COMPULSION

A DARK STALKER ROMANCE

FAVORITE MALADY
BOOK 1

JULIA SYKES

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Copyright © 2025 by Julia Sykes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Mayflower Studio

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For the women who find catharsis, healing, and empowerment in dark
romance.
And also enjoy smut.

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 CONTENTS

Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Dane
2. Abby
3. Dane
4. Abby
5. Dane
6. Abby
7. Dane
8. Abby
9. Abby
10. Dane
11. Abby
12. Dane
13. Abby
14. Abby
15. Dane
16. Abby
17. Abby
18. Dane
19. Abby
20. Abby
21. Abigail
22. Dane
23. Dane
24. Abigail
25. Dane
26. Abigail
27. Abigail
28. Abigail
29. Abigail
30. Dane
31. Abigail
32. Dane
Also by Julia Sykes
Connect with Julia!

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 AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a deeply personal book for me, and it’s been a cathartic way to
process trauma. However, I never want to upset someone who might find
the themes disturbing. Please check my website for more information, and
be gentle with yourself.
julia-sykes.com

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 PROLOGUE
ABBY

T
he masked man is waiting for me in the midnight shadows of my
apartment.
I stumble slightly as I close the front door behind me and search
blindly for the light switch. Before my palm brushes the hard plastic knob,
strong fingers ensnare my wrist, and a broad body slams into mine. A
gloved hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my shocked cry. My arm is
wrenched behind me, and I’m forced to turn when my shoulder screams in
protest. The intruder uses his grip on my arm as a lever to control my body,
and I’m pinned in an instant, my cheek pressing against the inside of my
front door.
The lingering, pleasant buzz of alcohol disappears from my mind like
fog evaporating beneath harsh morning light, and my entire world sharpens
in a burst of adrenaline.
I try to shove away from the door with my free hand, but my short nails
scrabble uselessly against the peeling ivory paint. My other wrist is pinned
behind my back, and my attacker’s weight keeps me trapped between him
and the door.
A low growl rumbles against my nape, making my fine hairs stand on
end. The man’s hand on my face slides upward, covering my nose and
mouth. I can’t breathe.
My entire body seizes with panic, and I writhe in his hold.
 He releases my trapped wrist for a split second, but I don’t have the
time or space to fight him off before a sharp clicking noise is followed by a
cold blade at my throat.
“Quiet.” His voice is deep and rough, almost inhuman. “Don’t fight me,
and I won’t hurt you.”
It’s a lie, but I have no choice: I comply.
My tears fall in silent streams as my world shatters, and my masked
attacker breaks me down to reveal the most painful, darkest parts of my
soul.

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 1

DANE

H
er slender fingers are far too elegant for steaming milk and pouring
espresso. She keeps her shy, aquamarine gaze characteristically
downcast, and dark lashes hide her striking eyes as she focuses on her
work. A large, brown freckle marks her right cheekbone, half a centimeter
from the corner of her eye. The imperfection should irritate me, but I find
the imbalance on her otherwise symmetrical face fascinating.
I’m equally intrigued by the purple streak in her long, sable hair. It’s
pulled back in a messy ponytail for her barista job, and the defiant dyed
locks peek through thick waves at her nape. When her hair is down during
private moments at home, the flash of amethyst falls over her left shoulder.
Sometimes, she braids it into an elaborate but functional style that shows
off the bold color.
As she reaches for a paper cup, the golden café lighting plays over a
cerulean paint smudge that marks her delicate, porcelain wrist—a hint at
her creative brilliance and her haphazard lifestyle.
A few blocks away, her tiny, one-bedroom apartment is a perpetual
mess, the mundane chores neglected in favor of pursuing her art. She paints
with feverish intensity every day, until the bright summer Charleston
sunlight wanes, and her canvas is illuminated by her cheap standing lamps.
I know because I’ve watched her for hours. There’s a shadowy garden
that’s overgrown in front of the house across the street from her derelict
building.
 I bought the house two months ago so that I could indulge in my
obsession. This compulsion to know everything about her has become my
favorite malady, and I’m far too selfish to seek out a cure.
I’ve known my own diagnosis long before I completed my medical
degree: psychopath.
But my craving for this woman is the closest thing to human emotion
I’ve ever experienced.
I want more.
I want her.
Body, heart, and soul.
Abigail Foster is already mine. She will accept the truth soon enough.

