender blonde hurrying for a black BMW. The lights flash as she unlocks the doors, and my heart stops.

The black BMW that followed me to campus the other day.

I can only make out her profile, but the Roman nose, delicate jawline, and blonde ponytail aren’t familiar in the slightest. Who the hell is she?

My heart races. What if she’s FBI? A private investigator? Someone the cops sent to trail me.

She takes off before I can chase her down and demand to know why the fuck she’s following me.

“Briar? Did you hear me?” Trevor’s brows are furrowed in concern.

“Yep. Thanks, Trev,” I blurt.

He accompanies me across campus. “Everything good?”

“Mhmm. Just thought I saw someone.” I come to a halt outside of the Fine Arts building. “I’ll take these back. I’ve got to get to class.”

He nods. “See you later. Remember to call me if you see him. And I may have some brownies for you if you catch me at lunch.”

“You’re the best!” I hurry off, definitely late for class now.

I beat Dr. Barrett to class and nearly sigh with relief. I drop all the binders and papers on the desk, shoving the background check on Saint into my bag before he waltzes in and finds it.

My finger lingers on the spine of my copy of This Book Will Haunt You.

S.T. Nicholson.

Trevor said Saint’s grandparents lived in a small town called Nicholson, New York.

S.T. Nicholson. Like Saint Nicholson.

My heart beats harder. Saint’s words echo in my ears. If I could imprint you on my brain, I would.

I assumed he memorized the line while reading the book.

But maybe he didn’t simply read my favorite book. Maybe he wrote it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SAINT

BRIAR’S MOTHER is in town to visit her only daughter. If Briar is as close to her mother as she claims, I know exactly how to get her to open her heart to me.

Cecilia Shea is an easy woman to follow. Completely oblivious to the nondescript sedan following her from Briar's house to the local grocery store.

I pull in at the opposite end of the parking lot and wait for her to finish digging through her purse before she pushes her sunglasses up on her head and strides into the store, clutching her purse to her stomach.

Briar is the type of woman who doesn’t give second chances. I’ve got one chance to make her fall for me. One chance to earn her trust.

I find my future mother-in-law in the produce section examining a shriveled white onion.

Quick. Which is the best onion?

I grind my teeth for the thirty seconds it takes Zayden to respond.

Depends on what you’re cooking. Yellow is the most flavorful.

“I suggest a yellow onion. Adds more flavor.” I hold one out to Cecilia, and she blinks big doll eyes at me. The same as my muse’s, but a soft shade of brown rather than Briar’s vibrant blue. She must’ve gotten her pale irises from her father.

Cecilia’s soft, round face breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, thank you! I’ll have to try that. I’m making dinner for my daughter tonight.”

I mirror her smile. “I believe I actually know your daughter. Briar Shea, right?”

Her brows rise. “That’s right. You know Briar?”

I hold out a hand to her. “I’m Saint. I’m friends with your daughter. She told me you’d be in town, and you two just look so similar.”

“Oh my goodness! I’m so happy to meet one of Briar’s friends. Do you have plans for tonight? I’m making pot roast!”

“That sounds delicious, but I couldn’t impose.”

Cecilia waves her hand dismissively. “You can’t impose if you’re invited. I’d love to get to know one of Briar’s friends. The only one she ever talks about is Mack.”

“They’re inseparable,” I confirm. Most nights when I find myself outside Briar’s window, Mack’s car is in the driveway. Other than Mack’s blonde hair and an obvious height difference—Mack at five-foot-six and Briar at a generous five feet—they have few physical differences. The shapes of their faces and shades of their eyes such a close match, you’d almost think they were sisters.

“How did you and Briar meet?” Cecilia leads the way to the beef.

I take the basket from her arm and she beams at me. “We met at the Auburn Institute, actually. Technically, I’m her student.”

“Oh really? She’s so secretive sometimes. Getting her to tell me about her life is like pulling teeth. How has that professor been behaving?” Her lips purse. “I know she was having some trouble with him at the beginning of the semester.”

My spine stiffens at the mention of Professor Molester, but I keep a smile fixed to my face for her mother’s benefit. “His behavior toward her seems a little too . . . familiar at times. But I keep an eye out for her.”

Briar’s mother grabs a roast and places it inside the basket before she takes my hand and pats it. “I’m so happy to hear she has such a good friend looking out for her.”

“To be honest,” I admit as we head for the register, “I have a bit of a crush on her. Maybe you can put in a good word.”

She laughs at my teasing tone, but she brightens. “That’s wonderful news! Briar needs a good man in her life. She’s a tough nut to crack, but once you do, you won’t find anyone with a bigger heart.”

Her mother reminds me so much of my own. Briar is her pride and joy, the same as I was for my mother. I can tell just by her eyes how much she loves her daughter. I couldn’t ask for a better future mother-in-law.

I could tell her what a great son-in-law I’ll be, but sometimes, actions speak louder than words. By the end of the evening, she’ll be the one saying that to me.

Cecilia puts the items from the basket on the conveyor belt. “Oh honey, did you forget to pick up what you came for?”

I glance around and grab a pack of mint-flavored gum. “This was all I needed.”

“Well, if you don’t have any plans tonight, I insist you come to dinner. I know a mother isn’t supposed to intervene, but just between you and me”—Her eyes glint with mischief—“I’ll be playing matchmaker.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BRIAR

SAINT DE HAAS may or may not be my favorite author, S.T. Nicholson.

I’ve always thought the day I met S.T. Nicholson would be life-changing. But I never thought it would play out anything like this.

Maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s purely coincidental that their names are similar. In fact, it’s actually a huge fucking leap. I’m finding clues where there are none. Saint de Haas and S.T. Nicholson are two completely separate people. S.T. Nicholson is a sophisticated, talented bestselling author who writes books that speak to my soul, and Saint de Haas is an MFA student with a tragic past, a chip on his shoulder, and a stalking kink.

He was wearing a mask the first time he watched me through my window, and S.T. Nicholson wears a mask to hide his identity, but plenty of people wear masks and S.T. Nicholson has distinct markings on his that signify his hidden identity to his audience. Saint was probably wearing some five-dollar ski mask he got from the dollar store.

No. They’re definitely not the same person.

“Briar!” my mother calls.

I rush to the door and swing it open. “Sorry! I didn’t hear you pull up.” Too distracted by thoughts of my stalker student who may or may not be an anonymous bestselling author.

Mom hurries past me with the plastic bags in her hands and drops them on the kitchen counter. My kitchen is about a tenth of the size of hers, but she hardly seems to notice as she moves around to cook the roast. At least she got a decent alimony payment from my father in the divorce. That’s the least the bastard could do.

“Guess who I saw at the grocery store?” Mom asks, beaming.

“Mack?” I guess, the only mutual acquaintance she could be that happy to see.

“Your friend, Saint.” She gives me a sly smile and my heart drops.

“Did you say Saint?”

She’s totally oblivious to the way my face falls, bustling to season the roast in the pot. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? He’s very handsome, Briar. And very charming.” Delight sparks in her eyes. “He carried my basket for me the entire time I was in the grocery store! He’s such a gentleman.”

My hands ball into fists. I am going to kill him. It’s one thing to come after me, but it’s another to go after my mother. She’s off-limits.

“I think you should give him a chance, honey.”

“A chance?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now. If she had any idea who he actually is, she’d be telling me to run for the hills.

“Why not?” Mom shrugs, pouring in the bone broth. “He’s sweet, he’s funny, he’s attractive. I worry about you out here all alone, hours away from me. And I know you’re only shutting him out to protect your heart.”

More like to protect my life. “Um, Mom, you don’t understand the circumstances.” I can’t tell her Saint has been stalking me—she’ll freak out. She may die of a panic attack right here. Besides, there’s nothing she can do that I can’t. I can handle him myself. “He’s my student. It would be completely inappropriate.”

Mom waves this off. “So you’re his professor. Big deal. You’re both consenting adults. In fact, I think he’s older than you.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not the point. If the administration found out, I could get fired. I’m not risking my job.”

Mom presses a hand to her chest. “Forbidden love is so romantic.”

It takes everything in me not to sigh as I pour Cookie’s food for her. Mom has no idea exactly how forbidden Saint de Haas is.

“Anyway,” Mom places the lid on the pot. “I invited him for dinner.”

I whirl on her. “You did what?”

Mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Briar. You two are friends. Friends are allowed to spend time together. And soon enough, he won’t be your student anymore, and you won’t have to worry about dating him in secret.”

“I’m not dating him in secret or in public!”

Mom shrugs. “You’re an adult. You make your own decisions, but Saint seems like a genuinely kind, sweet man who cares a lot about you. He’s certainly nothing like your father. I think he would be a good man to have in your life, that’s all I’m saying. I just want my daughter to be happy.”

“I am happy, Mom.” Although as soon as the words leave my mouth, I’m not sure they’re true.

I’m hopeful about my job, but I’m not happy. Instead, I’m stressed going into work knowing that Dr. Barrett’s eyes or hands will linger on me for too long. I’m happy when I spend Friday nights with Mack, and Cookie and Ginger curl up on our laps, but I can’t deny that something feels missing from my life. A missing piece to complete the puzzle. Certainly when my vibrator dies, I miss having a man around.

But no matter how well Saint de Haas charmed my mother, he is the last man I should open myself up to.

Cookie sneaks out from the living room, eyeing my mother warily but willing to risk being seen by a stranger for her food. As soon as Mom sees her, she coos and ducks down to her. “Cookie!”

“Mom, no—”

Cookie takes off, and Mom plants her hands on her hips and pouts. “I don’t know why she hates me. Animals adore me.”

“She just hasn’t been socialized enough. She doesn’t come out of hiding for anyone but me and Mack.”

When someone knocks at the door, I grind my teeth. The bastard actually had the audacity to show up at my house after he just roped my mother into this sick game of his.

Mom gasps and claps, rushing out of the room to the front door. “Saint! I’m so glad you could make it. Please come in.”

Sure, Mom, invite an unwanted guest into my home.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Saint’s low vibrato. “After you invited me to dinner, I snuck back into the grocery store for a few goodies. I couldn’t come empty-handed.”

Saint strides into the kitchen like he belongs here. I clench my teeth so hard, I worry my jaw will snap.

He brightens when he spots me. “Great to see you, Briar.”

“It is my house,” I grumble.

He sets down the brown paper bag on the counter and pulls out a tall bottle of Merlot and a container of chocolate pie.

My favorites. Of course.

“Merlot?” Saint asks, already digging in my cupboard for the wine glasses. Of course he knows exactly where they are. He’s probably memorized the layout of my entire house. How many times has he been in here?

“I’ll take a glass. Wasn’t that so sweet of Saint to bring wine and dessert?” Mom prompts.

I cannot believe he’s roped me into this. “Yes,” I grind out. “So sweet.”

“Let’s go drink our wine at the table while the food cooks,” Mom suggests.

Saint winks at me before following my mom out of the room. I bite back a groan. This is going to be an evening from hell.

“So Saint,” Mom says. “You said you’re Briar’s student. What do you like to write?”

Yes, Saint. What do you like to write outside of the dull literary prompts delivered by Dr. Barrett? Would they perhaps be erotic Gothic horror novels written under the pen name S.T. Nicholson?

He smiles easily, taking the middle seat so I’m forced to sit beside him. My teeth will be ground to dust soon enough. “Love stories.”

Mom coos and I barely suppress an eye-roll. Love. His twisted brand of love involves monitoring and stalking a woman. Repeatedly crossing her boundaries, breaking into her house, and killing any man whose eyes linger too long.

Cookie’s little paws scuttle across the floor, heading for her bowl in the kitchen now that we’ve vacated the room. But to my surprise, she stops at Saint’s chair and peers up at him.

My mouth falls open when he pats his lap, and she jumps up, circling until she finds a comfortable spot and settles down.

“What a little bitch,” Mom gasps.

That pulls a laugh from me and Saint. I’m still in shock. “She doesn’t like anybody,” I admit.

He tilts his head back, grinning at me. “I’m not anybody.”

God, I hate him so much. I’ll have to scold Cookie later for betraying me like this.

“I’ll be right back,” Mom promises. “I’m going to check on dinner.”

As soon as she’s out of sight, I wrench Saint’s arm and hiss, “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

His warm smile doesn’t falter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says smoothly, scratching Cookie’s favorite spot behind her ears while she purrs in treachery. “But I do like your hands on me.”

I drop his arm. “You sicken me. Don’t mess with my mom. If you hurt her, I swear—”

Saint swings his knees toward me, dark features serious now and voice low. “I would never hurt your mother, Briar. I would never harm a hair on her head. Or yours. I’m not this monster you’ve created me to be in your mind. You may think what I do is purely for selfish reasons, but everything I do is for you. Everything I do is to make your life better, to make you happy. I assure you, someday you’ll see that. You’ll see that I live for you, because I am nothing without you.”

His words stun me, rendering me speechless.

“No one is leaving this house hungry,” Mom calls, returning from the kitchen.

I jump up from the table and away from Saint, busying myself with grabbing broccoli from the freezer.

Mom flashes us a knowing grin and I want to scream that it’s not what it looks like. That the last person she should want her daughter to fall in love with is the man who’s stalking her.

I knock on the door to Dr. Barrett’s office, already cringing. Sharing a classroom with him is one thing, when he knows a student or another faculty member could walk in at any moment. It’s another entirely to be alone with him in his office with the door closed.

“Come in!” he calls.

It’s fine. I’ll drop off the graded story prompts and head right back out the door.

“Ah, Briar.” Dr. Barrett attempts to keep his face neutral when he ushers me in. I try to leave the door open, but it swings shut behind me.

“I have those graded assignments for you,” I say in a rush, setting them down on his desk.

“Great.” He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“I actually have another class—”

“Oh please.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You have another twenty minutes before your next class starts. If you’re going to be a tenured professor someday, you’ll need to learn how to take advantage of your breaks.”

I let out a slow, calming breath through my nose and reluctantly take a seat.

He folds his hands together on the desk in front of him. “Is everything all right, Briar? You’ve seemed distracted lately.”

His concern is almost fatherly. A whole new level of sickening. “Completely fine. Actually, I have been wondering . . . do you know if any of our students are already published authors?”

A crease forms between his thick, graying brows. “Why would someone attend an MFA program if they’re already a published author?”

My nails bite into my palms at his condescension. “Maybe somebody who wants to learn more about the craft or learn from other writers. Someone who’s hit a rut in their career or found themselves unable to write.”

Saint called me his muse. He said he’s only able to write because of me. Maybe that’s why he’s here.

Dr. Barrett scoffs. “That would be absurd.”

I want to rip this ancient asshole’s head off. “So you don’t think there’s any chance that Saint de Haas could actually be S.T. Nicholson? He is completely anonymous. No one knows his true identity.”

Dr. Barrett barks a cruel laugh. “You and your imagination, Miss Shea. No, I do not think that our MFA student Saint de Haas is secretly a best-selling author.”

“It’s Dr. Shea.” I stand and manage to grit out, “Glad we had this chat.”

“Oh, Briar, before you head to class, we should chat about your future at Auburn.”

With my hand on the doorknob, my spine stiffens. His tone isn’t sinister, but my brain still registers his words as a threat. “Oh?”

“I know you’re very serious about working as a professor and educating students. As you know, I’ll be retiring soon, and the administration will be looking to replace me. I’m sure they would think very highly of any recommendation I gave.”

Relief washes over me. “Thank you, that would be—”

“Over drinks. We can chat more. Tonight?”