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 2

ABBY

I
feel his forest green eyes on me, even though I barely glimpsed him in
my peripheral vision when he entered the café. Luckily, my coworker,
Stacy, is on register today; I’m able to hide behind the espresso machine
and lose my frazzled thoughts in the morning rush of thirsty caffeine
addicts.
But as much as I’d like to remain cushioned in my mindless bubble of
steaming milk and pouring out familiar latte art, I’m always aware when he
comes in for his daily black Americano.
His name is Dane.
That’s what it says on his cup every morning when he places his order
like clockwork at eight-oh-five AM.
The name suits him: it’s a hot name for an insanely gorgeous man.
He’s so beautiful that I can barely look at him, much less hold eye
contact.
Sometimes, I indulge myself when he’s chatting with whoever is on
register. He’s charming, with a brilliant white smile that flashes in contrast
with the dark, perfectly manicured stubble that covers his anvil-sharp
jawline. Midnight-black hair is artfully swept back from his heartbreaking
face, longer on top and cropped close at the sides. Heavy brows that might
be too harsh on another man accent his boldly masculine features.
Except for that soft, sensual mouth. It would be almost feminine if it
weren’t for his otherwise rugged perfection.
 Stacy heaves a dreamy sigh as soon as he greets her. His deep voice
rolls through the small café, his English accent enhancing his refined aura.
He moves past the register to stand at the end of the bar, waiting
expectantly for his Americano. I keep my eyes on the milk I’m currently
steaming for a flat white and try my best to ignore the shivery sensation
elicited by his attention on me.
“Good morning, Abigail.”
His voice is shockingly intimate, and the smooth cadence caresses my
name.
Dane is friendly with everyone. The accent and deep timbre are
seductive enough to make any woman swoon; his allure has nothing to do
with me personally.
“Hi.” I manage a breezy greeting but fix my attention on the swan I’m
attempting to pour onto the top of the flat white.
Through sheer force of will, I keep my lips curved in my usual affable
smile despite the fact that my soul is shattered into jagged pieces that cut at
my heart. I brush my fingers over the small unicorn badge that I keep
pinned to my apron. The pink and gold enamel is smooth and familiar
beneath my shaky touch. I take half a heartbeat to connect with my lavender
cupcake and smiling iced coffee pins, too, until my falsely bright grin
matches their whimsical demeanor.
My outward disposition is my customary pleasant smile once again, but
I still can’t bring myself to meet Dane’s stunning eyes. His gaze is keen
enough to cut through the façade I’m desperately working to maintain. I’ve
crafted it through sheer determination and stubbornness over the last two
years, and it’s so solid now that I mostly believe it myself.
Until last night wrecked it, the traumatic experience exposing the
darkness at my core that no number of sunny smiles can dissipate.
“Sorry, it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano,” I
apologize. “We’re really busy this morning.”
Truthfully, it’s a fairly typical morning for everyone in the Sunny Side
Café.
Except for me.
Not after what happened to me.
Proprietary hands on my body. A terrifying, ferocious growl that barely
sounds human. A macabre white skull standing out in sharp contrast to the
black ski mask.
 My stomach lurches, and I swallow quickly to quell the surge of nausea.
I focus on the lingering bitter taste of the espresso I quickly downed a few
minutes ago, when I’d been running late for my shift.
The scent of coffee fills my senses, the familiar smell permeating the air
and reminding me of the drink orders that are piling up to my left.
I look at the swan that I created on the flat white. The stylized bird is
bright white against the espresso-tinged foam that surrounds it.
A harsh but familiar noise starts up behind me. Stacy is griding a bag of
coffee beans that a customer purchased at the register.
“Abigail?”
I suck in a shocked breath when my name in his lilting accent hits me
like a gut punch.
My mind scrambles, and I struggle to continue practicing what I
remember of the grounding technique I learned from the single therapy
session I did in college.
Taste, smell, see, hear…
I’m forgetting one of my senses. There’s something else I should focus
on to complete the act of grounding myself.
But all I can think about is that bright white skull glowing through the
darkness of my apartment in the middle of the night. The fear that tasted
like copper on my tongue. The abject horror when my body⁠—
“Are you all right?”
Gentle fingers graze the back of my hand, harnessing my full attention.
Touch.
Dane is touching me. I feel the softness of his skin brushing mine,
lighting up my nerve endings with awareness. My fine hairs stand on end,
and a shudder races through me.
After my ordeal, I should be repulsed by a man’s proximity. But the
sparks that dance over my strangely chilled skin are subversively alluring.
How many nights have I fantasized about this stunning man when I’m
alone in my twin-sized bed?
The time spent pleasuring myself while thinking about his sexy accent
must’ve warped my brain, because my core heats for him even as my
stomach turns.
I jerk my hand away as though he’s burned me; I’m horrified at my
twisted reaction to his tender touch. The flat white goes flying, and hot,
espresso-darkened milk splatters his crisp white shirt just before the mug
smashes on the polished hardwood floor.
Even the curse word that drops from his lush lips sounds sensual in his
cultured accent.
“I’m so sorry!” Mortification washes through me in a searing wave.
Mercifully, it burns away my trauma response.
I grab a clean cloth, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve rounded
the coffee bar. I’m standing in front of Dane. My frenzied focus is fixed on
the ugly brown stain that mars his perfectly tailored shirt. I press the cloth
against the mark, and it soaks up some of the coffee while leaving the
brown splatter clearly visible.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, dabbing at the stain as though it will make any
difference.
Long fingers ensnare my wrists, halting my panicked blotting. My
entire body goes rigid, and I freeze like a spooked doe.
“It’s fine.” His voice is soft and soothing, as though he senses my spike
of fear at the masculine shackles around my wrists.
But he doesn’t immediately release me. His thumbs rest directly on my
pulse points, and I’m not sure if my blood is thrumming through my veins
from panic or from the hit of intense arousal at his firm hold.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Abigail.”
A scent like salt-kissed cedarwood with a hint of peppery spice suffuses
my senses. I must be imagining the slight tightening of strong, sure fingers
on my wrists—my jittery mood is messing with my perception of reality.
“Oh my god, Dane!” Stacy appears beside us, her tone sharp with
disapproval that’s directed at me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just coffee,” he reassures her. “I have time to change before work.”
He’s still touching me.
He shouldn’t be touching me. This prolonged contact is making my
stomach flip and my hands shake, even as my core heats with feminine
awareness of the beautiful man who stars in my fantasies.
As though he senses my mounting distress, he slowly eases his fingers
from my chilled skin, his thumbs brushing my pulse points one final time.
My arms drop to my sides—a marionette with her strings cut.
It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding. A visceral sense of
relief? Or loss?
 “Look at me, Abigail.” That same soft but compelling tone in his
delicious accent.
My eyes snap to his, and I’m locked in his steady gaze. This close, I can
see the striations of hunter green that deepen the verdant forest shade of his
eyes. His irises darken at the edges with an almost black ring that makes the
rich hues vibrant despite the more muted color palette. Thick, black lashes
form ebony frames around his remarkable eyes, enhancing the intensity of
his stare.
“It’s all right,” he says, a low, intimate promise meant just for me.
“But I might’ve burned you.” The words drop from my numb lips. I’m
so cold, despite the heat flashing beneath the surface of my frosted skin.
That lush mouth tilts in an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than
anything you could throw at me.”
“But your shirt⁠—”
“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” He
cuts me off, still speaking to me in that slow, reassuring cadence. “If you
want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”
It’s not a question, and he’s so cajoling that I almost say yes before I can
think better of it.
But my chest is too tight to say anything, iron bands clamping around
my lungs. The residual shock of his touch hits me like a north wind wave,
and memories of the assault slam into me.
A gloved hand shackles my wrists, pinning me to the wall. The peeling
paint in my aging apartment flakes beneath my cheek, and a hard, broad
body cages me in from behind. His other hand is clamped over my nose and
mouth. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe…
“Abby?” The frosty disapproval in Stacy’s voice melts into honeyed
concern. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”
“Come on,” Dane says when I don’t answer right away. “Let’s get some
fresh air.”
His sure fingers touch my elbow, and I simply allow him to steer me
away from the mess I made with the flat white.
Just like last night, I don’t try to resist; my body softens and submits.
I let it happen.
Something must be broken in my brain, because I lack the fight-or-flight
instinct—when threatened, my body does neither.
 Not that Dane is a threat. The stunning man who frequents the café
every morning is a suave gentleman. Even though he’s still touching me,
the contact isn’t remotely violent. And it’s not entirely unwanted.
I shouldn’t be enjoying a man’s nearness when I’m clinging to sanity by
my fingernails, but I can’t help edging toward his powerful body as we step
outside into the Carolina heat. A soft ocean breeze barely cuts through the
thick, humid air, and sweat instantly beads on my chilled brow. I can’t seem
to regulate my body temperature.
Maybe I am going to be sick, after all.
The prospect of vomiting in front of him is far too mortifying. I can’t
bear the thought of coming completely unraveled around the man I’ve
secretly lusted after for months.
I close my eyes for a moment and draw in a deep breath through my
nose. I inhale the scent of Dane’s expensive cologne again: spicy, salt-
kissed cedarwood. He’s close enough that it blots out the slightly briny
smell of the harbor and the musky scent of the carriage horse clopping by
on the cobbled street.
His fingers finally drop from my elbow, only to skim up my arm so that
his hand rests on my shoulder.
I’ve often admired his hands when he grasps the coffee cups that I offer
him every morning. More than once, those long, deft fingers and the
thoroughly masculine, broad palms have shown up in my paintings. The
secret paintings that I’ve never shown to anyone.
His hand is heavier than I imagined it might be, and his fingertips press
into my shoulder ever so slightly, as though his firm but careful grip will
somehow hold me together when I’m on the verge of shattering. My
composure is already in tatters, my cheery mask cracked to reveal the
anguish inside.
“Breathe, Abigail,” he intones. “Just breathe.”
I obey and inhale more of his intoxicating scent.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask on the exhale before I can think better
of it.
His dark brows knit together. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
I gesture at my name badge that’s pinned to my black apron. “Everyone
calls me Abby.”
He flashes me a dazzling smile that knocks the precious oxygen from
my lungs. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit
from back home.”
I don’t bother to tell him that my local family raised me to be highly
formal as well.
I never talk about them. If I can avoid it, I try not to even think about
them.
“You’re from England, right?” I ask instead, happy for the distraction
from the churning in my gut.
He nods. “From York originally. The old York.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat inanely. “What brought you to South Carolina?”
His smile turns a touch rueful. “You don’t have to make small talk with
me, Abigail. How are you feeling?”
In this moment, I decide that I love the way he says my full name. I
don’t want him to call me Abby. Despite the formality, it feels intimate;
something I share only with him.
My heart gives a weak flutter, and the giddy reaction is so much sweeter
than the horrific shredding sensation that’s tormented me all morning. I try
again to lift my lips at the corners, and this time, my facial muscles
cooperate.
I smooth my apron and touch the unicorn pin like a talisman: a reminder
of the whimsical, joyful energy I choose to embody in the new life I’ve
established for myself in Charleston.
“Better, thanks,” I reply truthfully.
“Good.”
God, that smile. He’s always been too painfully perfect to look directly
at him, but now that I’m caught in the full force of that cocky grin, I can’t
tear my gaze away.
“Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“What?”
His hand is still on my shoulder, grounding me far more effectively than
the therapeutic technique of focusing on my five senses. Despite the fact
that I no longer feel like I’m going to be sick, my brain is still too
scrambled to fully process the fact that he’s asking me out.
For months, it’s felt safe to fantasize about him because he’s too
gorgeous and refined to ever consider as a real possibility. He’s an
untouchable prince, but I’ve crafted my secret rakish villain to wear his face
when I’m alone in my bed. This invitation for a date seems impossible.
Not to mention, he’s a customer, and I shouldn’t date customers.
 “You heard me,” he admonishes, but his voice lilts with arrogant
amusement. “Have dinner with me.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
Gloved hands on my body, roughly groping and exploring my curves as
though he has every right. A cloying scent of cheap amber aftershave makes
the air sickeningly thick, so that it clogs in my constricted throat. That
awful skull leers at me as he takes what he wants…
I jerk away from Dane, wrenching free from his hold. My stomach
hollows out at the loss even as I gasp in a breath of humid air.
I can’t be near a man right now, especially not the man I’ve secretly
fantasized about. His allure is messing with my head when I need to hold
the shattered fragments of my soul together in the wake of a horrific attack.
No one knows what happened to me last night. I barely speak to my
family anymore, and my friends don’t need to know my shame.
There’s no point calling the cops when the masked invader made me
orgasm. Some part of me got off on it. The dark pleasure had been keen
enough to cut deeper than the knife that’d threatened me.
I’m too fucked up, too broken, to be with a charming man like Dane.
“I can’t,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”
He calls after me, but before my name fully leaves his sensual lips, I
spin on my heel and duck back into the café to finish my shift.
I act as though this is a normal day, and I manage to lose myself in rote,
mundane tasks. Tonight, I’ll get drunk with Franklin so that I won’t be
tempted to paint.
Because if I pick up a brush, I know the erotic horror that will spill out
onto my canvas.