My heart hammers against my ribcage. Any conversation he wants to have with me can take place on campus, not off campus over drinks. But if I tell him that, if I blow him off, he could tell the administration not to hire me.

I force a sweet smile to my face. “I can’t tonight, unfortunately,” I manage, swallowing. “My mother’s in town.”

“Another night then,” Dr. Barrett says easily, his focus dropping back down to the file open in front of him.

I take advantage of the opportunity to slip out the door, heart pounding. If I can just keep him at arm's length a little longer, I can survive until he retires and get my dream job.

In the meantime, I have another problem to handle: Saint de Haas.

Or S.T. Nicholson.

I need to know if they’re the same person. If Saint really is S.T. Nicholson and I can get proof of his secret identity, maybe I can use that information to blackmail him. To finally get him to stop stalking me and leave me alone.

And to do that, I’ll just have to use his own methods against him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SAINT

I DON’T NORMALLY WRITE my own murders into my books. A risky endeavor, if anyone were to trace my steps. But Austin’s demise deserves to be immortalized for my muse. To commemorate the first sacrifice I made for her.

The other half of my screen displays live footage from Briar’s house. She still hasn’t found the cameras I planted.

My phone rings, breaking the silence, and I swipe my thumb across my screen. “Hello?”

“Saint.” Derrik lets out a whoosh of relieved air. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

“I’ve been working on the book.”

“Good, I’m going to assume you have a completed manuscript for me then.”

“Nearly. I only have the ending to write and then I can send it to you.”

Derrik sighs and I know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to keep himself from ripping his best client a new asshole. “We’ve got to get this manuscript to your editor as soon as possible, pal. Or I’m afraid your publisher will drop you. This is your last chance. If you want to get this book published, I need it in my inbox by next week. If not, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

“It’ll be in your inbox any day now, Derrik.”

I’ve written thousands of words since I found my muse. Surely one more day with her and I’ll knock out this ending.

Failure is not an option. Publishing this book is a must. I wrote it for her. And I’ll be dedicating it to her.

“Good. Next week, Saint.” He hangs up.

On the live footage from Briar’s house, she stomps upstairs, grabbing a can of pepper spray from a dresser drawer. Her cheeks are flushed an adorable pink.

Cookie mews at her feet, and Briar tells her, “We’ll just see how he likes someone breaking into his house.”

I grin. I love when my muse taps into that fiery spirit.

She’s coming to play. And I can’t wait to give chase.

In preparation for her arrival, I back my car out of the driveway and park it half a block down along the sidewalk. Back at my house, I lock the front door because I can’t make it too easy for her, but I do unlock the back door. I don’t want her to struggle too much to find what she’s looking for.

She circles the block once, slowing dramatically in front of my rental home to search for my car in the driveway. When she doesn’t spot it, she comes back, parking along the sidewalk.

Briar is adorable attempting to break into my house. She tries the front door first, and I chuckle—she thinks I’m that stupid. She heads around back to avoid the prying eyes of any passersby and tries a window, then another. Neither of them budge. Maybe she’ll finally learn to lock her own.

She’s red-faced by the time she turns the handle on the back door, a wide smile blooming across her beautiful face.

Welcome home, muse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BRIAR

FOR A STALKER, he’s shit at keeping his own home secure. I turn the knob on the back door, and it swings open with a slight creak.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to come barreling into the room wielding a knife, but the house stays eerily silent.

Though it may not be wholly ethical, his address was included in his student records on campus. My GPS told me exactly where to find him.

Luckily, Saint isn’t home, and I need to find proof before he is. If he finds me here, who knows what he’ll do to me.

His home is so bare, completely void of any decor or personality, that it hardly feels like anyone actually lives here. More like a home staged to go on the market. Probably because he’s renting this house while he attends the MFA program at Auburn and he hasn’t bothered to decorate. Why out of all the MFA programs in the country did he have to choose mine?

Even though I know I’m alone, I slink through the house, terrified with every step of what I’ll find, what I’ll stumble upon. A woman locked away in his basement? A dismembered body in his bathroom?

When I sneak upstairs and flick on the light in a small dark room, I know I’ve found what I’m looking for: his office.

His desk is the only part of his home that isn’t pristine—the complete opposite of the cluttered chaos of my house. His desk is littered with old coffee mugs, small plates with crumbs, sticky notes with illegible scribblings, and open notebooks with bulleted lists. All signs of a writer hard at work.

I open his laptop, and while I wait for his computer to stir to life, I pull on his desk drawer.

What lies inside makes me gasp.

With gentle hands, I lift S.T. Nicholson’s infamous mask from Saint’s desk.

I would recognize this mask anywhere. The same mask S.T. Nicholson wears in all of his author photos, to each of his signings, in all of his interviews.

A black mask with red flames licking up to the right eye socket, a jagged crimson line crossing over the other down to the bottom of his cheek. Black mesh to disguise his eyes and a haunting, white crescent moon to mimic a smile.

Before, when S.T. Nicholson was little more than the author of my favorite books, I fantasized about meeting him. About him taking me back to his hotel and fucking me with this mask on. Of being the only person for whom he would remove the mask, to see what truth lay beneath.

Now, my heart pounds for an entirely different reason, and I drop the mask like a hot coal.

There’s no doubt in my mind now. Saint de Haas is bestselling author S.T. Nicholson.

I thought meeting my favorite author would be one of the best moments of my life. I never could’ve predicted this is how meeting him would pan out.

Turning back to Saint’s laptop, I hiss when the screen prompts me for a password. Shit. I couldn’t expect him to be that dumb.

Then it dawns on me. I probably know the password to every one of his devices.

I type in Briar. But the password is rejected.

I try my full name, my birthday, muse. All rejected.

My jaw clenches. I have one more option, and it better not be right. I type Briar de Haas.

I’m in.

My stomach churns. He already thinks of me as his wife. His.

I force myself to ignore the nausea and keep digging. Luckily, Saint has kept his most recent apps and tabs open.

In his internet browser, he has a tab open to search for synonyms of bloody and another for his email. His inbox is open to correspondence with Zayden Kingsley.

Their messages are innocuous—discussing drafts, character arcs, and delayed editorial notes.

When I finally recover from being momentarily starstruck, I glance through the rest of his inbox. Most of the emails are from Derrik at Prose Media, his literary agent.

I click on Saint’s word processor and find a manuscript sitting at twenty thousand words saved as For My Muse.

Panic spikes, but the document isn’t some lengthy epistolary novel or a detailed account of every interaction he’s ever had with me. This is clearly fiction, and I have to continuously force myself to skim the words when the story repeatedly threatens to suck me in.

But it’s obvious this is his fanfiction of me. Of us.

In this scene, the protagonist gives the villain a lethal dose of laced cocaine.

My heart hammers so hard, I’m genuinely worried it’s going to explode.

Maybe the murders in S.T. Nicholson’s books aren’t fictional at all.

“Are you enjoying my latest work?”

I gasp, spinning and finding Saint directly behind me, looming over me with a wicked grin.

Before I can scream or make a run for it, he grabs my face with both hands and yanks my mouth to his.

I’m on my toes, breath in my throat, excitement and arousal zipping down my spine as his lips roam masterfully over mine.

Claiming me. Branding me. Taking what’s his.

I leap back out of his grasp, slamming my ass into his desk and hissing at the pain. He blocks me in, hands on his desk behind me, but he doesn’t try to kiss me again.

“What are you doing in my house, muse?” he purrs. “Have you finally come to play?”

“You’re S.T. Nicholson,” I accuse, lips still tingling. “Aren’t you?”

“You found my mask.” He reaches around me to grab it. “I suspect you have a mask kink. Shall I put it on?”

“Your new manuscript,” I start, heart pounding hard enough to bruise against my ribcage. “It’s obviously about me.”

He leans down, cheek brushing my ear. “Yes, and I can’t wait to watch you come to my fantasies of you.”

I push him back, failing to swallow down the lump in my throat. “So you offered Mack a job just to get to me?”

He did to Mack exactly what he did to my mom—followed her around with one objective. To manipulate them into liking him so he could get closer to me.

“I wanted to make a good impression on those who matter most to you. It worked out for all of us, didn’t it?”

Mack may have gotten a job that pays her bills and funds her book-buying habit, but now her boss is a psychopath. “If you’re S.T. Nicholson, why are you in an MFA program?”

The devilish smile slips from his face, lips thinning. “A negative review desecrated both my work and my character. I’m accustomed to plenty of criticism about my work, and believe me when I say it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. My work isn’t for everyone, I’m well aware of that. But for someone to attack my character, to accuse me of such vile things, to accuse me of forcing myself on women . . .” He swallows down the rage. “It left me spiraling. Left me unable to write, for fear of what else I would be accused of for writing stories that show some teeth. I needed inspiration. I needed to find my muse.” He runs a hand through my hair. “And then I did. I found you.”

That review he had me read of This Book Will Haunt You. He’s been giving me hints about his secret identity all along.

“If you kill me, Mom and Mack will hunt you down and string you up by your testicles.”

Impatience trickles into his features now, drawing his dark brows together. “I’ve told you, Briar. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to be with you. To keep you safe.”

He’s followed me home, watched me from outside my window, and broken into my house, but he’s right. He’s never done anything to physically harm me. Maybe he’s not lying about this.

“If you want me to feel safe, why are you stalking me?”

“So that I’m always around to protect you.” He swallows, throat bobbing. “I wasn’t there when my mother needed me. I failed to protect her. I won’t allow the same to happen to you.”

Even though I know I shouldn’t fall for his hero complex, I can’t help but understand his drive to protect those he loves at all costs. If I’d lost my mother the way he lost his, I’d burn the world down. When I discovered my father was cheating on her, I wanted to rip his face off. Yet I almost kept the discovery to myself so I wouldn’t have to watch the hurt bury itself in my mother’s heart.

I’d do anything to protect those I love. In Saint’s mind, he’s convinced he loves me, and he wants to do the same.

“You and I have more in common than you realize.” He wraps a strand of my hair around his finger. “Before you, I kept myself closed off. I never brought any woman to my bed more than once, never let them linger, never let them in. You know how that is—it’s easier to keep everyone at bay, so there’s no one to lose. No one that someone can use against you. But my heart is yours, Briar. No matter how much you push me away, you won’t get rid of me. Because I can’t lose you too.”

He’s psychotic if he thinks he’s already in love with me. He just met me—he hardly knows me. I can’t trust a murderer.

“If you don’t stay away from me, I’ll out S.T. Nicholson. Everyone will know your true identity.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “If that’s truly what you want, you’re welcome to do so.”

Except some crazy part of me doesn’t want to ruin my favorite author’s anonymity. Despite everything Saint de Haas has done to me, S.T. Nicholson has been my constant source of comfort since I discovered his debut. His words speak to me in a way that no other author’s ever have. S.T. Nicholson’s books are the reason I pursued an MFA, the reason I started writing the dark, gritty books that I thought no one would ever want to read. The reason I finally started to believe that someone out there might understand me, might love me, just as I am. Sharp teeth and all.

As much as I hate to admit it, the man standing before me is both the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to me.

“Really?” I ask. “You don’t care if I blow the secret you’ve been concealing for years?”

He steps toward me, closing the already little space between us until I’m flush with his chest and abdomen, forced to crane my neck to keep our gazes locked.

His finger curls around my jaw, gliding until he reaches my chin, and he presses his thumb to my lip. “I want you to do whatever you want to me.”

“And what if I wanted to kill you?” I whisper.

“If that’s really what you wanted, I would hand you the knife.”

He’s going to kiss me again, and this time, I’m not sure I want to stop him.

His lips find mine again, stealing my breath away. Stars explode in my brain. No man has ever kissed me like this before. Kissed me like he already knows exactly what I want. How hard, how tender, how hungry.

He sucks my bottom lip until his teeth sink in. The gasp that escapes my throat unleashes him. He is a feral, starved animal finally loose from his chain.

His huge hands wrap around my back, pinning me to him as he sweeps his tongue in my mouth. A groan vibrates low in his throat as our tongues meet, and my knees grow weak. Thank god he’s holding me upright.

I slide my hands between us, pushing pathetically at his chest. He ignores my resistance, knowing what I really want.

With a growl, his mouth drops to my neck, sucking on my skin. I hiss at the exquisite sensation, the adrenaline rush mixing with the pleasure to create a sort of ecstasy I’ve never felt before.

“You are so sweet,” he purrs. “I bet your pussy will be the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

The dam between my legs bursts, panties already soaked for him. My stomach twists with a mix of shame and desire.

I shove at him, mind and body warring. I shouldn’t want him, but I do. I really fucking do. “Get off.”

He lets me shove him away, allowing an inch of space between us. “You want me, muse.” His voice is gruff, almost a threat. “I know you do. Let yourself take what you want.”

I grab the stiff collar of his button-up and yank him back to me.

His mouth crashes against mine, and his rough hands go to my blouse, ripping it open and sending buttons flying around the room. My breasts heave beneath my bra, exposed skin pebbling in the cool air.

“Hey!” I hiss. “I need this shirt—”

“You need this shirt on the floor,” he growls. “I’ll buy you a thousand more to replace it.”

His eyes roam over the newly exposed skin, coal-black eyes somehow darkening further. “I’ve never known hunger until I met you. I have been starved since the day I laid eyes on you, Briar Shea.” His gaze locks with mine in a promise. “Now I’ll feast.”

Saint drops to his knees in front of me, and I gasp when his hands slip up my skirt and yank my panties to the floor. He’s up in a second, leaning around me to swipe his desk clear of his belongings, the crash of dishes ringing in my ears.

“You’re making a mess,” I tease him breathlessly, heart pounding from the mix of adrenaline, arousal, and fear.

He grabs me by the hips and tosses me onto the desk, planting his hands on my thighs and keeping my legs open for him as he stands between my knees. “Don’t worry,” he purrs, his hand dipping between my thighs until a finger strokes up my center. My breath hitches, eyes widening at the flood awaiting him. “I’ll lick it clean.”

My knees attempt to clamp together, but he’s between them and my god, this man. His words shouldn’t have this effect on me.

Both his hands are on my bra now, tugging the cups down and making my tits pop out. His moan sends liquid heat racing to my pussy. “Fuck, muse. I couldn’t have written a more perfect woman.”

My heart soars, just as his lips wrap around my nipple and suck it into his mouth. I gasp, arching my back and pushing into him. He takes everything I offer, sucking me down deeper.

The ache between my legs is building to the point of agony. My pussy is throbbing, needing him so badly.

His hand replaces his mouth when he sucks on my other nipple, finger swirling the saliva around the peaked spot still tingling from his assault. He sucks so hard, I wince, knowing a bruise will follow.

“You’re so receptive to me,” he groans. “To my every touch.”

I grit my teeth, hating that he’s right. “It’s called not getting laid in a year. I’d react this way with anyone.”

He drops to his knees again, holding my thighs apart with both hands and smirking up at me. Something about him on his knees before me makes my heart stop. “As I recall, Austin had you in a similar position, and you sent him out the door. You certainly didn’t moan his name.”

Bastard. He’s never going to let me live that down. “Maybe not with Austin, but he’s not the only one I’ve been with since you showed up.”

A mix of uncertainty and jealousy flickers across his features, and I finally realize what a dangerous game I’m playing with Saint de Haas.

“Show me where he touched you then.”

I squeeze my tits before massaging them and letting out a little whimper. “He spent a lot of time here. He said he’d never seen a more perfect pair of tits and he wouldn’t stop sucking on them until I pushed his head down.”