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 3

DANE

S
he’s not painting tonight. And if I wasn’t fully aware that her male
friend is dating someone else, I might be tempted to violence.
His name is Franklin, and he showed up at her apartment with a
cheap bottle of red wine two hours ago. He lives upstairs from her, his own
cramped one-bedroom just as shabby as hers, but slightly tidier.
I know because I checked in on his place when he was out one day, only
to find a picture of him kissing a handsome man framed on his nightstand.
That same man enters this building and spends the night every weekend.
They seem to be in a committed relationship. I don’t have to worry
about Franklin’s hands on my Abigail when they’re tucked away in her
apartment.
Still, I don’t like how they drink wine together for hours. I know they
often watch cheesy animated musicals together. But does she share her
secrets with him? How much does he know about this woman who is my
obsession and my greatest mystery?
Something ugly sours my stomach.
Jealousy?
I shake off the odd sensation. If I’m going to experience a shadow of
true emotion—a rarity that I’ve only known since first setting eyes on
Abigail—it won’t be jealousy over her platonic friend.
Franklin is a fool: he chooses to barely eke out a living as a primary
school Art teacher.
 He and Abigail both have stalls in the Charleston City Market on the
weekends. He sells his mediocre sculptures while she shyly waits for people
to notice her stunning impressionist landscapes.
I own dozens of them. Her worldview fills the void of my white
bedroom walls, capturing the wild beauty of the Carolina coast in neat
frames for me to admire at my leisure.
She charges a pittance for her masterpieces, but I pay handsomely for
them—I watch her customers at the market and then track them down to
collect my prizes later.
People never say no or ask too many questions if you offer them enough
money.
And I have plenty of it. Not from my family’s vast wealth, but a fortune
I’ve earned for myself. I can’t imagine a better way to spend it than by
acquiring Abigail’s art.
Until I can acquire her.
I lean back in the rickety garden chair, slipping deeper into shadows as I
watch her through the thick foliage of my overgrown azalea bushes. I lower
my binoculars for a moment so that I can take in a long draw of my
Macallan whisky.
The sun set about half an hour ago, and a golden glow emanates from
the cheap lamps in her apartment. Her ground-floor window is a yellow
rectangle in the faded pastel green paint that’s flaking from the derelict
building.
This is my favorite vantage point; she usually paints within view of this
window, and her art fascinates me like nothing I’ve ever known.
Throughout the day, she shifts her easel to catch the light at different angles,
and I savor each of them. Even when I only have a side view of her canvas,
I drink in her rapt expression as she loses herself in her art. Her alabaster
brow furrows, and her rosebud lips part slightly in a state of breathless
concentration that looks a little like ecstasy. Sometimes, she rolls the
paintbrush absently between her fingers. It makes me think about that deft,
featherlight touch on my cock.
Now, my arousal is totally absent. She’s not painting tonight.
She’s sitting on the cramped, worn couch with Franklin, facing away
from me. They’re watching an insipid musical that they’ve seen more times
than I can count. All I can see of her is the back of her brunette head and a
little peek at the amethyst streak at her nape. She’s as far from her male
friend as possible on the small couch, but she’s still closer to him than I
would like.
She’s just across the street, tantalizingly out of reach.
I sip my whisky and narrow my eyes at her friend.
I definitely don’t like the sour feeling in my stomach, so I allow the
alcohol to burn it away.
She should be sitting across from me right now. I asked her to dinner,
and she said no.
No woman has ever refused a date with me.
The only woman I’ve ever truly wanted is immune to the charms I’ve
worked so hard to cultivate in order to mask my true nature. Usually, I find
cruel enjoyment in controlling everyone around me, forcing them into neat
little boxes—emotional cages of my own design. But Abigail is elusive in a
way that irks me.
Does she see the monster beneath the carefully crafted façade?
I scowl around the next sip of whisky.
She did seem afraid this morning. She jerked away from me twice: first,
when she spilled the coffee on me, and again when I escorted her outside.
But she willingly made contact with me when she tried to blot the
coffee splatter on my shirt. Her hands had fluttered around my torso like
frantic flaps of a caged bird’s wings. And when I captured her wrists, her
pulse jumped at the contact. I’d indulged myself, maintaining the
domineering hold for longer than appropriate.
And when her wide, aqua eyes met mine, they held for the first time
ever. Her pupils were huge and dark, dilated from either fear or desire.
Maybe both.
Thinking about that makes my arousal rise, so I push the memory away
and take another sip of my drink.
If Abigail is afraid of men, I’ll prove to her that I’m capable of
protecting her. She has no idea the lengths I’ll go to in order to keep her
safely with me.
She rejected me.
That’s unacceptable.
I’ll find a way to woo her. She’ll come to my bed willingly, and she’ll
offer her wrists for the shackle of my firm grip.
We’ll start with my hands. They’re more than strong enough to bind her
fragile frame until she’s ready for the darker games that I need to play with
her.
I settle into the shadows, watch her mind-numbing movie through my
binoculars, and formulate a plan to sweep her off her feet.