I dare a glance at Saint still between my legs and he is full-on glowering now. “And then where did he touch you?”

I’m playing with fire, but for some reason, I can’t stop. I’m practically salivating over the way Saint can’t take his eyes off me.

Slowly, I stroke a hand down my body to the spot between my thighs. I press a finger against my clit, shuddering and swirling around the sensitive nub. “He licked me here. And then he sucked. Agh!” I let out a strangled moan. “And then . . . his tongue plunged inside me. Like this.”

My finger dips into my pussy, curling in and thrusting until Saint tucks his hands under my knees and yanks me toward him. Until my ass is at the edge of the desk and my pussy directly in front of his mouth.

“And when you imagined me making you come, did you cry out my name then too?”

Of course he knows I’m full of shit. If he thought for one second I’d actually been with another man, he would’ve demanded his name and he’d already be hunting the poor bastard down.

I place both hands on Saint’s shoulders, all too aware of how risky this game has become. How I’ll never come back from it if we cross this line.

A carnal part of me wants him. Aches for him. The smarter part of me knows this is a horrible idea.

I shove my skirt back into place and push him away, hopping down from the desk and ignoring my throbbing, swollen clit begging for release and the slickness between my thighs.

Bending, I snatch my panties from the floor. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

Some insane part of me hopes he doesn’t obey the command.

“Muse,” he calls.

Despite every cell in my body telling me to run far, far away from my stalker, from the man who has the ability to turn me on like no one ever has before, I pause in the doorway.

Saint strides to the opposite side of the room and retrieves a book from his shelf. He returns to his desk, gripping a marker and flipping open to the title page, scrawling in it with a flourish.

He approaches me slowly, a devilish grin spreading with every echoing thud of his footsteps.

He holds a copy of This Book Will Haunt You out to me. I open to the title page, where S.T. Nicholson’s signature is scrawled across the page.

To my muse, may you come almost as hard from my words as you will from my tongue.

I gulp, clasping the book to my chest and backing up.

Saint lets me leave with one final promise. “No one will ever keep me from you, muse. Including you. Even if you broke my legs, I would crawl to you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BRIAR

MACK IS HERE for the Lord of the Rings marathon she made me agree to, and she’s texting through half of it.

“Who are you texting?” I peep at her screen, shoveling a handful of popcorn into my mouth.

She blushes as her lips curl up into a bashful little smile. “Zayden Kingsley. I think I actually really like him. Which I already know is crazy because I’ve never met him, so you don’t have to say it.”

“I don’t think it’s crazy.” Actually, it’s nice that Mack is falling for a guy who sounds kind and normal and isn’t a stalker psycho. “I’m glad you’re finally excited about a guy again.”

If anyone deserves to find love and happiness after all the shit she’s been through, it’s Mack.

She smiles. “Thanks, bestie.”

I can’t keep what happened between me and Saint a secret from her any longer. “I did something stupid.”

She drops her phone and snorts into her bowl of popcorn. “What else is new?” I whack her arm and she laughs. “Fine, sorry, what stupid thing did you do this time?”

“Asshole,” I grumble. “I . . . may or may not have broken into my stalker’s house.”

Mack gasps and it’s her turn to slap me. “Briar, that is actually stupid! What the hell were you thinking? And breaking in alone? Why wouldn’t you at least invite me? You need backup if you’re going to do something so dangerous and reckless!”

“I know! It was bugging me that I thought he might be S.T. Nicholson, and I made an impulsive, stupid decision to go see if he was home, and when I saw he wasn’t, I just . . . broke in.”

“Wait, you thought he was my boss? And how the hell did you even break into your stalker’s house? You’d think in his line of work he’d keep the place locked down.”

I shrug. “That’s what I thought. But his back door was unlocked.”

She narrows her eyes. “Doesn’t that sound a little convenient to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if he knew you were coming? And he let you in.”

She might have a point. While I was in his house, I didn’t hear any doors open or close. I didn’t hear his car rumble into the driveway. Yet he appeared right behind me.

He knew I was coming. He let me in. Right into his trap.

And here I was, thinking I’d outsmarted my stalker for half a second. It’s absolutely infuriating how he’s always one step ahead of me.

“So did you find anything?” Mack asks.

“I found a shitload. A mask in his desk—”

Mack gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh my god. Don’t you have a mask kink?”

“Not the point! The mask was the same one S.T. Nicholson wears in all his author photos and to all his signings. I read part of his latest manuscript on his laptop, and it’s so obviously about me. They’re the same person.”

Her eyes turn to saucers. “You’re saying my hot boss is your stalker? I’m your stalker’s PA?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Your boss—my favorite author—is a psychotic stalker. An actual murderer.”

Mack shakes her head, biting her lip as she tries to make sense of this. “So then what happened?”

“Then he caught me.”

Mack’s eyes bug out of her head and she chokes on her popcorn. “Oh my god! He found you sneaking through his house?”

“Yep, and then he . . . kissed me.”

“He kissed you? What the hell? Why didn’t you open with that?” She munches on handful after handful of popcorn in quick succession. “Oh my god! You made out with my hot boss!”

“Hello? Have you forgotten he’s still a murderer?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I remember, but how was the kiss?”

I shut my eyes, not wanting to admit the truth to her. To myself. But I can’t lie to Mack. “It was the best kiss of my damn life,” I confess.

“Are you serious?” She beams. When I nod, Mack bites her lip, trying to reign in her smile. “Can I say something crazy?”

“I doubt it’s any crazier than what I just told you.”

“He actually seems like a genuinely good guy. He’s thoughtful and generous, and I’m not just saying that because he signs my hefty paychecks. Maybe he has an intense way of showing his affection, but . . . it doesn’t seem like you’re afraid of him.”

I pull my blanket farther up my lap. “Honestly, I don’t think I am.”

Now that I’ve said the words out loud, I realize how true they are. That first night I spotted Saint lurking in the shadows outside my house, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he might do to me, what he might be capable of. But sometime between then and now, my fear of him has evaporated. Whether it’s his repeated proclamations that he’ll never hurt me or the fact that the only time he touches me is to bring me pleasure, I’m not sure. But no matter how many times I mouth off to him, no matter how many times I threaten him or push him away, he’s never hurt me.

“I think you should date him,” Mack tells me.

My mouth falls open. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re suggesting I date my stalker. A murderer.”

“I agree that part isn’t great—”

“How can you even be entertaining the idea after everything that happened with your ex?”

She drops her gaze to her lap now. “Because Saint is nothing like James. I’ve never felt unsafe around Saint. When I started dating James, I didn’t know anything about his past, but I still always felt a bit uneasy around him. I wrote it off as early relationship jitters, but no matter how long I stayed, I never truly felt comfortable with him. I always felt uneasy on some level, and I just brushed it aside. But that gut feeling never went away. I knew he was dangerous from the beginning, but I forced myself to ignore my instincts.”

Ever since Saint entered my life, my instincts have been pulling me in his direction. Even when I learned how dangerous he is, even when I found him standing in my kitchen after he broke in, even when he recited my driver’s license number and showed me the pictures he keeps of me on his phone and in his wallet, my gut feeling has never been to run.

The logical voice in my brain is chanting that Saint is a walking red flag. But my gut is telling me to find out exactly how hard his tongue will make me come.

Or maybe that’s my libido.

Mack squeezes my knee. “Whatever your instincts are telling you, listen to them.”

Mack and I stay up as late as we can, mocking Frodo and cheering for Sam, until we both pass out and continue the movie marathon the next day. We binge on all the snacks in my house and order pizza until we finish the final movie.

The entire weekend, I feel eyes on us. Saint undoubtedly lurking in the shadows. But every time I peek outside, he vanishes. At least he doesn’t break in when Mack is here and terrify her. She doesn’t need that trauma after everything she’s been through.

In his own sick way, he’s trying to be sweet, giving me one-on-one time with my best friend.

God, what’s wrong with me? A stalker isn’t sweet. My stalker shouldn’t arouse me, shouldn’t make my thighs clench at the thought of his tongue between my legs. At the thought of what would’ve happened if I hadn’t fled his office that night. If I had let him do exactly what he wanted to do to me. Exactly what I wanted him to do.

When Mack gets ready to leave, I hug her and snuggle Ginger goodbye.

Almost the instant she pulls out of the driveway, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can practically feel Saint’s breath on me.

I spin, but he isn’t there. I race upstairs and yank open a window, finally armed with a working flashlight.

I swing the flashlight back and forth until the tiny beam finally catches on a shadowy figure.

Saint is wearing his mask, and my heart skips.

“Miss me?” he calls, voice distorted.

“Actually, I was just about to get railed by my super hot date. Enjoy the show.”

He chuckles. “Nice try. I’m well aware you were alone with Mack all weekend.”

“I knew you were watching me.”

“Did you finally find the cameras?”

“Cameras? What cameras—”

Oh my god. This bastard hid cameras in my house to watch me. That’s why I felt eyes on me all weekend.

Of course I didn’t notice them among all the clutter in my house. Now I’ll have to comb through every inch. Who knows how many cameras he planted to watch me.

“When the hell did you put cameras in my house?” I hiss.

“Long enough to keep a tally of how many times you’ve come to the thought of me inside you.”

My face burns as my hands curl into fists. “Okay, you can leave now. I’m calling the police. Goodbye.”

I slam the window shut, and when he leans back with arms folded against the tree, I make a show of dialing on my phone.

I can’t make out the features of his face beneath the mask, but I know his lips are curled up into a smirk.

He takes the hint and saunters away into the darkness.

A small, masochistic part of me is disappointed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SAINT

KEEPING my hands off Briar all weekend was hell. Now that I’ve felt her, gotten a taste of her, she’s more ingrained in my brain than I thought possible. Every inch of her is perfection.

As soon as I’m in my office, I turn on my desktop to monitor the feeds from the cameras I planted in her house.

Tonight, she’s wearing a white silk negligee, surprisingly sensual for sleeping, and my mouth waters. Her legs are tucked under her, a thick tome open on her lap and phone resting on the comforter beside her.

You look beautiful in white.

She’ll be even more beautiful in her wedding gown.

A smug smirk plays across my muse’s lips when her phone pings. She drops the book and quickly types a response.

I look better when I come.

She drops the phone, and I’m about to type back a response when she grabs her pillow and straddles it.

I hunch forward, cock pulsing.

Slowly, she inches the negligee further up her thigh, revealing the lace panties underneath.

Her breath hitches as she grinds against the pillow between her legs.

“That’s it, muse,” I breathe. “Good girl.”

When a ringtone splits the silence in my office, I jump.

Zayden’s name flashes across my screen while Briar grinds against the pillow. But Zayden doesn’t call unless it’s something important, and he won’t stop calling until I answer.

“Fuck.” I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Can’t talk right now.”

“I need a favor,” Zayden blurts, ignoring me. On my computer screen, Briar tips her head back and moans. My cock stiffens as my balls clench.

“What is it?” I hiss.

“Can you read my latest chapter? I’ve reread it five times now, and I’m not sure about—”

“Yes, that’s fine. Send it. I need to go.” On my screen, Briar is riding her pillow like it’s my face, and I’m frothing at the mouth. I need my hands on her. Now.

“Great. I’ll email it to—”

“Email it. Fax it. Text it. Send it via carrier pigeon. Whatever you need to do.”

“Why are you breathing like that?”

I hang up.

Briar’s eyes roll as she moans, grinding the pillow into the mattress. My hand tugs at my zipper, frantic.

“Agh!” she yells out. “Zayden!”

Fire rages in my veins. She’s going to regret that.

“Derrik!”

My hands ball into fists now as heat crawls up my neck. If she’s trying to aggravate me to the point I break into her house and punish her for those cries, she’s succeeding.

Still, my cock throbs as she continues pleasuring herself with the pillow. She bites down on her lip as her legs stiffen, and I may come in my pants watching her unravel.

But before she does, she dismounts from her pillow and climbs off the bed.

Making direct eye contact with the hidden camera as she approaches. “This is over,” she purrs. “Stop spying on me, Saint.”

Her palm covers the camera, and my heart skips. “No—”

But the footage cuts out.

I jump to my feet, heart hammering as I hunch with my hands on my desk, eyes glued to the monitor. Briar makes her way through each room, collecting the cameras until she finds the final device in the kitchen.

There, she picks up a hammer, and everything goes black.

Fuck.

She should know by now that I won’t let her get away with this shit. She’s not hiding or running from me. She’ll never escape me. She is mine to keep. Forever.

When I reach her house, all the lights are out. She’s gotten smarter and locked her doors and all the first-floor windows. I grin. She thinks she can keep me out.

My muse has more raging flames in her than I ever could’ve imagined, and I delight in playing with fire.

From the shed, I pull out a ladder and scale her house with entirely too much ease. Her room is dark when I stand outside her window, unlocked after she yelled at me to leave her property.

Every time she yells at me, fights me, my cock twitches. Hell, every time I’m near her.

If she hadn’t taunted me and broken all my cameras, I might’ve stayed away for the night. But now she’ll find out exactly what happens when she tries to hide from me.

I slide the window open with a muted hiss. She doesn’t stir, and her soft snores are music to my ears. I drop into the chair in the corner of her room, the one she reserves for reading when she wants to curl up and remain immobile for eight hours until she finishes a four-hundred-page book.

Watching her sleep is almost torture. Now that I’ve seen the parts of her body that would make any mortal man fall to his knees, saliva floods my mouth, needing to be spread over every inch of her.

When I had her in my office, her nipples peaked the instant I ripped open her blouse. The swell of her breasts heaved with every nervous, anticipatory breath. Her soft belly pooled in a pouch below her navel that made me want to nibble every inch. Her smooth thighs trembled slightly beneath my touch, but they fell apart with little effort.

And then, when I knelt before her, something shifted in those blue eyes that melted me. Her lids hooded, pupils darkened, as she basked in her saint on his knees in worship of her.

Beneath her skirt, with her panties off, her perfect pussy glistened for me, when I’d barely gotten my hands on her. The evidence of the arousal she couldn’t deny. No matter how much she wars between her logic and her desires, the proof lay there right between her legs.

She wants me. Aches for me. Just as I ache for her.

While she spent her weekend with Mack, giggling and yelling at the television, cuddling with their cats and snoring on the couch, I spent mine writing in a frenzy with the feed from her cameras on the other half of my screen. The words poured out of me. Characters sprung to life, dialogue leapt off the page, and the themes of protection and love nearly made my eyes mist.

Briar may not understand why I do these things for her yet. She may not understand how the depth of my affection for her could run so deep when the time we’ve had together has been so little. But someday, she will. When the same realization dawns on her—the moment we met, we’d found the other half of our broken souls. Our match. Our soulmate. Just as the Earth is meant to orbit the Sun, I am meant to orbit her.

Twenty minutes of watching her sleep isn’t enough to satiate my hunger for her. Watching is no longer enough. Not anymore. I need to touch. Taste.

She’ll enjoy waking up to that. Until I punish her for what she’s done.

I stand and move silently across the room, slipping under the blanket.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BRIAR

SOMETHING IS BETWEEN MY LEGS.

Someone is between my legs.

My silk negligee has ridden up to my chin, exposing my tits, nipples pinched into hard points. A pair of rough hands slips under the band of my panties and pulls them down, the person underneath rising up under the blanket.

I lurch and gasp, still disoriented from sleep. “What the fuck—”

“Did you miss me, muse?”

Saint fucking de Haas.

I flail my legs, attempting to fight him off and stop him from getting my panties off. “Get the fuck off me,” I snarl.