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 4

ABBY

on’t scream.” The harsh, inhuman growl threads through the haze of
“D my oxygen-starved brain. His gloved hand is clamped over my nose
and mouth, and my muffled cries sputter and die as my lungs begin
to burn. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, making the midnight
shadows in my apartment lengthen to obscure my limited view.
My cheek is pressed against the peeling ivory paint on the inside of my
front door. His hard body cages mine from behind.
The shadows darken, and my lashes flutter. I’m going to float away.
Only his firm grip is keeping me anchored to reality.
My knees fold, and his hard chest presses against my back as he
releases a sharp curse. His massive body pins mine, preventing me from
falling. His smothering hand drops from my face.
“Breathe.”
I suck in a ragged, desperate breath, and my entire body convulses at the
burn of oxygen flooding my deprived lungs.
Before I can find the air to release a cry for help, icy metal kisses my
throat, and my chest seizes again; I don’t dare to draw breath when the
knife could pierce my skin at the smallest movement.
Spiky fear dances through my veins in sharp, sparkling snowflakes. The
chill is thrilling even as it shreds me. A bizarre urge to release the unspent
adrenaline on a maddened laugh bubbles up in my tight chest, but the knife
at my throat renders me silent.
 The gloved hand slides down the length of my arms, and my nerve
endings jump at the perverse caress. Each of my fine hairs tickles as the
buttery smooth leather brushes over my goosebumps.
His leather-clad fingers slide over my hair before skating down my
nape. I shiver at the gentle contact. It’s so at odds with the violence of the
scene that my mind spins into a surreal state. My eyes slide closed, trying
hide from what’s happening to me.
I hear him inhale deeply, as though he’s savoring the scent of my abject
terror. His chest rumbles at my back when he releases a low hum of primal,
masculine satisfaction. The sound of his pleasure vibrates through me,
making my heart stutter and my belly quake.
The gloved hand traces my side, exploring the dip at my waist and the
soft curve of my hip. It splays possessively over my stomach, and he
applies pressure to tuck me more tightly against his hard body.
Time blurs. As he touches me, exploring at his leisure, a strange heat
blossoms beneath the surface of my skin. It makes my cheeks burn and my
breath come in shallow pants, as though I’ve been running a mile in the
Charleston summer.
“You’re wet.” The observation is as rough as his curse. With
disapproval? Or desire?
Something slick coats his glove when he traces the shape of my lips: my
own traitorous arousal.
“Look at me.”
I keep my eyes resolutely shut, hiding from the horror of the darkest
part of my soul.
His fist tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. Little sparks of
pain light up my scalp, and my eyes fly open on a gasp.
“Look at me.”
Forest green eyes glow like some sort of demonic creature, bright points
of light glowering from the darkened sockets of the skull. It stands out in
macabre contrast to the black ski mask, fixing me with a perpetual, cruel
grin.
“You’re so beautiful, Abigail.”
My name lilts on the last. That voice. That accent.
Those eyes…
I jolt awake in my bed, sitting bolt upright. My eyes dart around my
darkened apartment, searching the shadows for signs of my attacker.
 I hug my arms tightly to my chest and focus on my five senses.
My skin is clammy beneath my hot fingertips. I hear my own sawing
breaths echoing in my ears. I taste copper on my tongue and realize that I
bit the inside of my cheek during my nightmare. The peeling, pale blue
wallpaper in my bedroom reminds me of the peeling paint on my front door.
And the scent that surrounds me is musky with my unmistakable arousal.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. It feels filthy, and my fingers itch
with the need to scrape the grime away.
I heave in ragged breaths and struggle to purge the darkness of the
nightmare.
The masked man never said my name during the attack. His voice had
been low and gravelly, not smooth and cultured with an English accent. His
eyes had been black pools in my shadowy apartment; there had been no
green glow.
My emotions are a snarled mess. In the stillness of sleep, my
subconscious melded my horrific ordeal with the man I’ve fantasized about:
Dane.
Because the awful truth is that both turn me on.
My sweat-slicked skin isn’t the only part of me that’s damp in the wake
of my traumatic nightmare. I’m all too familiar with the traitorous wetness
between my legs.
My fingernails bite into my upper arms, but I manage to resist the urge
to scrape away the toxic sludge that seems to roll beneath the surface of my
skin in nauseating waves.
I flex my fingers and force my vise grip to release so that I can reach for
the ancient laptop I keep tucked beneath my nightstand. Even in the
darkness, I find it with practiced ease. I prop my back against my pillows,
and comfort blankets me when the familiar weight of the laptop settles onto
my thighs.
My fingers shake as I open it and enter my password. The website
where I’ve catalogued my secret shame under an anonymous pen name is
bookmarked, so I access it with a single click. Instead of typing out a new
erotic story that blurs the lines of consent, I navigate to the messenger
service.
My heart sinks when I notice the gray check mark beside my pen pal’s
screenname. GentAnon is offline.
I glance at the time on the top right of my screen. One-seventeen AM.
 It’s not uncommon for my trusted stranger to be online at this time. I tap
out a message and hold my breath.
CAGEDBIRD
Are you awake?

My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I flex my fingers in an

attempt to dispel the residual shaking from my nightmare. A pang lances my
stomach, and I almost double over at the sudden surge of nausea. I hug my
arms to my chest and struggle to drag in painful breaths while I anxiously
await his reply.
The check mark turns green, and three dots appear. He has an alert set
up on his phone for our late-night conversations, just like I do.
Iron bands mercifully loosen around my chest when his answering
message appears:
GENTANON
For you? Always. What filthy things are on your mind, little
dove?

My breath hitches on a soft sob at the visceral relief of his online

presence.
We’ve been exchanging fantasies for two months now. My steamy pen
pal found kinship in my dark erotica that I posted on the Eroticlit online
forum, and he DMed me one day to tell me how much he admires my
writing. What started as compliments slowly turned to questions about my
disturbing, secret urges, and then the dirty messages started.
My fingers finally steady as calm settles over me. I’m safe with my
anonymous admirer. In this secret space, I can purge my inner darkness in a
way I’ve never known before. I’ve always had my painting as an outlet, but
I’ve never been able to share my shameful fantasies with another person.
In the wake of the horrific attack, I’m craving safety, even though our
clandestine connection is fucked up. There’s a perverse security in
expressing my secret self with this stranger who shares my deepest, darkest
fantasies.
Three dots appear. I’ve allowed too many seconds to pass before
replying. His admonishment lights up my screen.
 GENTANON
Don’t keep me waiting, little dove. You know the consequences
of denying me.

My pulse quickens, and my core heats. I sink into our game, hiding
from the horrors of my real life by losing myself in the thrill of our
anonymous correspondence.
CAGEDBIRD
Fuck your consequences.

GENTANON
Such a dirty mouth for a sweet girl. I’ll tame that tongue of
yours with my cock down your pretty throat.

My clit pulses, and a familiar thrill dances up my spine—sharp sparks

that prickle their way over my scalp, as though he’s pulling my hair while
he forces his cock into my unwilling mouth.
CAGEDBIRD
I’ll scream. Someone will hear.

GENTANON
We both know you won’t. No one will save you from me. The
threat of my knife is enough to keep you quiet. Besides, you’ll
be too busy swallowing my cum to scream.

For an awful moment, my attacker’s cold blade kisses my neck in a

phantom cut. My hands still as though his gloved fingers are shackling my
wrists again. A whimper catches in my constricted throat.
What am I doing?
I came while I was violated last night, and now I’m seeking to relive the
same thrill with my sexy pen pal.
This isn’t a distraction. It’s not catharsis.
It’s a sick compulsion.
I’ve made myself a magnet for predatory men. They must be able to
sense that some part of me wants it. I deserve what happened to me last
night. My filthy messages with GentAnon are proof of that.
It’s why I won’t go to the cops to report the assault. And the prospect of
scandalizing my family with a story in the news makes my stomach churn.
I swallow against the burn at the back of my throat and snap my laptop
closed. My phone immediately pings with an alert. GentAnon has sent me
another message.
I can’t face it. Sharing my inner darkness is too shameful to bear, even
with my anonymous pen pal.
I scramble to my feet and stumble toward my beloved easel, moving
through my small apartment in a drunken lurch. The soft glow of my lamps
doesn’t fully illuminate the space, but it’s only right for me to paint this
forbidden scene while cloaked in shadow.
My brush moves over the blank canvas in feverish strokes. I make a
desperate attempt to release my inner darkness through my art.
A macabre white skull coalesces on my canvas, and striking green eyes
blaze from its black sockets.