He flings the blanket off, revealing the mask still covering his face. Traitorous warmth pools between my legs.

Saint pins me down with one hand between my hips and rips my panties off, balling them into his fist before he lifts his mask to smell them. “Mmm.” His hum makes my blood simmer, unbidden pleasure thrumming from my core to my toes. “So sweet, muse.”

Before I can object, he shoves my panties into his pocket. His trophy.

“Get off me!” I shout, attempting to sit up, but he’s too strong. His body comes down on mine, pinning me into the mattress, hands planted beside my shoulders to box me in.

“But we haven’t even gotten to the best part,” he murmurs, sending a shiver down my spine.

I can’t see his eyes beneath the black mesh of his mask, and that’s somehow more terrifying than that typical wolfish glint. My gaze roams over the red flame licking up around his eye and the jagged crimson line that’s meant to mimic a scar striking through the other. But it’s the eerie white crescent moon—the smile covering his own—that I know will haunt me most.

“Get out of my bed!” I demand.

His head tilts, and a lump forms in my throat. I try to clamp my legs together, but he’s between them, and when he grinds up, the hard tip of his cock brushes against my clit through the fabric of his pants. I gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“You practically invited me in.” The mask muffles his low drawl.

Behind him, I spot the open window. Shit. I forgot to lock it after yelling at him earlier. How could I have been so stupid? “If I wanted you in my bed, you would’ve received an invitation.”

“Screaming another man’s name while you rode your pillow was invitation enough,” he snaps.

My heart pounds. What was I thinking taunting him like that? I wanted to catch his attention, make him watch in horror as I destroyed all the cameras he planted.

But I should’ve known he would retaliate.

“Maybe that’ll teach you not to spy on women in their own homes.”

“Woman,” he corrects. “There are no women—there is only you.”

The declaration shouldn’t make my heart skip, but it does. “Is that supposed to make it better? You hid cameras in my house. That’s a huge violation of privacy.”

“I did it so I could keep you safe,” he seethes. “And need I remind you, I’m not the only one violating privacy. As I recall, I didn’t invite you into my home.” His tone turns to a seductive purr. “And yet, I wanted you on my desk. We both did.”

“I didn’t,” I spit, well aware we both know I’m lying.

His hand lifts from the mattress and caresses my shoulder before drifting down to my bare breast. I bite my lip against the moan when his finger slowly circles my hard nipple. He takes his time stroking down my body, salivating over every inch from my breasts down my stomach and between my legs. My breath catches.

“Then why are you already so wet for me?” His finger glides up my slit, pulling a trail of my arousal with him before landing sharply against my clit.

I yelp, jerking beneath him. He chuckles, the sound even sexier through the mask.

“That’s called having a wet dream!” I snap.

“And what do I do to you in your dreams, muse?”

What he does to me in my dreams is eerily similar to what he’s doing to me now. But I’ll never admit that to him. I barely want to admit it to myself. “You fuck off.”

“Mmm.” He drags that same finger he stroked up my pussy back up my body. When he nears my lips, I turn my face, but he pinches my cheeks and forces my gaze back on him. “I think you mean we fuck and get off.”

My pussy clenches, clit already throbbing from the small brushes of pleasure he’s given me.

He lifts the bottom of his mask just enough to reveal the devilish grin beneath. Nothing saintly about him. “After I punish you, you’ll never let another man’s name leave your lips again.”

Before I can stop him, Saint bends, pressing his lips to mine before sliding his tongue into my mouth. I push against his shoulders, but he’s too heavy.

His tongue swirls, bending my own to his will, and I can’t help the pleasure that overwhelms me and makes my limbs go limp, hands clutching at the sleeves of his shirt now instead of pushing him away.

He pumps his tongue inside me, and I recognize it as the promise it is. He’s going to thrust his cock inside my mouth like this if I don’t stop him.

I bite down on his tongue.

He withdraws, jerking back and hand flying to his mouth while the other pushes his mask up on his head. Blood spills out onto his lip and fingers. But he doesn’t move off me. He keeps me pinned beneath him, unable to escape no matter how much I wriggle under his weight.

Saint’s gaze snaps from his bloody fingers back to me. Now I’ve fully awakened the monster.

He jerks the mask back into place and grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head. His fingers dig into my skin, surely leaving bruises. I wince, but I won’t let him see that he’s winning.

“Keep your tongue out of my mouth,” I snarl. “Or I’ll bite it off next time.”

“You won’t,” he seethes. “Because after it makes your pussy weep, you’ll worship my tongue.”

With one hand, he keeps my wrists pinned above my head and the other slips down to his belt, unfastening it. My legs attempt to clench again to shut him out, to keep him from accessing me.

A soft hiss as he slips the belt from its loops and binds my wrists to the headboard. When he’s secured it and starts to lower himself down my body, I jerk against the belt. It holds tight. Too tight.

I wriggle my hips instead, trying to pull away from him, but his hands keep me firmly in place. “Stop fighting what you want, muse,” he growls. “I’m going to be the man who worships you. Who makes you his only obsession. Stop fighting me because you’re too afraid to love anything.”

“I don’t love you,” I spit.

“But you will.” He’s so completely sure of himself, it sends a chill down to my toes. “And after tonight, you will certainly love my tongue.”

He kneels on the floor, yanking me toward him by the hips as far as I can with my wrists bound. I thrash, but my attempts are pathetic beneath his heavy palms. “Cry out my name as loud as you want, muse. Only mine.”

He tilts his mask up again, revealing the pouty mouth beneath. The mouth that promises to be my undoing.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The first brush of his tongue against my inner thigh makes me yelp, leg jerking beneath him. When his tongue strokes the other thigh, my pussy throbs in response.

“This is the tongue I’m supposed to worship?” I can’t fight him off physically, but I can fight him with my words.

His chuckle reverberates against my thigh, his lips pressed to my skin. Then his teeth sink into my flesh.

“Agh!” I arch, trying to escape him. He doesn’t bite nearly as hard as I did, more warning nip than pain.

“I’ll make you worship every part of me,” he promises, a finger trailing from my pebbled nipple, past my navel, and stopping right above my clit. “Just as I already worship every part of you.”

He plants a kiss where he bit me before soothing the spot with his tongue. An involuntary whimper escapes and he takes this as a cue to suck my skin into his mouth.

I gasp, back arching in pleasure this time. His head moves back and forth as he sucks on both my thighs, bruises surely blooming in his wake.

My arousal pools down to the sheets beneath my ass.

He hasn’t even gotten his tongue inside me and I already want to throw in the towel. Give in and be the woman who falls for her stalker. Who allows her body to be worshipped by the man obsessed with her.

But the single thread of sanity still left in my brain fights against the desire pumping in every drop of blood in my veins.

“Briar.” His voice is softer now, a groan escaping his parted lips when he spots my arousal glistening for him, darkening the sheet beneath me. “I haven’t even tasted your sweet pussy and it already weeps in reverence of my tongue.”

The words are caught in my throat, the desire and ecstasy already too overwhelming to speak.

Saint kisses one of my lips, then the other. I grind my heels into the mattress, a frustrated groan hissing through my teeth.

Fuck this. I want his tongue on my clit. I want his tongue thrusting into my pussy the way it was in my mouth. I want this torment to end.

He plants a kiss on my mound, agonizingly close to my clit but still not giving me the pleasure I’m aching for. “Stop being a fucking tease.”

A hum low in his throat. “I don’t like hearing the word stop from your mouth.”

In punishment, he drops his head back to my thighs, licking and sucking his way down to my ankles. I let out an incoherent scream of aggravation, yanking fruitlessly at his belt binding my wrists.

My clit throbs as he makes his way from my ankle back up my leg, kissing and nipping along my mound. A man has never made me wait this long for his cock in my pussy, let alone his tongue. The wait is excruciating.

“Tell me you want this.” His hot breath hits my soaked pussy, and a whimper vibrates in my throat. “That you want my tongue licking your clit. You want my tongue plunging into your pussy, licking up that sweet wetness waiting for me. That you want to worship my tongue.”

My nails bite into my palms. He’s going to put me through all this shit and then leave me wanting and aching for release if I don’t tell him everything he wants to hear. “Go to hell.”

“Say it.” He blows gently on my pussy now, making me jerk and tears of unfulfilled desire sting at my eyes. “Or I won’t let you come.”

Like he’s the one in control of my orgasms. “I’ll just use my vibrator after you leave.”

“You won’t find it.”

I jerk my head to my nightstand, and I curse. He took my fucking vibrator. “Asshole! That was brand new.”

“Not with the way you use it.” He chuckles. “From now on, if you want to come, you’ll need to use my tongue, fingers, or cock.”

“Screw you!” This is a whole new level of possessive, but I can’t even be surprised at this point. He was probably watching every night as I used my vibrator to come, jealous of an inanimate object.

“Trust me, muse,” he purrs. “Once I make you come, you’ll never want anything else.”

“Prove it,” I challenge, sick of this fucking torturous game. If the only way I can come is with his tongue on my pussy, then fuck it. I’ll take my stalker’s tongue, a murderer’s tongue, over another second of this torment.

“Apologize for moaning another man’s name.”

I clench my jaw, pussy pulsing and aching for release as I stay silent.

“Apologize if you want to come, Briar,” he warns.

Even on a gritty command, my name from his lips leaves me breathless. I wrench the words out. “I’m . . . sorry.”

“For?”

“Moaning another man’s name.”

“And what is the only name you will scream from now on?”

If I could move my wrists, I’d punch him. “Yours.”

“Say it.”

Through clenched teeth, I hiss, “Saint.”

“Good girl. Now beg to worship my tongue.” He hasn’t forgotten his command.

I squeeze my eyes shut before forcing out the words. “Please let me worship your tongue.”

“Mmm.” His throaty groan makes my aching clit throb. “That’s my obedient girl.”

I want to snap that I’m not his girl and I’m sure as hell not obedient, but that’s when a warm, soft tongue strokes up my pussy.

I cry out, the pleasure from that tortuous buildup already overwhelming me.

His tongue dances teasingly along my clit, and I hiss at the exquisite sensation until he abruptly pulls away. I mewl pathetically in protest. “Do you worship my tongue yet, muse?”

My mind is shouting no, but my body is screaming yes. When my already-swollen clit throbs, I clench my jaw. “Yes,” I grind out before muttering, “Asshole.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t punish me for the disobedience this time, thank god. He strokes his tongue up slowly between my folds. I arch, pushing my pussy harder against his mouth.

Fuck.

His tongue glides slowly, teasingly, up my center again and I whine, “Please.”

Finally, he rewards me, tongue pressing hard against my clit and giving me the relief I long for. Pleasure zips up my spine and the moan wrenches from my throat.

When he sucks my clit into his mouth, my toes curl and thighs clamp together, pinned to his head. The sides of his mask, still propped up above his mouth, dig into my skin, but I don’t care. Mind lost to the pleasure his glorious mouth is wringing from me.

He pulls my throbbing nub before releasing it with a small pop of his lips. I gasp, drenched in sweat and my own arousal.

His hands slip under my ass and haul me up to his mouth, where he plunges his tongue inside me.

I cry out, wrists straining at the belt holding me in place. He pumps his tongue in my pussy, stretching and tasting me.

“You’re going to drown me,” he whispers in reverence, in awe.

He licks up me, swirling his tongue around my clit before spearing my pussy again. He switches back and forth, spreading our mixture of arousal and saliva all over me as he can’t decide what he loves more—my cries of ecstasy when he licks my clit or my groans of pleasure when he fucks me with his tongue.

The pleasure mounts to a catastrophic level, the impending orgasm inevitable now. “Don’t stop,” I beg.

“How do you want to come, muse?” he breathes, just as desperate for my release as I am.

“Your mouth sucking my clit and your finger inside me,” I pant.

Without another word, he sinks his finger in my pussy, curling and hitting a spot that makes my eyes spring open. He wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and that’s when I scream.

“Saint!”

The orgasm barrels through me, ripping pleasure from every cell. My back arches and eyes roll, throat growing raw as the scream doesn’t stop as he wrings every ounce of pleasure from me, pumping his finger frantically and sucking so hard on my clit, the pleasure turns to a new sort of agony. The sensation too overwhelming, my clit too sensitive, but he doesn’t stop or gentle until I collapse beneath him, utterly spent and limbs liquid.

My heart thumps wildly against my ribcage, ceiling blurring as my eyes cross and I finally come down from the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.

Holy. Fuck.

Maybe I have found a saint to worship.

He wipes my arousal off his mouth and chin, sliding back up my body and fixing the mask over his face again. He wore it knowing it would turn me on more. “You look beautiful when you sleep. But even more so when you’re screaming my name while you come.”

I can only pant beneath him, mind still spinning and lungs unable to catch my breath enough to produce a retort.

“You’re going to fall in love with me,” he promises.

I drag a deep breath in to finally fill my lungs. “Making me come . . . isn’t going to . . . make me . . . fall in love with you.”

His finger winds in a tendril of my hair. I don’t have to see beneath the mask to know his dark eyes are glinting at my breathlessness. “It’s much deeper than that. I’m the yin to your yang. The other half of your soul. We’re both broken, but our pieces fit perfectly together to make each other whole again. You want someone who’s obsessed with you. You want to be the only woman who exists in his world. You’ll only find that with me.”

As much as I hate to admit it . . . he’s right. Every time I ended a relationship, every time I decided a man didn’t truly love me, it’s because I wasn’t the center of his world. No man has ever followed me home, secretly hidden cameras in my house to monitor my movements, tracked down my mother to convince her he’s the one for me. Most of them didn’t even know my middle name. Saint knows my full name, my birthday, my driver’s license number, my schedule, my favorite wine. He knows how to make me come harder than I ever have in my life.

Certainly no one else has ever killed for me.

Some part of me buried deep down is just as sick and twisted as him. Enjoys being wanted this much.

“You have this feeling you can’t place,” he murmurs. “Like nostalgia, but for a life you’ve never had, a person you’ve never met. Now you’ve finally found me, muse.”

My heart stutters, suddenly more bare in front of him than I’ve ever been. No one has ever put that feeling into words for me before. That longing, that search for the one person you know is missing from your life, the person you know will fill those aching, lonely gaps inside you. Wondering when you’ll find them. If they even exist at all.

Tears prick my eyes. When Saint and I met, I told him S.T. Nicholson’s writing makes me feel understood in a way no one else in the world has ever understood me. That if we met, we would get each other on a deeper level than anyone else ever could.

Now I know he does.

Saint leans forward and releases the belt from around my wrists. I cradle them, rubbing the tender skin where I yanked too hard against the belt while he had me in the throes of ecstasy.

He leans down, lifting his mask just enough so his breath can caress the shell of my ear. “You are mine, muse. Now you will never forget.”

Without another word, he’s off me, goosebumps instantly pricking along my exposed skin from the absence of his warmth. The mask covers his face, but I know he’s grinning as he slides back out the window and shuts it behind him before disappearing into the night.

What the fuck was that?

And why did I love it so much?

“He’s going to kill me,” Mack blurts.

I’m still bleary-eyed and half-unconscious. “Wait . . . what?”

“He’s going to kill me,” she repeats matter-of-factly. “I had a dream.”

I flop back down and roll my eyes. “Seriously? You woke me up over a dream?”

“A nightmare! I don’t know how, but all I remember is him coming toward me while I was crouched on my knees and then black. But I just knew. I knew he killed me.”

“Who?”

“James, obviously. Who else?”

“I don’t know, whoever else haunts your dreams. Freddy Kreuger, maybe. I shouldn’t have made you watch all those horror films. You scare too easily.”

“Yes, you are definitely to blame for these recurring nightmares.”

“You’ve dreamt of him killing you before?”

“Well, yes, but that was back when I was with him. This is the first time I’ve had a nightmare about it since I moved out here.”

“Were you up late watching true crime again?”

Silence.

“Mack,” I nudge.

“I plead the fifth!” She sips loudly on what I assume is her usual herbal tea. “Anyway, tell me about your dreams instead to clear my head. Please tell me they’re sexy.”

“Of course. They involved a vibrator, red wine, and a masked man.”

She gasps. “Go on!”

Maybe I should tell her about what happened between me and Saint last night. More accurately, what Saint did to me last night. But my cheeks burn with shame, and I can’t bring myself to admit the truth out loud—that Saint bound me to my bed and I let him make me his. Worshipped his wicked tongue.

He would’ve stopped if I’d truly commanded it. But beneath my biting words, he knew what I wanted. How I craved the sweet release that only his touch could provide.

My phone pings with a text. My heart leaps into my throat, thumbs flying across the screen in anticipation of a message from Saint.

But it’s a text from Trevor asking for my address, letting me know he has new evidence to show me.

I hang up with Mack, despite her protestations that I regale her with tales of my salacious dreams. I attempt to speed-clean my house before Trevor rings the doorbell.

I swing the door open, trying not to sound out of breath. “Trevor! Hey.”

“Hey.” He’s wearing a small smile in place of his usual goofy grin. “You’re definitely gonna want to see this.” As soon as I cross over the threshold and close the door behind me, he pulls out his phone. “I’ve got some new info on your stalker.”

“So do I!” I can’t help the pride in my voice at the success of my amateur sleuthing skills. “Remember that author I was telling you about? S.T. Nicholson? He and Saint are the same person.”

“Really? The guy who wrote that book with the weird title you kept talking about? This Book Will Kill Me or something?”

“This Book Will Haunt You, and it’s not a weird title, and yes, that guy.”

“An author is stalking you? How the hell does that happen?”

“Apparently, this stupid review got in his head and he couldn’t write anymore. Then I inspired him somehow, and he’s been writing ever since. I’m his muse.” I roll my eyes, but can’t suppress the flush of pride. S.T. Nicholson credits me with his ability to write again. Oh my god. What if he mentions me in his acknowledgements?

Trevor laughs. “Wow, he’s definitely deranged. We’ve gotta get this guy locked up.” He shows me his phone screen. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s a video from your neighbor's camera.”

In the video, my ancient Honda-that-could whines past as I push the engine too hard, speeding to work ten minutes late. A few seconds later, a sleek, silver sedan follows.

“He has a lease with the same make and model,” Trevor informs me.

I check the date on the footage. Right around the time I discovered Saint lurking outside my house. “This isn’t enough,” I tell Trevor. “You can’t see who the driver is.”

“Sure, it’s not enough to convict the guy, but it’s something. When it comes to cases like these, it’s about how all of the little pieces come together. You should still take everything you have to the police, no matter how insignificant it may seem—it all adds up. You need to let them know everything to keep yourself safe.”

“I’m not in danger.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

Trevor’s head tilts, brows pulled together in confusion. “What do you mean you’re not in danger? You have a stalker, Briar.”

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I’m well aware. But he’s not going to hurt me.”

Trevor takes a moment to process my words as he tries to reign in his astonishment. “And how exactly do you know that?”

Because he told me as he was declaring his undying love for me.

“He’s had plenty of opportunities to do so. If he wanted to hurt me, he would’ve done it by now.”

Trevor’s mouth falls open, too shocked for a second to formulate a response. “Briar . . . you’re not serious, right? Just because he hasn’t hurt you yet doesn’t mean he won’t. He’s a stranger. You can’t trust him.”

“He’s not exactly a stranger,” I admit, dropping my gaze.

Trevor shifts, leaning on one hip and folding his arms. “What’s that mean?”

I’m sure as hell not telling Trevor about my orgasmic night with Saint de Haas. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Mack, and I tell her everything. “I told you, he’s a student. We’ve gotten to know each other better. So he’s not a stranger.”

Trevor stares at me wordlessly for so long, I’m torn between blabbering like an idiot and running back inside to hide. “Please tell me you’re not falling in love with the guy because he’s an author.”

I huff, spine stiffening. “Obviously not. I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not. I just needed to make sure he wasn’t getting in your head.” Trevor sighs. “I’m sure an author who gets off on stalking his fans has a way with words.”

Trevor has no idea.

“Did any of the footage show a black BMW?” I ask. “There was one following me to work one morning. And I saw it again on campus. Some blonde girl was driving it.”

He tilts his head. “A blonde girl? Any idea who she could be?”

“No clue. I only caught a glimpse of her profile, but she didn’t look familiar. I’m thinking she could be a private investigator.” I haven’t seen her since, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been following me. Jesus, the universe must really be punishing me for some bad karma if I have not one stalker but two.

“Why would a private investigator be after you?”

“Because I’m ninety-nine percent sure the police think I gave Austin the drugs that killed him.” Even if they have zero proof, their skepticism was clear and I’m the last known person to have seen him alive.

The last person the police know about, anyway.

“I’ll look into it,” Trevor promises.

“Thanks,” I murmur, relieved when he turns to leave and Saint doesn’t step out of the shadows to murder him for daring to speak to me.

“And Briar?” Trevor calls. “Don’t fall in love with a psycho.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAINT

BRIAR SHEA IS WELL and truly mine. She might as well change her last name to de Haas now. She’s certainly already Briar de Haas in my mind.

Watching her come was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Akin to hitting your head and suddenly acquiring a new language. Like witnessing a miracle happening before your eyes, and in that moment, experiencing a revelation that changes you to the core.

She is more than my muse—she’s my goddess, and I’ll worship at her altar every second she desires.

I’d love to leave this MFA program altogether. Whisk her away to my manor in the mountains and spend every day for the rest of our lives enveloped in inspiration and ecstasy. She won’t leave Mack behind, but her best friend could join us for all I care. There’s more than enough room in my manor for Mack and both cats. She’d have an entire wing to herself, and neither of them would ever want for anything. Never work another day in their lives and spend as many movie nights together as their hearts desire.

As long as I get to keep my muse. As long as she’s mine.

But she’s still convinced a professorship teaching pretentious literary writers is her dream job. Still worth dodging the unwanted advantages of her lecherous boss.

I have no such conviction.

If this man drops dead in the next five seconds, it won’t be soon enough.

After class, Briar scrambles to gather her belongings and Professor Molester lingers behind. So do I. I’ll crawl through hell before I leave her alone with him.

Professor Molester obviously doesn’t notice me at the back of the room, the lone student remaining to observe his interaction with my muse. Mine.

“How about getting those drinks tonight?” The flirtatious smile across his saggy jowls should be reserved for his wife.

Briar’s eyes pop. “Oh, um, I actually can’t tonight—”

“You said that last time.” He waves his hand dismissively. “A young, vivacious woman like yourself should be eager for a night on the town.”

Jesus Christ. What the hell does he know about young, vivacious women? Take your wife out and leave the women half your age alone.

He reminds me all too much of the man in my room when I was ten, cradling my face while my mother was gone and he knew he could get me alone. Taking advantage when I was most vulnerable.

My fists clench, my mind fighting against every cell in my body, longing to spring out of my seat and get her the fuck away from him. But I know her—the last thing she wants is for me to fight her battles for her and risk the promotion that she’s already sacrificed her dignity to attain. She’s come this close, and I won’t be the one who spoils this for her. I won’t give her a reason to resent me.

“I’m free right now,” Briar offers. “Why don’t we grab a coffee here on campus?”

Professor Molester scowls. “Oh, Briar, come on. There’s no harm in two colleagues discussing literature over a glass of wine.” He shrugs, dropping his attention back to the stacks of pages before shuffling them together and heading for the door. “But maybe you’re not as serious about your future at Auburn as I thought.”

She glowers at his back, plotting his murder just as I am. “Tonight is fine. I could go for a glass of Merlot.”

Professor Molester turns back to her with a grin, and she manages a weak smile. “Excellent. See you tonight.”

I long for his blood on my hands, but he’s already out the door.

Looks like Briar and I are about to have our first date.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BRIAR

THE BAR IS dim and humming with hushed chatter, filled with the aroma of expensive cigars and gin. A place where wealthy old men bring their escorts, sugar babies, and trafficking victims. My feet itch to run in the other direction the instant I cross the threshold, but I clutch my purse tighter and follow him.

Dr. Barrett climbs up onto a stool, movements so feeble and unsteady, I’m bracing myself for him to fall and break a hip. I’d honestly rather spend the evening taking him to the hospital than getting drinks at the bar.

He orders two gin martinis on the rocks, and I clench my jaw. “Make mine a whiskey,” I call to the bartender. “Double.”

Dr. Barrett’s jaw ticks at my insolence, but he plasters a smile back on. “How is your semester going?”

“A little overwhelming.” That’s an understatement. I’m instructing two classes on my own, two workshops, and assisting with Dr. Barrett’s class, so more like instructing three classes entirely on my own. Not that he’s made any move to lighten my workload.

He gives a breezy chuckle. “Oh yes. The early days of assistant professorship. We all have to pay our dues.”

I grit my teeth because I shouldn’t have to manage the workload of two professors at a quarter of a tenured professor’s pay, but I assume he’s asked me here to celebrate his impending retirement. Maybe he’ll even give me a concrete date. “So what are your plans for retirement?”

He shrugs, directing his attention to the gin martinis that the bartender slides his way. “No idea. We’ve got plenty of time to make our plans.”

Warmth starts to crawl up the back of my neck. “Oh? I thought you’d be retiring at the end of next semester?”

He harrumphs. “No, my wife wouldn’t hear of it.”

I sputter into my whiskey. “You have a wife?”

He lifts a brow at me like I’m a moron. “I’ve been married for two decades.”

“Oh.” I put my whiskey down, terrified that I’m about to throw it in this asshole’s face.

He’s preying on his assistant professor while his wife is at home. Inviting me out for drinks and holding my dream job over my head to get me to do his bidding while he has no intention of retiring anytime soon.

What a piece of shit.

“Does your wife know where you are?”

He must misinterpret my tone because the corner of his mouth curves up. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

Tomorrow, I’m finding his wife and informing her about exactly what kind of man she’s married to. “Why wouldn’t you be able to tell her? I thought this was innocent drinks between colleagues.”

He leans closer, and I want to gag as his gaze rakes down my red top and down to my exposed thighs. “We both know you wouldn’t dress like that for a colleague.”

His hand lands on my knee and crawls up, squeezing my thigh.

I shove him off and jump down from my stool with a loud screech. The lecherous smile immediately falls off his face, and he glances around to see who’s witnessed our interaction. “Don’t dress like a slut if you don’t want to be treated like one,” he hisses.

Hot, angry tears blur my vision as I race for the ladies' room. Tears stream down my cheeks as I fumble for my phone to call Mack.

On the fifth ring, Mack’s groggy voice fills my ears, and I cry harder. “Briar?” she croaks. “What’s wrong?”

“That asshole professor,” I seethe, wiping away the tears and snot. “He basically forced me to get drinks with him and then he groped me.”

Mack gasps. “Oh my god. Where are you?”

“I’m in the restroom.” I dab under my eyes with a paper towel, makeup already ruined. “I’m waiting for him to leave before I go back out there.”

“Listen, tomorrow you’re going to report it to the administration. I’ll go with you if you want. Then I’ll key his car or something after so you don’t get in trouble.”

Mack is the only one who can make me laugh through my tears. But I know reporting Dr. Barrett to the administration won’t do anything. He’s a tenured professor who’s been at the Auburn Institute for almost as long as he’s been married. The university isn’t going to fire him over the unsubstantiated allegations from a lowly assistant professor.

“Do you want me to come pick you up?”

A bizarre urge to call Saint hits me. He would rage with me. For some reason, I want nothing more than to hear his voice right now.

“Thanks, Mack.” I sniffle, the tears under control now. “But I’ll be fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As soon as we hang up, I find Saint’s number.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SAINT

FROM THE SHADOWY CORNER BOOTH, I had an unobstructed view of Professor Molester’s shriveled hand on her thigh.

It took every ounce of self-control not to slam him against the bar, wrap my hands around his throat, and watch the light slowly drain from his beady eyes.

But Briar and I will never be together if I’m rotting in prison.

No, my methods need to be far more discreet. My future with Briar hinges on my crimes going undetected.

Professor Molester snaps his fingers at the bartender, slapping crumpled dollar bills on the bar and heading out the door. He leaves just enough to cover a single gin martini.

I grit my teeth. He has no idea how much I’ll make him pay.

Briar is still in the restroom. All I want is to run in there and comfort her. Scrub his grimy touch off her skin and erase this night from her memory.

But the professor is heading for the door and I have business to attend to before I can provide the comfort she deserves.

She’ll be grateful when we celebrate his death together.

I stride for the bar, tossing a hundred dollar bill next to Briar’s whiskey, and follow Professor Molester out the door.

He shuffles down the sidewalk. He must’ve chosen a bar close to home so he can easily bring back the young women he blackmails or coerces into bed. The sweet smoke of his cigar puffs into the night air as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Her name lights up my screen. Muse.

Fuck. My heart squeezes. I’d love to answer if I could, but I need to finish this first. For her.

Fortunately, it’s cold enough to warrant a winter jacket, and no one looks at me twice when I slip a black ski mask over my head.

As we near his house, the professor glances back. I drop to one knee and untie and retie my shoe. He fumbles with his key and lets himself in the door.

I call him the second he crosses the threshold. With the door still open, he pulls out his phone and scowls at the screen before answering with a gruff, “Hello?”

He shuts the door behind him. I wait for the unmistakable click of the lock. But it doesn’t come. “Is this Professor Molester?”

“Excuse me?” he barks.

The light in the kitchen flicks on. He forgot to lock the door. Mission accomplished. I hang up.

His home is in the middle of town. Not ideal. I’ll have to shut him up before I do what needs to be done. A nosy neighbor could bring a swift end to the job before I finish it.

Lights illuminate the second floor. Nancy isn’t home. Hours of research indicate that Nancy is oblivious to her husband’s extracurricular activities. Blissfully unaware of the young women who enter and exit through her front door. She’s out for a girls’ weekend. I can take my time.

I head inside, the hinges squeaking.

“Nancy?” Professor Molester calls.

He doesn’t get an answer. He’ll never hear Nancy’s voice again.

I grab a chair from the kitchen and carry it upstairs with me slowly. He hums to some bluesy song in the bathroom. Getting ready for bed after a long night of attempting to grope and coerce my muse into submission.

As I approach the bathroom, he spots my reflection in the mirror. “What the hell—”

“Quiet, Professor,” I warn, pointing the pistol at him. “Have a seat.”

Professor Molester wept and pleaded well before I got the gag in his mouth. Now, he jerks at the ties binding his wrists and ankles to the chair.

When I pick up my gun, he screams around his gag. “Relax,” I coo. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

His shoulders relax, even as his gaze remains frantic.

“I’d have to scrub your brain matter off the walls, and that would be entirely too time-consuming.” I slip my gun back into the holster at my waistband before pulling out my knife. “No, I want a much more controlled bleed.”

The professor attempts to dig his heels into the floor, but the ties firmly hold his ankles in place against the legs of the chair.

I pace in front of him, stroking a finger over the dull edge of my blade. “You asked what I want from you. It’s simple really, Professor. I want your repentance.”