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 5

DANE

ou’ll bail me out if I get caught?” The thief swipes sweat from his
“Y tanned brow, which is too youthful to show any signs of age. He
can’t be more than twenty, but he’s already chosen a life of crime. I
found him dealing drugs to a couple of kids younger than he is.
Even if I possessed a conscience, it would be at peace; manipulating this
little shit doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
“You won’t get caught,” I say, more of a threat than a reassurance. I’ve
made it clear that there will be consequences if he goes blabbing to the
cops. “And what I’ve already paid you is more than enough to cover any
bail. You’ll get the other half after.”
His tongue darts out to lick his thin, chapped lips—a sign of
nervousness or greed?
It doesn’t matter. He’s a means to an end.
“Remember,” I add coolly. “You don’t know me. You’ve never seen my
face.”
He swallows hard when I flip the knife in an idle threat and deftly catch
the hilt. His shaved head bobs in a frantic nod.
“I remember,” he agrees quickly, voice cracking slightly. “I just want
my money.”
I close the switchblade and tuck it out of sight with a sigh before
flashing the wad of cash in my Italian leather wallet. “This is yours. After
you finish the job.”
 His brown eyes are huge, and I swear he’s salivating at the sight of the
hundred-dollar bills.
“I’ll see you in the market at noon. Wait for my signal.”
He nods again. “You got it, boss.”
My lip curls in contempt at his obsequious reply. I command respect,
but I’ve had enough bowing and scraping to last a lifetime.
I turn from the pathetic excuse for a man and stroll out of the alley
between the two derelict brick buildings on Cooper Street. Despite my
eagerness to get to Abigail, I keep a leisurely pace as I make my way across
town to the market. With each step, anticipation coils my muscles, until my
entire body thrums with the thrill of the hunt.
In a matter of hours, Abigail will be mine.
Then I can punish her for shutting me out last night. She’s never been
scared off by my perverse messages as GentAnon before; she thrives on the
dark thrill of the fantasies we share online.
But she logged off last night and refused to respond to my demands for
a reply.
An echo of the frustration that’d clawed at me all night rakes my insides
with an aggravating sting.
She refused a date with me when I asked her out at the café yesterday,
and she denied me as GentAnon last night. We’ve been messaging for
months, and I can’t bear the wait to claim her in every way.
It’s time for me to escalate my plans to possess Abigail.

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 6

ABBY

F
ranklin shoots me a broad grin from across the bustling market aisle. I
force my lips into a semblance of a smile. They twitch at the corners,
but long practice allows me to keep my appearance outwardly cheery. I
learned at a young age to remain poised under the most stressful
circumstances.
I feel my back going ramrod straight, adopting the perfect posture that
was enforced at my mother’s dining table. I’m determined to overcome my
social anxiety so that I can sell my art.
No matter how shaken I am after my awful nightmare and sleepless
hours at my canvas.
I straighten my bright pink t-shirt, reminding myself of the bold black
words emblazoned on the front: ON WEDNESDAYS WE SMASH THE
PATRIARCHY.
It’s Saturday, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s the overall, confident vibe
of the outfit that counts.
I offer Franklin a little dismissive wave, encouraging him to focus on
his sales. My friend’s gaze turns back to the tourist who’s admiring his
sculptures. He’s so much more skilled at selling his art than I am. Maybe if
I were less socially awkward, I would earn enough to cover my rent.
As it is, I can’t survive without my barista job.
Selling my work is stressful, but it’s the only way to share my art. My
landscapes will have to be enough to leave my mark on the world in some
limited way.
In an attempt to be more personable, I gather my courage and step
around to the front of my stall, just to the right of my paintings. My
practiced smile doesn’t waver when I make deliberate, friendly eye contact
with a potential customer. The elderly man returns my smile before his gaze
skates over my work. He offers me a kind nod of acknowledgement but
keeps walking through the market.
My heart sinks slightly, but my smile remains fixed in place. Franklin
captures my attention again and gives me a thumbs-up.
Then his eyes slide past me and widen.
“Abby!” he exclaims, pointing to something behind me.
I whirl, and my heart leaps into my throat.
A man is behind my table. He’s clutching my secondhand Vera Bradley
purse. The purse itself is too worn to be worth anything—the pale yellow,
quilted fabric is wearing thin, and the bluebell pattern has faded over time.
There’s not a lot of cash inside. I’ve only made fifty dollars from selling
one painting this morning, but I need that money to buy food this week.
“Hey!” I shout, instinctively lunging for my purse to save the precious
funds.
The man’s brown eyes meet mine, wide and a bit wild. His brow is
creased with anxiety, and his shaved head is shiny with sweat.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quickly. “Just leave it. Please.”
His jaw firms, and his fist crushes my purse.
I’m blocking his way to the exit. Not out of bravery; the market is busy,
and my stall is at the end of the row.
“Please,” I repeat, more desperately this time. “I won’t call the cops if
you just⁠—”
He surges toward me, and I stumble back. Rough hands shove my
shoulders, forcing my falling body out of his way. Stinging pain scrapes my
palms as I catch myself on the concrete floor.
“Abby!” Franklin shouts my name, and I crane my head back to see that
he’s scrambling around his own stall to get to me. A throng of shocked
tourists separate us, and he’s pushing his way through the small crowd.
“Abigail.” That deep, lilting cadence caresses my name. “Are you all
right?”
“Dane?” I ask breathlessly, turning my face to search for the familiar
voice.
 Forest green eyes fill my world. They’re tight with concern, fine lines
drawing deep at the corners. His brow is furrowed, and those lush lips are
pinched with worry.
The strong hands that I’ve painted so many times reach for me. Just like
at the café yesterday, they encircle my wrists in gentle shackles. This time,
he tugs my hands close to his face so that he can inspect them. He scowls at
the shallow pink scratches that mar my palms. They’re not deep enough to
have drawn blood, even if they do sting a bit.
“I’m okay,” I promise shakily. “I’m not hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he counters sternly. “Stay still. I’m a doctor.”
My brain blanks for a few seconds, and I comply out of shock more
than intentional cooperation. Dane is touching me again. It’s thrilling and
surreal.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I’m not sure if the elevated beat is
because of the encounter with the thief or because of the visceral physical
reaction elicited by Dane’s nearness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his tone low and gentle.
“Yeah.” My reply is still a touch shaky, but I try to summon up some
semblance of dignity.
I tug my hands from his so that I can push myself onto my feet.
His scowl deepens, and he captures my upper arms, steadying me as I
rise.
“I’ll call the cops.” Franklin is at my side, his ochre eyes flashing with
anger on my behalf. He turns to the elderly man who smiled and nodded at
me. “You’re a witness, right?”
The man’s nod is grim this time. “I saw everything.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
I don’t want the cops involved. They’ll ask for my full, legal name.
There will be paperwork. Possibly a small story in the news.
I suppress a shudder at the prospect of public exposure, the risk that my
family might find out about this incident. I’ve learned to find joy in the
small, quiet life I’ve built for myself, and I can’t bear the thought of their
censure if they find out that I have a stall at the market rather than my own
gallery. I’m enough of a disappointment already.
“It wasn’t a lot of money,” I insist. “It’s not worth calling the cops.”
Franklin looks at me like I’m crazy. “That psycho hit you. I’m calling
nine-one-one.”
 “I just stumbled,” I counter quickly. “And I’m fine. Seriously, Franklin.
Don’t.”
His eyes search mine, and his lips thin beneath his neat black
moustache. He must see some of the panic churning inside me, because he
nods after a tense moment.
“Okay. It’s your call, Abby.”
“How much did he take?” Dane’s voice rumbles with his own anger. On
my behalf.
The entire situation is like something out of one of my wildest fantasies.
Dane is swooping in to protect me like he’s my own personal white knight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead of answering him.
I sound a bit rude when I should be nothing but grateful. My mind is so
muddled by the wild turn of events that I’m speaking erratically. I’m trying
to make sense of everything that’s just happened, and Dane’s presence is a
shock, even if it’s not unwanted.
“I mean…” I scramble beneath the weight of his small frown. “I’ve
never seen you in the market before.”
He shrugs. “I had some free time today and was going for a walk around
town. I saw you and decided to come say hello.” His eyes turn stormy. “I
should’ve been here five minutes earlier.”
The protectiveness in that fierce statement makes something distinctly
feminine swoon inside me, and I release a small sigh.
“I really am okay,” I promise. “Thank you for coming to check on me.”
His eyes remain fixed on mine, but he tilts his chin in the direction of
my purse, which the thief discarded when he grabbed my cash and ran.
“How much did he take?” Dane repeats, and his deep tone demands an
answer this time.
“Fifty dollars.” I’m compelled to reply. “It’s early. I’ll sell another
painting to make up for the loss by the end of the day.”
His attention turns to my work. I’m seized by the sudden urge to step in
front of him so that he can’t see my art. For some reason, it feels too deeply
personal; I squirm at the prospect that he might critique my paintings.
Someone as suave as Dane probably has expensive taste in art, and even
though painting is my passion, I’m far from gallery-worthy.
His head cants to the side, considering for a long, agonizing moment.
“I’ll take all of them,” he says with a sweep of his arm to encompass the
entire table.
 “What?” I ask on a puff of air.
His lips quirk in a devastatingly sexy smirk. “You heard me. I want to
buy all of them. And then we can talk about meeting for drinks tonight.”
Anger hits me like a gut punch, and I forget all notions about being
charmed by his white-knight behavior. “I don’t want your money.”
He blinks, and his square jaw goes slack with shock.
Then his jaw firms, and a muscle ticks at his cheek. “It’s not charity,
Abigail. I want to buy your art.”
“No, thank you.” The added words of gratitude are frosty and far from
genuine.
I might be struggling to make ends meet, but I will not be controlled by
someone else’s money. I’ve learned the hard way how to stand on my own
two feet, and I won’t be manipulated financially ever again.
It would’ve been one thing if he’d simply asked me on a date. But the
qualifier that he wants to buy the privilege makes my stomach churn. What
more will he expect of me when he’s bought and paid for my time and
gratitude?
“Let me help you,” he says, his tone heavy with something like
admonishment, as though I’m being stubborn for no reason.
“No, thank you.” My back goes ramrod straight once again.
His gaze flicks over my squared shoulders, noting my perfect, defiant
posture. Then his eyes capture mine again. They glitter with irritation and
something a bit darker that I don’t fully acknowledge. A shiver races
through me, but I hold my ground.
Dane blinks, and the disapproving glint vanishes from his eyes. They’re
warm with concern again, and his handsome face is fixed in a rueful smile.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, his voice resuming his smooth,
alluring cadence. “If you’ll forgive me, I’d still like to meet for a drink
tonight. I’ll feel better if I can see that you’re okay at the end of the day.”
My mind reels. Did I imagine the darkness lurking behind his eyes
when I refused him? He’s so genial now, completely disarming. His six-
foot-four frame even seems less imposing, as though he’s making himself
less intimidating in order to put me at ease.
I suppose it’s a small mercy, considering how shaken up I am from the
robbery. Dane said he’s a doctor. He must have a good bedside manner to
adjust his bearing in order to reassure me.
 My reaction to his offer to buy my paintings had been snappish, and he
was just trying to help me. I won’t back down and allow him to purchase
them, but I am grateful to him for checking on me when I fell.
And he’s still the gorgeous man who comes into my café every morning
and greets me with a warm smile.
A touch of embarrassment heats my cheeks as I realize the extent of my
rude behavior. Dane doesn’t know anything about my damage, and he
didn’t deserve my ire; I’m just jumpy after the altercation with the thief, and
I lost my composure.
“A drink sounds nice,” I agree. “Where do you want to meet?”
His stunning smile lights up my world, and I’m breathless for an
enraptured moment.
“The Magnolia Hotel at eight. Have you been to their rooftop bar? The
views are beautiful at sunset.”
I return his grin, my own smile a bit punch-drunk and giddy. The last
few minutes have been an emotional rollercoaster.
“That sounds great,” I reply.
“I’ll see you then,” he says warmly. “I’ll let you get back to your
paintings.”
The world around us slides back into focus. Somehow, everything had
fallen out of existence during my intense exchange with Dane.
He shoots me one final crooked smile and turns. I watch him saunter
away until he disappears into the crowd of tourists that fill the bustling
market.
“You know him?” Franklin asks.
“His name is Dane.” His name leaves my lips on a dreamy sigh. “He
comes into the café every morning.”
My friend lets out a soft whistle. “Hot.”
I nod, my face still fixed in a silly smile. My mind is tumbling through
the wild events that’ve unfolded over the last fifteen minutes. I’m so
absorbed by excitement for my date with Dane that I don’t pause to worry
over the fact that I’ve agreed to go out with a customer from the café.