He weeps, the gag in his mouth soaked with his saliva, tears, and snot.

“But we both know you won’t repent of your own volition, don’t we? No. I’ll have to make you.”

He shakes his head wildly, trying to speak around the gag. But I’ve heard all I need to hear from him.

“You made her cry, Professor. And I have a rule about my muse.” I plant a hand on his arm fastened to the chair, pressing the blade against his neck. “If she cries, you die.”

He attempts to scream again, gaze darting wildly around the room as if someone will rescue him.

“This is going to hurt,” I promise.

I press the tip of the knife against his wrist and slice. A shallow cut to mark my target. He’s already wailing, flailing against his restraints. I do the same to the other wrist before smiling at him.

“Don’t worry, Professor. You have no use for your hands anymore.”

Without another word, I bring the blade down.

He screams so violently that I brace myself for the gag to project from his mouth. But it remains firmly in place, saliva dripping down his chin as blood pools at his feet.

My knife comes down on the other hand, both extremities lying severed on the floor.

He’ll never put his hands on my muse again.

I shut the door and lay down towels to prevent the pool of blood from flowing out of the room, the scent of copper coiling up my nose.

I sigh. “This is quite the mess you’ve made, Professor. I hope you have bleach.”

He’s growing limp now, swiftly losing consciousness from the blood loss. I’ll have to be quick. I want him to feel this final wave of agony.

The tip of my knife traces along his pelvis.

He shakes his head slowly, a weak moan rumbling in his throat at the horror he knows is coming.

“For a professor, you think with this a lot more than you do with your brain.” I dig the tip of my knife in harder. “I think it’s time we rectify that, don’t you? Make sure there’s only one head for you to think with now.”

His chin drops, eyes shutting, when I bring the knife down.

His eyes spring open.

Even beneath the gag, his screams echo in the small room. Blood pools between his legs, flowing onto the floor.

Briar will be so happy when she hears the news of his demise.

I wait until his body is drained, his heart long since stopped beating, before I get to work on chopping the rest of him up into pieces.

Nancy keeps an organized home. Mudroom well-stocked with garbage bags, rubber gloves, and bottles of bleach. Maybe she was planning on doing this herself, and I simply beat her to it.

That’s for the best. Nancy doesn’t need his blood on her hands. Mine have long been stained with blood that will never be scrubbed off. What’s a little more?

It’s well after three in the morning when I carry the bits of the professor out, the bathroom cleaner than when I found it. Nancy will appreciate that.

Once his body is engulfed in flames, I sputter and breathe through my mouth. The only scent worse than burning flesh is a weeks-old, decaying body.

This is why it’s wise not to have neighbors. No one needs to know why the bonfire in your backyard smells so sickly sweet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

BRIAR

I WAKE BEFORE DAWN, unsure what stirred me from sleep so early until a hand wraps around my waist.

I scream and jerk out of his grasp.

Saint is wearing a different mask this time—a black ski mask like he’s trying to protect his skin from the cold. A dark stain has dried on his shirt.

Blood.

I clap a hand over my mouth. “What the hell happened?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, insistent. Through the holes in his mask, his dark eyes gleam with concern.

“What are you talking about? I’m fine. You’re the one bleeding.”

“I saw how that motherfucker touched you,” he growls. “I watched you run from him.”

Of course Saint was somewhere in that bar, keeping an eye on us from the shadows. The only shock is that he was able to maintain his composure.

“I wanted so badly to follow you, to wrap my arms around you, but I had to take care of the problem first. Now tell me. Are you okay?”

I had to take care of the problem first. That isn’t Saint’s blood on his shirt.

That’s Dr. Barrett’s blood.

My stomach churns, and I bite my lip so hard, a metallic taste coats my tongue. This can’t be happening again.

“I’m fine.” My words come out shaky. “You need to get out.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving.” He grabs my hand with his palm and presses it against his groin. “I want you. And I know you want me too.”

“I don’t,” I whisper, heart pumping.

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be in this bed with me.”

Silence falls between us as I realize he’s right. “It’s my bed!” I snap.

Saint leans closer, pulling off his mask and tossing it to the floor. “And you’re my muse.”

“Why did you kill him?” I whisper.

“Because I couldn’t take another second of him hurting you.” His eyes darken to coals like the scene of Dr. Barrett groping my leg is playing out before him again. “Because I can’t live with myself if I don’t do everything I can to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection. And I certainly don’t need you killing people for me.” I drop my forehead into my hands. “The police already think I’m the one who gave Austin the drugs that killed him. When they find out my creepy boss is dead, don’t you think they’re going to look at me? How is getting me thrown in prison for your crimes protecting me?”

He grabs my hand, squeezing. “I would never let them take you from me.”

I yank out of his grasp. “You might not have a choice. And if they try to pin any of this on me, I’m throwing your ass under the bus and laughing as it runs you over.”

He shakes his head. “How can you be angry with me? I got rid of horrible men to keep you safe. They’re the ones who wanted to hurt you. They’re the ones who didn’t care about you. No one has ever loved you more than me. Yes, your mother and Mack love you, but I would die for you. I would kill for you. I would drown in the blood of all the men who would try to hurt you rather than let them lay a single finger on you. I will go to any lengths, use any means necessary, to keep you safe. I’m not your enemy, Briar. I am your greatest ally. Your other half. Nothing bad will happen to you as long as I’m around. The police won’t even find the professor’s body, so there will be no murder to pin on you. Don’t think I haven’t thought through every single scenario with you as my sole concern. You’ll have everything you want now—your dream job, a boss who doesn’t sexually harass you, and a soulmate who lives and breathes for you. I’m not here to ruin your life or scare you or hurt you. I’m here to fulfill your every wish, your every desire. Anything I can give, it’s yours.”

I’m breathing harder now, heart hammering against my ribcage, but not in fear anymore. I should’ve known S.T. Nicholson’s proclamations of love would be similar to those he writes in his novels. But even the dreamy fictional men he writes have nothing on their author.

I don’t know how I can deny it anymore. Saint de Haas is in love with me. He knows me. My mind, my body. What I want, what I crave, what I need.

The kind of man I didn’t think I would ever find. The kind of man I didn’t think existed.

Yet here he is in front of me. In my bed, wearing the blood of a man I hate—who was cruel and manipulative and calculating—and I’m not running.

Maybe running from Saint is the last thing I want to do anymore.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice hoarse as he draws nearer. “I am aching for your pussy.”

I’ll be damned to hell for all of eternity if I let a serial killer make me come.

So I guess I better learn to love the flames.

I grimace at the dried blood on his shirt. “At least take your shirt off first.”

But he ignores me, grabbing my face with both hands and pulling my mouth to his. His lips explore mine with an unprecedented desperation. Like killing a man awakened him to his own mortality and now he’s making up for lost time.

He makes quick work of my top, yanking it over my head and tossing it. He squeezes my breasts, and the sight of his hands on my skin unravels me. The hands that took Dr. Barrett’s final breath. An unfamiliar thrill zips down my spine.

Saint de Haas is not the only sick and twisted one in this room. The sight of him in blood-stained clothing shouldn’t turn me on more, but the arousal pooling between my legs proves otherwise.

A match made in hell.

Something must have twisted in my brain from all those years of watching horror films since preschool. Or maybe I was born this unhinged.

Whatever it is that made me this way, I’m finally giving in to it. I grab Saint’s shirt and tug him closer.

He pulls down my panties in one swift movement.

“I won’t be able to come back from this, will I?” I whisper.

His dark eyes bore into mine. “No, muse. You’re too far gone now.”

Saint’s eyes drift down my naked body, relishing everything he’s about to do to me before he pins me down and sucks my nipple into his mouth.

I arch into him, gasping. Now that I’ve gotten a taste of what Saint de Haas can do to me, what he can make me feel, I’m addicted. Thirsty for where his mouth will land next, the brush of pleasure from his fingers, the skips of my heart from his piercing gaze devouring me.

His mouth finds my other nipple, while his hands slip around to squeeze my ass. He groans, sending tingles all the way to my toes.

I can’t take the torment he put me through last time. “Worship my pussy with that wicked tongue,” I gasp.

I feel his lips curl up into a smile against my breast. His hand drifts past my navel to the apex of my thighs, pressing a gentle finger against my clit and making my eyes roll as I moan. “Impatient tonight, are we?”

“Yes.”

His finger continues to softly circle my clit, while his other hand drifts up to my mouth. “I want these perfect lips wrapped around my cock this time.”

He rolls onto his back and drags me with him, forcing me to straddle his face. “What did you call my tongue?” he murmurs. “Wicked?”

Before I can respond, that glorious tongue glides up my slit.

I gasp, arching forward and palms landing on the pillow above his head. “Yes. They may call you Saint, but your tongue is pure evil.”

His chuckle sends goosebumps racing down my limbs. He wraps his hands around my thighs to keep me in place. “If my tongue is evil, then let me help you sin.”

With that, his tongue strokes up me again, swirling around my swollen clit and making me whimper. The pleasure is already exquisite now that I’ve been without my stolen vibrator for days and Saint has left me aching for him.

But he was right—my vibrator can’t do to me what his tongue can.

He groans when he slips his tongue inside my throbbing pussy. I gasp, clawing at his shoulders and riding his tongue. He keeps moaning like he loves the feel and taste of me grinding on his face. Every other man I’ve ever been with has been nearly silent in bed, and I had no idea I even wanted a man to be vocal until now. Until him.

The muscles in my stomach and thighs are already tightening. I never come this quickly, but the orgasm is barreling toward me like a runaway train. There’s no putting the brakes on now.

“Fuck, Saint,” I hiss. “Please. Suck on my clit.”

“Whatever my muse desires,” he murmurs before wrapping his lips around my swollen nub and pulling it into his mouth.

I cry out, falling forward and unable to keep myself upright anymore. His arms like chains around my thighs are the only things anchoring me in place.

His mouth is chaotic on my pussy, licking and sucking and penetrating like he wants to taste and feel every inch of me as I grind on him. Wave after wave of my orgasm drags me under, making me limp.

I expect him to roll me off, spread my legs, and finally take what he’s been fantasizing about since he started stalking me.

But instead of flipping me on my back, he spins me around so I’m still straddling his head, but now I’m facing the long, thick erection in his pants.

“Take out my cock, muse,” he instructs. “Now let’s see what your wicked tongue can do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SAINT

“WHEN’S THE last time you got tested?” Briar meets my gaze over her shoulder, lips pursed in disgust.

I smirk. A little late for her to be asking that. “A week after I met you.”

Her scowl deepens. “You were so sure you would get me in bed?”

“I’m sure about everything with you.” I lick at her still-sensitive clit to emphasize my point.

She shudders. “What else are you so sure about?”

“One day your name will be Briar de Haas.”

“First of all, I wouldn’t change my name for any man.” She rolls her eyes. “Not even my husband. My mother didn’t take my father’s last name either. And why should she? She’s not his property.”

“It’s not about property—it’s about unity. Becoming one, in law and in name. I would happily take your last name if that’s what you wanted.”

“Second,” she continues, ignoring me, “I’m never getting married.”

I should’ve anticipated this would be a hurdle we would need to overcome. Her skepticism of marriage can be directly traced back to the moment she caught her father cheating on his wife. She can’t trust a man to love her at all, let alone forever.

I can’t expect her to realize I’m different overnight. Scaling that wall she’s built around her heart will take time, strength, and patience, but I won’t stop until I do.

I will climb any mountain, swim any ocean, overcome any obstacle if it means I get to keep her.

“You will marry me. Because I’m not your father.”

“Ew. That should be the bare minimum requirement.” Briar huffs. “And can we please not talk about my father while I’m literally sitting on your face?”

“As a matter of fact, I’d rather not talk at all.” I pull her clit into my mouth and release it with a small pop.

She hisses. “Finally. You never shut up.”

Her hands move eagerly to my belt, unbuckling it and yanking down my zipper. A woman has never so enthusiastically pulled my cock from my pants for a blowjob before.

Her intake of breath when she unsheathes me is nearly enough to make me ejaculate prematurely.

“Don’t worry about fitting it all in your pretty little mouth,” I purr. “Just swallow what you can.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about fitting it all in my mouth.” Though her tentative stroke down the length of my cock says otherwise.

She swirls her tongue experimentally around the tip, making me shudder and tighten my grip on her thighs. Her mouth on me is the most incredible sensation I’ve ever felt.

I lap at the wetness between her legs before licking lazily at her clit, gradually building her up to another orgasm. The first one came on hard and fast, my little muse beyond horny after days without her vibrator or my mouth. Now I can take my time with this second one as she familiarizes herself with my cock.

She strokes all the way to the base, her mouth following until she stops halfway, the tip hitting the roof of her mouth. She gags softly before pulling my cock out and clearing her throat quickly to cover the sound.

“Was that you attempting to swallow the whole thing?”

“Not at all,” she says too quickly. “That’s called foreplay. Edging. You should look it up sometime. I’m probably a lot more experienced in kinky sex than you are.”

An amused smile slips across my lips. “By all means, allow me to indulge your every kink.”

“So you’re going to put on your mask and kidnap me?” Sarcasm drips from her perfect lips.

“Careful what you wish for, muse.”

Her head whips around to peer at me over her shoulder. “Don’t actually do that,” she warns. “That was a joke. Some people have a sense of humor.”

“Most people don’t start cracking jokes in the middle of oral sex.”

“If you have a problem with it, there are plenty of other women you could be having sex with right now.” She bats her eyes at me sweetly. “And plenty of men for me.”

She makes a move to climb off me, but I yank her back down, her pussy colliding with my mouth. She yelps as I suck roughly on her clit. “There is no other woman for me, and no other man for you.”

With my mouth back on her sensitive nub, she quits fighting and gives in to her desires. Her mouth drops back to my cock, swirling her tongue harder around the tip and making me groan. Every second her mouth is on my cock is going to be a fight for me to stop myself from coming.

Her lips and tongue travel down my shaft, the slick, squeezing sensation of her mouth making my balls tighten. I go at her clit harder, pulling her in deeper because I know I won’t be able to stave off the orgasm for much longer and I need her to come with me.

She manages to swallow down a bit more than half of my cock this time, gagging louder but keeping her mouth there, her hand pumping what she can’t fit inside her.

When she pulls her mouth back up, she drags her saliva down to the base, lubricating her hand and every inch of my shaft. “That’s it, muse,” I breathe. “Now put your mouth back on it and swallow my cum.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m doing that.” But she sucks the tip back into her mouth, the suction of her cheeks and the swirl of her tongue driving me mad.

My hand drifts down to her head to hold her in place before I drive my hips up.

She gags and sputters at the sudden intrusion of my cock down her throat. A protest attempts to escape, but she can’t use that smart mouth to tell me off when my cock is filling it.

Her jaw opens wider when I continue thrusting into her mouth. With the hand that isn’t keeping her head in place, I pin her hips down, my mouth glued to her pussy. Her clit throbs on my tongue, and when a high, whiny moan starts to build in her throat, I know she’s close.

“Get ready to swallow, muse.”

A squeal of protest as she tries to escape my grasp. But then her pussy clenches, clit throbbing as she cries out around my cock, all the fight draining from her limbs as the orgasm takes over.

My abs clench and balls tighten as my cock gives a violent throb into her mouth and ropes of my cum shoot down her throat.

Briar’s torn between crying out in pleasure and protesting the explosion of cum filling her. But she accepts every thrust into her mouth as the pleasure barrels through us.

My cock is still hard when I finally release her head and she drops it from her mouth.

She rounds on me. “What the fuck? I told you I wasn’t swallowing.”

I fold my arm behind my head and give her a cocky grin. “But you’re so good at it.”

She lunges at me and I sit up, grabbing both her wrists midair with ease. “Don’t worry, muse. Next time, it’ll be in your pussy.”

Briar yanks out of my grasp and jumps off the bed to find her clothes on the floor. “The hell it will.”

She floats around the room. So beautiful naked. More beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined or written. She’d look even prettier covered in the professor’s blood.

“Do you think you could kill someone?” I ask. “If it meant protecting yourself. Or someone you love.”

Briar stops the hunt for her discarded clothes and straightens to face me. She doesn’t consider the question for even a second. “Absolutely.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

BRIAR

ON MONDAY, the president of the university calls me into her office. Dr. Bishop’s face is grave when she asks me to take a seat.

My heart is already pounding, even though I know exactly what’s coming.

Dr. Bishop folds her hands together on her desk. “I have some difficult news,” she says, lips pursed. “Yesterday, Nancy Barrett reported her husband, Dr. Barrett, missing.”

My hand flies over my mouth when a smile threatens to turn up the corners of my lips. What the hell is wrong with me? “Oh my god.” The words manage to come out convincingly distressed. “That’s awful.”

“We’re remaining hopeful, of course,” Dr. Bishop says. “Nancy was out for the weekend, so it didn’t raise any red flags when she didn’t hear from him for a couple of days. But when she returned home and couldn’t find him or get in contact with him, she informed the police.”

I shake my head. “I hope they find him soon.”

Lies, lies, lies.

Dr. Bishop nods. “Until they do, we need a few professors to cover his classes and workshops. Are you comfortable instructing your shared class without him?”

“Yes, of course.” Then I add quickly, “Anything I can do to help.”

“Great. We really appreciate your flexibility during this difficult time.” Dr. Bishop leans back and manages a small smile. “I’m sorry to hit you with this news first thing on a Monday morning. And while we of course hope for good news, if Dr. Barrett doesn’t return to Auburn, we would be looking for someone to fill the position permanently. In the meantime, do you think you could run the writing retreat on your own if that becomes necessary?”

I try not to nod too enthusiastically. “I can.”

“Excellent. If filling the position permanently becomes necessary, we’ll chat again about the salary and benefits.”

“Thank you for letting me know about Dr. Barrett,” I tell her, rising. “I better get to class.”

“Right. Try to have a good day, Briar.”

I stride from Dr. Bishop's office trying not to grin like a psychopath.

Because of Saint, I’m about to get promoted to a professor position with actual benefits and a reasonable salary. I no longer need to worry about getting groped by my horrible boss every day we have a class together.

Since Saint started stalking me, I’ve been eager to prove his guilt. To gather enough evidence that he’s stalking me, that he’s taken multiple lives.

Insanely, I’m starting to think that’s the last thing I want to do.

Which makes me just as damned for hell as he is.

A hard knock on the front door, and my heart leaps, hoping for Saint. I shouldn’t be excited to see my stalker, a serial killer, but I am.

I hurry out of the kitchen and peer through the peephole before sighing. The fucking cops.

I swing the door open. “Can I help you?”

Officer Rosario attempts a smile, while Officer Smith remains grim.

“Sorry to disturb your day, Miss Shea,” Officer Rosario says. “We’re investigating a missing persons case. Charles Barrett. You work with him, correct?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How the hell am I supposed to get out of this? “Yes, I did. Do,” I correct quickly.

Officer Smith lifts a brow and scribbles a note on her pad. I want to demand to know what she could already need to write down.

I step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. If Saint shows up, maybe he can find a way to rescue me from this situation.

“Have you had any luck with your search? We’re all very worried.”

Rosario smiles gently, but Smith isn’t buying my act. “We’re still in the early stages of our investigation,” Rosario says. Which is his way of letting me know he’s not telling me shit. He refers to his notes, even though he’s already memorized exactly what he wants to ask me. “The university’s security cameras around the parking lot picked up you and Dr. Barrett leaving campus at the same time. Can you tell us where you were headed?”

“I came home.” Not a lie. I did go home to change and give myself a three-hour-long pep talk before leaving to meet Dr. Barrett at the bar.

“Did Dr. Barrett tell you where he was headed?”

“He didn’t. But I assumed home.”

“And where did you go after you went home?” Smith interjects brusquely.

If she’s asking, she probably already knows. She just wants to see if I’ll lie to hide some sort of guilt. “I went to the bar.”

“And you met Dr. Barrett there, correct?” Rosario asks.

“If you already know where I went that day, why bother asking me?”

Rosario’s smile falters at my tone, and Smith stiffens. I need to figure out when the fuck to bite my tongue.

“Could you tell us about your evening with Dr. Barrett?” The words that leave Smith’s mouth are more a command than a request.

I shrug, impatience building. “We sat at the bar, we ordered drinks, and we chatted. We sat there for maybe fifteen minutes before I went to the bathroom, and when I came back out, he was gone.”

All of it true, and none of it implicating me in his disappearance. If I tell them he groped me and I stormed off, maybe they’ll think that’s some ludicrous motive for murder.

“He just left?” Smith asks. “With no explanation?”

“I suppose he got tired of waiting.” I’ll let them come to their own conclusions about why I took so long in the bathroom.

“And you didn’t see Dr. Barrett again after he left the bar?” Rosario asks.

I shake my head, grateful I can answer honestly. “No, I didn’t. That was the last time I saw or heard from him.”

“And you’re certain there’s nothing else you need to tell us?” Smith’s voice is harsh.

I stiffen, matching her tone. “I’m sure.”

With how certain they seem to be that I’m the perpetrator behind Austin’s death and Dr. Barrett’s disappearance, I doubt they even have Saint on their radar.

Even if I wanted to throw him under the bus at this point, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d assume I’m making up a story about some crazy stalker to cover my own ass.

“Thank you for your time, Briar. We’ll let you get back to your day.” Rosario smiles, leading the way back to the police cruiser.

“We’ll be in touch,” Smith threatens before following him.

Saint told me he’d make sure I wouldn’t go down for any of his crimes. As much as I loathe to do so with every fiber of my being, I have no choice but to put my trust in my stalker.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

SAINT

IN MY OFFICE, Derrik’s name lights up on my phone. My deadline to turn in this book came and went last week, but the final words are emerging on the screen as my fingers clatter across the keyboard. The End is nearly in sight.

I swipe my thumb across my phone screen. “Hey, I’m nearly finished with the manuscript. This draft is remarkably clean. We should be able to skip edits and send it right to my editor—”

“It’s already too late, Saint.” Derrik’s voice is flat, lifeless. “The publisher canceled your deal.”

My heart drops. No. This book was going to be my ticket to winning Briar’s heart. She’d read this one and know that it’s my best book yet because of her. Because I met her and I could write a love story greater than any I’ve ever imagined before. She’d read the dedication and become mine forever.

We met because of this book, and she loves S.T. Nicholson’s novels more than any other author’s in the world. She deserves another story from her favorite author.

“We can negotiate with them. Send them the manuscript now and reduce the advance payment—”

“The contract is void. I’m sorry.”

My mind scrambles. There must be another solution. This book—our story—can’t end like this. “We’ll submit it to other publishers then. Someone will jump to publish another S.T. Nicholson novel—”

“Maybe you can do that with another agent.” Derrik sighs. “Sorry, pal. I think you’re a great writer, I really do. But you need an agent who can better work with your . . . eccentricities.”

“You’re firing me?” A spark of rage as my clenched fist starts to tremble. “We’ve been working together for years.”

I’m his first bestseller. Having me on his roster has led him to land several more mid-career, bestselling authors. Now the first time I’ve ever screwed up, the first time I’ve lost a deal, he’s severing our partnership.

“You’re making a mistake,” I warn him.

“I wish you all the best in finding an agent who’s better suited to your career. I’ll send over the termination of our agency contract. Best of luck, Saint.” The words leave his mouth without a single ounce of remorse.

The email from Derrik arrives a minute later. He already had it drafted when he called me. I am now without an agent or a book deal.

I smash both fists down on my desk before calling Zayden. He picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey, mate,” he greets in a fake, posh English accent. He was born and raised in the Midwest.

“My agent just fired me,” I blurt, worried the phone is about to disintegrate in my hand before I can relay all the news to Zayden. “I lost my contract.”

“Shit,” Zayden hisses. A beat of silence. “Email me your manuscript. I’ll read it and send along notes. You’ll find another agent. No publisher out there would turn down a chance to publish S.T. Nicholson’s next bestseller.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, even though it’s not the contract or the agent I actually give a shit about in this moment.

It’s her. It’s always been her. My muse deserves this book. She deserves as many as I can write for her.

“I’ll send you that manuscript.”

I’ll be damned if I let anyone stop me from getting this book—our story—into her hands.

On the first night of winter break, I pull into Briar’s driveway, our bags already packed. Knowing my muse, it would take her at least two hours just to decide which clothes to bring, so I took the liberty of packing for her.

When I knock on the door, leaning against the frame with a grin, she swings the door open, eyes frantic. “Wow, you actually knocked on the door like a normal person. Look, I’m only going to let you in because I can’t find Cookie and I need you to help me look for her. She likes you, for some unexplainable reason.”

My smile widens. “Mack didn’t tell you? Cookie is safe and sound in her apartment with Ginger.”

Briar gapes at me. “You stole my cat?”

“First of all, Cookie is our cat now.” She scowls and opens her mouth to object. “I sent her off for a playdate and left a note for Mack about our plans. Are you sure she didn’t text you about it?”

Briar scrambles for her phone and her shoulders drop in relief. “She said thank you for the surprise playdate and already sent me five photos of the three of them together.” Her brows scrunch. “Wait. Why does she think I’ll be gone for a month?”

“Because you will be.”

Her blue eyes flash up to mine. “And where the hell am I supposedly going for a month?”

“We’re going on a writing retreat. To my manor, up in the mountains.”

She barks a laugh. “Ha! I’m not going anywhere with you, but I hope you enjoy freezing your nuts off in your shack in the mountains.”

I smirk. “Nicholson Manor has interior heating, muse. Not to mention a cozy fireplace. The perfect backdrop for an evening of reading, wouldn’t you say? You’ll feel right at home.”

Her head tilts, blue eyes sparking with curiosity and even . . . concern. “Why do you need a writing retreat anyway? Didn’t you finish your book?”

“I did.” I hate disappointing her, but I can’t be dishonest with her either. “Unfortunately, I missed one too many deadlines. My agent fired me. The contract is canceled. But I’ll still do whatever I need to provide for you, to take care of you.”

Briar’s mouth falls open before her eyes grow stormy. “Those assholes! Your agent is an idiot. So is your publisher.” She chews on her lip before her face brightens. “You know what? Screw them. Write a query letter for your new book and I’ll proofread it for you. We’ll find you a better agent.”

My chest sparks with joy. Hope. This is perhaps the first time Briar has been outraged on my behalf instead of in my direction. “So you’ll come with me to Nicholson Manor then. Proofread my book and help me find an agent.”

She shakes her head with a short laugh. “I’m not letting you trap me in your creepy mansion. There’s no reason I need to be there. You can email me your files.” She grabs the door, preparing to shut it in my face.

“Don’t make me beg,” I purr.

“Looks like you’re going to be out here begging all night.” Briar slams the door in my face.

If this is how she wants to play it, I’ll indulge her fantasy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

BRIAR

SAINT IS CRAZIER than I thought if he actually believes I’d willingly go anywhere with him. I know exactly what he plans to do: trap me in his basement and never let his precious muse go.

He can forget it. I plan on taking full advantage of my winter break to prepare for next semester, maybe get some writing done, and research the hell out of literary agents to find S.T. Nicholson the best one. Not to mention the stack of books I fully plan on devouring, all of which Saint sent me off of my wishlist.

Through the curtain, I watch him head back to his car. I’m honestly shocked he gave up that quickly—it’s completely out of character. But maybe he’s actually listening to me for once.

I drop the curtain and text Mack back before heading upstairs to the office. I can’t believe Saint broke into my house, kidnapped Cookie, and broke into Mack’s apartment to leave her there. I’ll let Cookie and Ginger enjoy their night together and go get her in the morning.

As soon as I boot up my computer, the power goes out. “Shit.”

I fumble for the flashlight on my phone and head downstairs to the breaker, grumbling the whole way.

Standing in the middle of my living room is a masked man.

A scream rips from my throat. Until I recognize the dark mask with the red flames and jagged scar.

S.T. Nicholson’s.

“Saint!” I hiss. “I thought we were done with this. Remember, five seconds ago, when you knocked on my front door like a civilized person?”

His head and mask tilt, the unsettling white smile making my stomach flip. “Come on now, muse. We both know I’ll never be civilized.”

My hands shake. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Now.” He steps forward, the mask turning his growl into the sexiest I’ve ever heard. “Are you going to come with me like a good girl, or will I have to chase you?”

Of course I should’ve known he wouldn’t give up so easily. He wasn’t heading to his car to leave—he was grabbing the supplies he needed to drag me out of here.

Backing away, I remind him, “I already said I’m not going anywhere.”

Despite everything, I know I can trust him. He won’t hurt me. But nervous energy still somersaults in my stomach. A thrill from not knowing what he’s going to do next. From still not fully understanding what he is truly capable of.

The unpredictable masked man before me sends a trickle of fear down my spine. But with it, a dose of liquid heat pools between my legs.

“You don’t want to play hard to get,” he purrs. “I won’t lose.”

When Saint steps toward me, I spin on my heel and race for the stairs, the flashlight bobbing in my hand the only light guiding my path.

His footsteps thunder after me, making my heart pound. My house isn’t big enough to hide in. Whatever closet I duck into, he’ll swiftly find me.

I dart into my pitch-black bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind me. He rattles the knob. “Muse,” he calls in a singsong voice. “How wet are you for me?”

Son of a bitch. He’s acting out my kidnapping kink. “This isn’t funny, Saint! I told you that was a joke!”

A low chuckle answers. “Show me your panties and prove it.”

I strip them off from under my skirt, unlock the door, and toss them at his mask. He catches them when they start to fall and lifts them to his nose, inhaling. “So wet for me. Shall I fuck you before or after I have you tied up?”

I swing the door toward him, but his hand blocks it before it shuts. He charges in after me and grabs me while I scramble to open the window.

Saint claps a hand over my mouth when I scream. His voice rumbles in my ear. “Quiet, muse. You might disturb the neighbors.”

I kick out at him, fighting his hold like a rabid animal until I manage to break free of his hand covering my mouth. “It was a joke! You’re fucking crazy!”

“That’s why we get along so well. I am exactly your kind of crazy.”

I elbow him in the gut, managing to spin out of his grasp. “You’re not tying me up, and you’re not taking me anywhere.”

“You deserve a break,” he soothes beneath his mask, taking a slow step toward me. “A writing retreat to renew your passion. I only want the best for you, Briar.”

Honestly, a writing retreat does sound nice. A dream that’s been on my bucket list for years, but I never thought I would take one until I was published. I didn’t think I deserved to go on a retreat until I was making money off my writing.

But staying with Saint in his secluded manor sounds like the stupidest possible decision I could make. I still don’t fully trust him. The only two people I trust with my entire soul are Mom and Mack, and I don’t plan on extending that level of trust to anyone else.