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 7

DANE

here’s the rest?” the thief demands, holding out a grubby hand for
“W the cash that’s still tucked away in my wallet.
“You hurt her.” The words are smooth and amiable as they
leave my tongue.
He doesn’t read the condemnation in my calm tone.
Keeping one hand outstretched for the money, he swipes at his sweaty
brow with the other, leaving a smudge of dirt behind.
The man is filth, and I don’t bother to hide the disdain in my sneer.
The plan had been for him to steal her wallet so that I could swoop in
and save her. If she sees me as her protector, she’ll start to depend on me.
She’ll welcome me into her life and be grateful for my help.
Instead, she’d seemed angry that I tried to help her recoup her lost
funds. She refused to allow me to buy her paintings.
Something hot simmers in my veins, and my muscles flex with
mounting aggression.
“She tried to block my exit,” the thief insists, his frantic gaze searching
my body as though X-raying me for my wallet. “I told you that I didn’t
want to get caught.” His eyes narrow on mine when I don’t hand over the
cash immediately. “We had a deal. You owe me the other half.”
“The deal was for you to steal her purse. I warned you not to damage
anything. You damaged her.”
 The faint pink scratches on her palms flash through my thoughts, and a
strange red haze descends over my vision.
My fist smashes into his jaw, and his head jerks back. He crumples to
the dirty pavement, momentarily stunned from the blow. My designer
leather boot kicks his soft belly, and his shocked cry dies as his diaphragm
spasms. Another clinically placed kick to his kidneys ensures that he’ll be
pissing blood tomorrow.
He gasps, but he can’t inhale the air he needs to groan in pain.
Something savage heats my chest, a visceral sensation I’ve never
experienced before. I’ve known satisfaction in my life, but never anything
like this. I imagine this must be what Roman gladiators felt in the arena:
pure, primal bloodlust.
I haven’t allowed myself true violence since I was a very young child,
when my family first noticed my abnormality. I quickly learned to hide my
disconcerting nature. My mother made sure I knew how important it was to
conceal the monster within.
But as the thief’s teeth rattle beneath the impact of my boot, I let the
mask fall away entirely. I’m fully myself for the first time in my adult life:
cruel, powerful, and vicious.
And it’s all because of her.
The memory of her wide, aquamarine eyes fills my mind, and I fixate
on the hint of trepidation that tightened the fine lines around them. Back in
the market, I allowed my frustration to crack my charming façade, and
she’d been observant enough to sense the danger lurking inside me.
Abigail desires me, but part of her also fears me.
I’ve never wanted her more than I do in this moment. My blood runs hot
in my veins, and my cock stiffens at the thought of claiming her while she
looks up at me with that intoxicating mix of trepidation and longing.
The thief moans when I drop the hundred-dollar bills on his shaking
body. I barely notice him anymore. As I turn on my heel and stride out of
the dank alley, all I can think about is Abigail.
She wouldn’t let me buy her paintings. My grand gesture was
completely ruined by her stubborn will. I’m still irritated, but now that I’ve
purged the vicious feelings that’d overtaken me, I’m more fascinated than
ever.
Clearly, she needs the money. But she wouldn’t accept my help.
Out of pride? Or something deeper?
 I recall the way her shoulders straightened as she stared me down like a
defiant queen. That woman wasn’t the same person as the cheerful barista
who shyly greets me at the café every morning.
I’m more determined than ever to win her over so that I can learn all of
her secrets.