Besides, Saint needs to know that he doesn’t make decisions for me. “You don’t control me, and you can’t decide where I go or what I do. You may think of me as a muse who exists for you, to serve you and your creative endeavors, but I’m an actual person with a brain and will of her own.”

He chuckles, continuing to approach me. “I am well aware. That’s what I love about you. No one will ever control your mind.” When he reaches me, I don’t run. I don’t give him the satisfaction. “That’s why you so desperately want me to control your body.” A finger slips from my jaw to my collarbone, setting me on fire. “To control your pleasure.”

I jerk away from him, but I’m too late. Saint pins me to the floor, all the air whooshing out of my lungs.

He drops a roll of duct tape by my head, and I writhe and shout beneath him. Holy shit. He’s going to tie me up.

Arousal floods between my legs, heart pounding. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake to tell Saint about my kidnapping kink after all.

He holds me down while he rips off a long piece of duct tape and wraps it around my wrists one, two, three, four times.

“Asshole!” I shout before he rips more duct tape from the roll.

Saint twists his fingers into my hair and yanks my head up. “While I love nothing more than your smart mouth,” he murmurs, “this time, I need to keep you quiet.”

“Don’t you dare—”

He snaps my chin shut before slapping the tape over my mouth.

With my hands bound and my mouth covered, he lets my head fall back to the floor.

“How would you like me to fuck you, muse?” he purrs. “Like this?” To demonstrate, he flips me on my stomach and grinds his erection against my ass, nothing between us but my flimsy skirt and his jeans. I try to wriggle away, the expletives muffled by the tape across my mouth. “Or on your back so you can see my mask while I’m pounding that sweet pussy?” His words make my toes curl. “Or maybe I’ll make you straddle me and bounce on my cock. Make you take every inch with your hands tied, completely at my mercy. Tell me, muse. Which do you fantasize about more? One, two, or three?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing I’m not getting out of this situation, so I might as well take what I want.

Slowly, I uncurl a finger from my fist.

“Mmm,” he groans. “One it is.”

He rips off more duct tape, binding my ankles together.

Once I’m fully restrained beneath him, he yanks me up by the hips until I’m bracing myself on my bound hands and knees. He hikes up my skirt, bearing my ass and pussy to him.

“Briar,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you is flawless.”

He smacks my ass hard enough to leave a handprint, making me yelp. I try to scramble away from him, but he hauls me back. “Where are you going, muse? We haven’t gotten to the fun part yet.”

Beneath the tape, I grin. It’s official—I am just as sick and twisted as he is. I want nothing more than for him to thrust his hard, throbbing cock into my pussy right now. And he knows it.

Sometimes, he seems to know me better than I know myself. Understanding the deep, dark parts of my psyche that I refuse to admit even to myself. The part of me that desires everything he’s doing to me right now. He lifts his mask just enough to reveal his smirking mouth before his head disappears behind my legs.

From this angle, I can’t see what he’s doing to me. But I can feel it.

His hands part me before his tongue strokes along my pussy. I hiss against the tape, fists clenching and thighs attempting to clamp together involuntarily, but he keeps them spread as far as they’ll go with my ankles bound.

His finger finds my clit and presses down, circling and making me yelp. My arousal drips down to my clit and he groans. “So wet for me already, muse. Such a bad girl, eager to take her punishment for running from me.”

I attempt to yell, the hell I am, but the words are muffled by the tape.

“Your mouth may not have been able to take every inch of my cock,” he says, “but maybe your pussy can.” He caresses my backside lovingly. “If not, maybe your ass will.”

Now I frantically try to get away from him, wrists and knees aching as I manage to reach the edge of my bed. This was stupid. So, so stupid. Definitely one of the top worst decisions I’ve ever made.

Saint de Haas has murdered men. Why the hell did I think I could trust him to tie me up and fuck me masked-kidnapper-style?

He drags me back by the hips, making me scream against the tape. He lifts my hips up to his face, my feet dangling in the air and my hands the only things bracing me.

His tongue stabs into my pussy, making me cry out and clench around him. His tongue works the tight muscle until he slips back out and laps at my clit. The overwhelming pleasure on my sensitive, aching nub makes me scream against the tape, throat burning. Rather than ease up, his tongue presses on my clit harder. I can’t wriggle to get away from him, to lessen the pressure of his tongue on my too-sensitive clit, so I’m forced to take everything he gives me, pussy pulsing with every stroke of his tongue.

Every moan and rumble from his throat sends goosebumps springing up along my skin. My arms start to tremble, and I’m forced to trust him not to drop me.

I’m already so close, the pleasure mounting rapidly with the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Come for me,” he commands. “I want to feel your pussy throb around my tongue.”

My eyes water, pleasure rocketing through me so fast and unexpectedly that my orgasm hits me like a train.

Euphoria sings through every muscle as I cry out in a long, agonized moan, thighs shaking as he feasts on me like a man starved. His mouth on my pussy drags out my orgasm so long, I worry my heart will burst, sweat coating my back as the arousal trickles down my thighs. I buck and shout when he keeps flicking my clit, the pleasure turning to torment as the duct tape digs into my ankles and wrists.

Finally, he licks up the wetness along my pussy in one long, luxuriating stroke before he sets my knees back on the floor.

But he doesn’t give me reprieve for long. One hand wraps around to play gently with my clit while the other spreads my ass cheeks.

I want to ask what the hell he’s doing, but then something cool and wet lands on my ass. His spit drips down to my pussy, mixing with my arousal.

Unexpectedly, he spins me to face him and rips the duct tape from my mouth. I gasp at the sting of pain.

“So I’m allowed to speak again?” I pant.

He flashes a devilish grin, pulling down his fly. His cock springs out right in front of my face. “I did miss that wicked mouth.”

Before I can object, his cock parts my lips, the vein on the underside of his shaft pulsing against my tongue. He holds me in place with one hand on the back of my head, the mask tipped back into place and his groans echoing beneath it.

I attempt to pull back, to tell him I want him fucking my pussy instead, but that only makes him thrust into my mouth harder. Each stroke punishing me for trying to escape him. A reminder that I will never escape him.

The reality of it finally hits me—I will never belong to another man. I will never know another man’s touch. Saint will never allow it. He will never allow another man to come between us. No matter how far I run or where I try to hide, I will always belong to my stalker.

He was right—I might as well start calling myself Briar de Haas.

I finally manage to pull out of his grasp. “My kink is getting fucked by my kidnapper, not blowing him.”

Saint’s low chuckle vibrates down my spine. He spins me and pushes me so I’m flat on my stomach with my hands bound at my side. He straddles my legs before nudging the tip of his cock at my entrance.

I brace myself for the assault, but he continues to grind his tip up and down my pussy, making me groan with need.

“Fuck me!” I growl.

He tsks. “The more demanding you are, the harder you’re getting fucked.”

Before I can bite back a response, he flips me over onto my back, bending my knees up. He slips the mask to the top of his head to finally reveal the hungry, black eyes and perfect lips curled into a lupine smile. “I’ve been dreaming about getting you in this position.” He grinds the tip of his cock against my clit again, and I whimper, which only makes his smile grow. “I want to stare into your eyes while I slide my cock inside you for the first time. The first time I make you mine.” An arrogant smirk as he squeezes my ass. “Don’t worry, muse. After that, I’ll put the mask back on, flip you over, and fuck you so hard, the only name you remember is mine.”

“We’ll just see about—”

With lust blazing in his eyes, Saint sheathes his cock inside me to the hilt.

My breath catches. My heart stops. The words die in my throat, and I can’t think about anything other than every single inch of him buried inside me.

He reaches places inside me no man ever has, my pussy struggling to stretch around the wide girth of him.

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

And for once, I obey. Our gazes are locked while he pulls back until the only part of his cock inside me is the tip. Then he slams back in.

“Agh!” I moan, the angle so deep, it’s almost painful. My legs are already trembling.

He thrusts into me again, making my eyes water.

Saint de Haas is inside me.

My stalker is fucking me.

“You’re everything I never knew to dream of,” he murmurs.

His tenderness makes my heart squeeze. Even in this position—bound and at his mercy—even though he hasn’t known me for long, I’ve never felt more loved by any man than Saint de Haas.

“Now.” With a smirk, he slips the mask back down to cover his face. “Where were we?”

He pulls out of me suddenly, making me gasp, and flips me back on my stomach. He straddles my legs and his cock plays with my pussy, slippery tip teasing between my folds. My wrists and ankles are aching from being bound and fighting against their restraints.

“We’ve established you worship my tongue,” he taunts. “Now do you worship my cock?”

“When you prove your cock to be a deity, I’ll cry out your name in worship,” I breathe.

Saint plunges back inside me.

I cry out, the sudden invasion stretching and burning me.

He smacks my ass hard with both hands before pulling all the way out and slamming back inside. I cry out again, the sensation too intense. My abused clit grinds against the floor as he fucks me across the vinyl with every hard, punishing thrust.

“Just wait until I get you home,” he shouts over my cries. “Where no one will hear you scream.”

My eyes nearly bug out of my head. This is the most intense sex I’ve ever had in my life. And he plans on making me scream even louder.

Saint pulls out of me, sweeping me up into his arms and dropping me onto the bed. I stick my ass in the air, and his low, erotic chuckle followed by a satisfied sigh makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. His hand glides from my ass up my back and to my hair. “Oh, muse. Your pussy is begging for release, isn’t it?”

I scramble for something snarky to snap back at him, but he’s not wrong. Coming on his tongue wasn’t enough. I need to come with him inside me. Now. “You said you’re mine to use as I see fit. To fulfill all my desires. So fulfill my desires, Saint.”

“And what is it you desire, muse?” The hand in my hair massages my scalp, melting me into a puddle. His other hand cradles my ass cheek, so adoringly I know he’ll want to take me there too.

“Coming on your cock.”

“By a masked man while you remain tied up and at my mercy?”

“Yes.” The first plea to ever willingly leave my lips.

“Very well.”

His cock slams into my pussy, thrusting me forward. I scream into my pillow until he pulls on my hair, holding my torso upright while he continues fucking me. “Don’t muffle your screams. I want to hear every sound that comes out of that wicked mouth.”

He rubs at my clit, and I’m powerless in his grasp, arms and legs jelly. My thighs shake violently with each hard thrust. The pleasure mounts in every cell of my body to a dangerous, explosive level.

“Saint!” I warn. “I’m going to—”

He rises, bringing my pussy with him and dropping my hair. I fall face-first into the mattress until he jerks my head to the side and holds me there with a giant palm above my ear.

With his feet beneath him and my ass in the air, his cock hits deeper and harder, splitting me in two and making my throat grow hoarse while I scream for him not to fucking stop. He drives his hips into me like he’s punishing me for every night he watched me come on my vibrator instead of his cock.

“Come on, Briar!” he shouts. “Squeeze that sweet pussy around my cock. Come for me. Scream my fucking name!”

When the tip of his cock hits some magical spot inside me, stars burst in front of my eyes and I do exactly as he commands. “Saint!”

He fucks my pussy frantically, chasing his own orgasm as my pussy pulsates around his cock. His breath hitches, and I brace myself, not knowing if he’s going to spill inside me or baptize me in his cum.

“Now it’s your pussy’s turn to swallow every drop,” he growls, slamming into me one last time as his cock gives a violent throb, making me jump.

I squeeze my eyes shut with every jerk of his cock deep inside me, spilling his cum endlessly into me.

A murderer is coming inside me.

My stalker.

My pussy throbs, and when he at last pulls out, I’m instantly sore. I hiss, rolling onto my back, panting and sweating as his cum drips out of me.

He gives me a lopsided grin. “Before you ask, I know you’re on birth control.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he does. “Let me guess, you also know what type of birth control and when I got it.”

“The implant in your arm. Two years ago, so either we’ll need to take you back for another next year, or I’ll admire how adorable you are while carrying my child.”

I snort and jut my feet toward him. “Like you’ll be here in another year. Now remove the tape.”

He scowls, even as his thumbs dig into the soles of my feet in a mouthwatering massage. “When will you learn that I’m not going anywhere?”

“I meant alive. You won’t survive me that long.”

Saint beams. “Then I suppose staying with me for a month is a great way to find out just how long I’ll survive you.”

“I already told you, I’m not—”

He pulls me from the bed and props me up on bound, unsteady feet. With that, he scoops me up in his arms again, holding me to his chest and carrying me out of the room.

“Saint! Put me down!”

“As I recall, a key part of the kink you shared with me was kidnapping. This is that part of the evening.”

I wriggle my hips, doing absolutely nothing to help my predicament. I scramble for an excuse for him to put me down. “I don’t even have any clothes. At least let me pack a bag.”

“Your bags are already packed. I ordered you a few new things to keep at my house when you visit. Until we move in together, of course.”

I grit my teeth. He’s so fucking presumptuous. “Let me flip the breaker to turn the power back on, at least. I’ve got a bunch of food in the fridge.”

“Your fridge contains nothing but cheese and a nearly empty carton of orange juice.” Still, he finds the breaker and turns the power back on for me, shutting lights off as he strides for the front door.

“Wait.”

At that simple word, he stops in front of the door, his mask finally turning toward me. For the first time, I wish I could see his eyes.

“If I actually wanted to stay, would you still force me to go with you?”

His answer is quick and sure. “I would never force you to do anything. But I would ask you what it is you’re really afraid of—being hurt by me, or falling in love with me?”

I bite down hard on my lip. Fuck. He can read me like a book. Like a book he fucking wrote.

I can’t fall in love with him. I’ve never fallen in love with anyone. I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of love after witnessing the unforgivable way my father betrayed my mother. Even if I were capable of love, Saint is still a stalker and a murderer. The most unlovable kind of person.

Yet I’m terrified that if I spend a month in seclusion with him, I’ll find a way to fall in love with my stalker.

And I won’t stop falling until I hit the ground and smash into pieces.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice warms me like smooth honey as he carries me out the door. “Let’s go home, muse.”

CONTINUE THE STORY

To finish Briar and Saint’s story, read the final installment in the Saint and Sinner Duet, His Sinner!

ALSO BY HARMONY WEST

Thank you so much for reading Her Saint! If you enjoyed it, it would mean so much if you would leave a review!

Want more spicy romance? Check out my standalones!

After Violet accidentally kills her best friend, Wes decides to take justice for his sister into his own hands and turn Violet’s life into a waking nightmare in If You Dare.

Madalyn is torn between her perfect boyfriend and the suspicious bad boy after an anonymous stalker targets her in Always with You.

While Cassie searches for her missing best friend and starts to fall for her ex, Noelle wakes up a hostage in someone’s basement and must outsmart the dangerous, alluring man holding her captive in Captivate Me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, thank you to my readers for loving my dark, twisty romances as much as I do. Four books in and I still can’t believe I’m doing what I love for a living. You all make me so grateful that I get to wake up every day and write these stories. Thank you.

Thank you to my betas for reading early, messy versions of this story and giving such invaluable feedback: Lauren, Jenni, Isabelle, Kelsey, Kira, Jess, Lianne, Kathy, Jaymie, and Ariel. I appreciate you all so much!

Special thank you to Lauren and Kelsey for reading this book multiple times and pointing out all the little details I miss. I can’t publish a book without you two.

Thank you to Cassandra and Shelly for suggesting character names!

Finally, thank you to Alex for every day I’ve gotten to spend with you. Thank you for shipping all my signed copies, taking photos of my books, and handling so much of the behind-the-scenes work so I can focus on writing. I can write love stories because I get to spend my days with you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harmony West writes dark forbidden romance. She enjoys her love stories with a side of mystery, twists, and spice.

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