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 8

ABBY

I
smooth my dress, ensuring that it’s wrinkle-free. I’m wearing one of my
only designer outfits—a gem of a find from an upscale consignment
shop off King Street. The silky, royal blue material skims my modest
curves, and the high halter-neck design is demure enough to make the
garment classy despite the thigh-high slit at the left side. The dress dips into
a low V at the back, and the warm evening air caresses my bare skin.
I hesitate just inside the entrance to The Magnolia, the boutique hotel
with a rooftop bar where I was supposed to meet Dane eight minutes ago.
This might be a mistake. Now that I’m faced with the reality of this
meeting, I’m wracked with uncertainty. Dane is a customer, and I’ll have to
see him at the café even if this goes badly. I’m still troubled by the fact that
I’ve spent hours fantasizing about a dark villain that wears his handsome
face. He proved through his actions at the market that he’s truly a white
knight, and as much as I crave that version of him, I can’t let go of my
shameful imaginings. I’m not sure if I want him to rescue me or to ravage
me.
My fingers tighten around my small black clutch as I struggle to master
my rising anxiety. I only have a single twenty-dollar bill and a wad of ones
inside the bag—just enough to cover two cocktails. If I choose to go up to
the bar and see this through, I won’t be able to rely on alcohol to soothe my
nerves; I can’t afford it.
 Dane is waiting. I should’ve ridden the golden elevator up to the rooftop
already, but I can’t stop staring at the art that fills the hotel entry hall. This
space has been set up as a small gallery featuring work by local artists. I
love it here, and a stroll down the corridor always calms me. Even if I will
never be talented enough to have my landscapes included in the collection.
A pang twinges my gut—something between envy and longing—as I
stare at the abstract expressionist piece that dominates the wall beside the
elevator. It’s a breathtaking study in various shades of red: fiery rage, sultry
seduction, and the blush of innocence corrupted. It evokes the full spectrum
of passion, and I allow myself to become absorbed by the beauty of the
painting to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.
The elevator dings, the sound jolting me out of my reverie like a
reverberating gong. I startle, and the golden doors slide apart to reveal
Dane.
He’s stunning in a sharply fitted black jacket paired with dark wash
jeans. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the tiniest
peek at masculine chest hair.
My gaze snaps from that little hollow between his collarbones to his
wrist as he tugs back his sleeve to check his Rolex. He quirks a dark brow
at me, and his expression is enigmatic for a heartbeat while he fixes me in a
steady green stare.
I shift my weight on my strappy, black high heels, and my cheeks flush
a shade of pink that matches a swatch on the painting beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, embarrassment softening my tone.
I hate being late. My mother is perpetually tardy, and the remembered
shame of entering every social function over half an hour late heats my
face. I never want to be like her.
Dane’s dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “It’s my fault,” he
assures me in that delicious English accent. “I should’ve waited down here
to meet you. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
He offers his arm like some sort of gentleman out of Regency England.
I stare at it for a moment, taken aback by the formal gesture.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to forget the pretentious, genteel
behavior that I was taught by my family from a young age. But Dane’s
suave bearing suits him, and I can’t help being charmed; he’s not putting on
a performance to impress me. This is just who he is. He’s every inch the
chivalrous white knight, like one of the dashing princes out of my favorite
animated musicals.
My lips curve in a smile of my own, and I step into the elevator to join
him. My arm slides through his, my fingers resting on his forearm.
For a moment, I flash back to the awful night of my debutante ball and
the performative bullshit that masks the rot at the core of Southern “high
society”.
I take a breath and force those memories away. I won’t allow them to
taint this night with Dane.
Shock immobilizes me when he casually touches my hair, trailing his
long fingers over the purple streak. It’s curled in a loose wave, and I
intentionally keep it swept in front of my shoulder as a matter of habit.
“I like this,” he remarks, and his deep voice seems to rumble through
me. “Why purple?”
“It’s my favorite color,” I reply.
“It suits you.”
I flush at his compliment and speak before I can stop myself. “My dad
used to say he would disown me if I ever colored my hair.”
I’m babbling to dispel some of the overwhelming tension that’s building
between us in the cramped space of the elevator. I’m anxious in a way I’ve
never experienced before—it’s a fizzy sensation that makes my body feel
strangely light even as my stomach flips with nervous energy.
“But I’ve wanted to do it since I was thirteen,” I continue. As soon as I
dropped out of college and started my new life two years ago, I made sure
to dye in my amethyst streak. “So, I’m glad I did. My manager at the café
doesn’t mind. Another advantage of avoiding a corporate job.”
“Beautiful.” Dane isn’t looking at my hair anymore, but he keeps the
curl loosely curved around his forefinger. Those verdant eyes are fixed on
my face, flicking over each of my features as though he’s memorizing me.
My cheeks heat again, but not from embarrassment this time; I’m
gratified at his intense attention. I take a quick breath and barely suppress
the urge to lean into him. His spicy cedar scent infuses my senses,
intoxicating and darkly seductive.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, keen to know more about him, even
if the question is a bit inane.
“Blue.” He’s staring into my eyes now, as though he can peer straight
into my soul.
 My head tips back, and I sway toward him, drawn in by his hypnotic
gaze.
The elevator dings, breaking the intimate moment. His fingertip traces
the shape of my purple curl almost regretfully, then he withdraws.
A sense of loss hollows my chest, and I quickly straighten my shoulders
to brace against the sinking sensation. It’s completely unreasonable. All he
did was touch my hair, but I feel as though he stripped me bare. I curve my
fingers around his corded forearm, grounding myself to him.
He steps out of the elevator and guides me onto the rooftop. The bar is
to our left, the area covered with a black awning that shields our eyes from
the setting sun. To our right, the golden syrup sunlight bathes the open
rooftop with waning summer heat. The sky is turning a stunning shade of
pink at the horizon, framing the historic church steeples that define the
Charleston skyline.
The familiar artistic urge to drink in the stunning sight tugs at my heart
like a cord toward the railing that surrounds the rooftop, but my hand might
as well be glued to Dane’s arm. I can’t bring myself to put distance between
us, not after that magnetic interaction in the elevator.
A reckless, giddy thrill thrums through my system. The strange high
should be slightly alarming, but it’s too addictive for me to question it.
We reach the bar, and Dane summons the bartender with a single nod.
The gesture is almost imperious, but the air of authority suits him.
I’m so caught up in his commanding bearing that I don’t immediately
protest when he orders an old fashioned and a glass of Champagne. It’s not
until the crystal flute is placed in front of me that I realize he’s ordered for
me.
I shoot him a small frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was going to order something different.”
I can’t afford Champagne, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I intend
to pay for my own drinks, but this means I can only have a single glass of
bubbly on my meager budget.
A dark brow lifts. “Oh? Don’t you like Champagne?”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “I had planned to order a
strawberry daquiri.”
He huffs a laugh, and the rich sound surrounds me like I’m being
submersed in warm honey. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known
you’d want something sugary.”
I tilt my chin at him, puzzled. “And how would you know something
like that?”
His half-smile is a touch indulgent. “Those badges you wear on your
apron,” he explains. “I particularly like the happy donut.”
I release a small laugh of my own—a shy, girlish giggle I’ve never
heard issue from my own throat before.
“I didn’t realize you pay so much attention to my pins.”
His gaze is almost painfully keen again, slicing straight into me. “I want
to know you.” He gestures at the glass of Champagne. “Leave that. I’ll
order a daquiri for you instead.”
“That’s okay.” I say quickly. I definitely can’t afford to waste the
precious bubbly. “I like Champagne.”
His expression firms to something slightly stern. “I’ll get whatever you
want, Abigail.”
I meet him with my own steady stare, standing my ground. “I want the
Champagne. You don’t have to order for me.”
“What if I like ordering for you?” he replies with a small smirk that
makes my belly flip. “What if I want to take care of you?”
There’s a teasing edge to his questions, but his smoldering gaze is pure
temptation.
I sway toward him for half a heartbeat, drawn in despite my
independent sensibilities.
I find the willpower to pick up the Champagne flute and tip my glass at
him in a sardonic toast. My heart is fluttering, and my fingers tingle against
the cool crystal. My entire body feels alive in a way I’ve never experienced
before.
“Thank you, but I can take care of myself. I’m happy with the
Champagne.”
His eyes spark, and his nostrils flare slightly—like a predator that’s
caught the scent of its prey. A thrill races through me; as though I’m baiting
the beast, and he’s tensing in anticipation of the hunt.
The giddy high floods my veins, and my arm practically floats upward
as I lift the flute with a teasing smile of my own.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his.
His smirk sharpens to a grin that’s almost feral, and he silently lifts his
own drink. It’s not a capitulation; he’s indulging me. I’m not the only one
caught up in this wild energy.
“Come on.” His big hand abruptly engulfs mine, and he tugs me away
from the bar. “You’ll want to watch the sun set.”
I lift a brow at his imperious tone, but my insides are molten. I don’t
mind his highhanded manner one bit, and he’s absolutely right: I would love
to watch the sun set with him.
He rumbles another low chuckle. “I saw you glancing longingly at the
horizon as soon as we got off the elevator. You’re very easy to read.”
A giddy laugh bubbles from my chest. His intense focus on me goes
straight to my head, and I’m in awe that this gorgeous man is so fixated on
me.
We come to a stop at the railing, and I rest my elbows on it. His hand
touches the small of my back, his thumb barely brushing my exposed skin
above the low V of my dress. A light shiver races over me, and I don’t pull
away.
I crave to be close to him in a way that defies all logic. After what
happened to me only a few nights ago, I shouldn’t want to be near any man.
Before memories of the horrific attack can surface and drag me out of
this perfect moment, I lean into Dane and inhale his addictive scent.
“How long have you lived in Charleston?” I ask, eager to learn more
about the man who’s starred in my fantasies.
“Only three months,” he replies. “I came for work after finishing my
residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“You’re a doctor?” He told me his job at the market when he checked
my scraped palms, but I want to know everything about him now.
“Yes.” He gives a dismissive little wave. “But that’s work. I’d much
rather talk about your art.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
He shrugs. “I like being good at what I do. I like being successful and
self-sufficient. The details of my profession don’t really matter. I find that
Americans tend to be defined by their careers in a way I’ve never fully
understood.”
“What brought you over from England? Did you want to come to
America for college?”
“Yes.” He acknowledges my query, but he doesn’t allow me to change
the subject. “From what I saw at the market, I noticed that your preferred
style is impressionism. Did you study Art at school?”
 I press my lips together for a moment, considering him. He doesn’t
seem ready to talk about himself yet. I want to know more about him, but
I’ll have to settle for what he’s given me in those few short statements—
he’s a doctor, he studied at Johns Hopkins, and he recently moved to
Charleston for work.
But more importantly, he revealed that he values his independence and
enjoys feeling competent at his job, even if he doesn’t seem particularly
passionate about it. I wonder if he’s simply being modest about how he
must help people as a doctor. Dane doesn’t strike me as a modest man, but I
can’t dismiss the possibility that he’s humble.
Or maybe his reasons for pursuing an altruistic career are simply too
intimate for an initial conversation on a first date.
I shove aside my curiosity and choose to engage with his preferred
topic: my art.
“I studied Art at College of Charleston, but I didn’t finish my degree,” I
admit, ignoring the familiar shame that heats my gut. “I just love painting. I
decided that I don’t need a degree to prove that.”
I have my own reasons for dropping out of school, but that’s too much
to dump on him so soon. We’re just getting to know each other, and I don’t
like expressing my damage to anyone, not even myself. I summon up an
easy smile and skate over the moment of discomfort.
“My only regret is that I didn’t get to study abroad before I quit,” I
continue. “I actually wanted to study in London for a semester. I’d love to
visit England one day. You said you’re from York, right? Is that close to
London?”
He shoots me a half-smile. “By American standards, yes. By English
standards, it’s quite far. Yorkshiremen can get very prickly about
differentiating themselves from Londoners.”
My brows lift, and I lean toward him slightly, interest piqued. “Oh? Are
you a Yorkshireman, then?”
He barks a laugh, white teeth flashing in a perfect grin. “Let’s just say I
was born in Yorkshire, but I don’t exactly fit in with the locals.”
“Is that why you decided to come to America for college?” I press.
“Don’t you like where you’re from?”
His gaze focuses on something beyond me, and the slight distance
between us makes it feel as though he’s shut off the sun.
 “Yorkshire is beautiful,” he rumbles. “But I wanted to forge my own
path.”
Maybe I have more in common with Dane than I would’ve guessed.
“I understand,” I murmur, drawn to open up to him so that he’ll focus
on me again. Being the center of his attention is thrilling and addictive. I’ll
confess almost anything to get it back.
“My family wanted me to finish my undergraduate degree and then
pursue a master’s.” I reveal one of my secrets. “They wanted my success to
be their own.”
His gaze cuts back to mine, sharp enough to pin me in place.
“They put a lot of pressure on you,” he surmises.
I nod and continue my confession, the words tumbling from my lips as
though I can’t help myself.
“My parents never really cared about my art,” I admit. “They just
wanted to be able to tell people that their daughter’s a successful artist.”
“My family had certain expectations for me too,” Dane says, offering
me a small confession of his own.
I latch onto it like a lifeline. A sense of intimacy blossoms between us,
and the promise of this connection is as seductive as his heated gaze. I crave
more, so I press, “And you defied them?”
He inclines his head. “I’m here, aren’t I? An ocean separates us, and I
prefer it that way.”
I’ve only managed to move a few cities away from my family, but I’m
determined to live my life separately from them. This shared, painful
history with Dane takes my breath away.
He takes a sip of his old fashioned, and I mirror him, allowing the
moment of kinship to settle between us. The Champagne bubbles on my
tongue, and sparks dance up my spine when his thumb brushes my lower
back.
I shiver despite the warm evening and lean into him. He commands my
full attention with only the lightest touch, and I’m hyperaware of him: his
intoxicating scent swirling around me on the light breeze, the setting sun
illuminating the verdant shade of his eyes, the subtle splay of his hand
spanning the small of my back.
A long moment of silence stretches between us before I push for more
information. “So, you came to Charleston to practice medicine? Didn’t you
like Baltimore?”
 He takes another sip of his drink, as though he’s considering his answer.
I do the same because I’m feeling slightly jittery. I don’t want to ruin this
moment between us with inane chatter, so I savor the bubbles that fizz over
my tongue.
“I value the education I received there,” he says. “My time in Baltimore
gave me the skills I needed to pursue the life I want. One of my colleagues
is from Charleston, so when he asked me to move here and form a private
practice with him, I said yes.” That wicked half-smile tugs at one corner of
his sensual lips. “I’m still fairly new to the area. You can show me around.”
He’s charming enough that it doesn’t sound like a command, even if it
isn’t exactly a question. I want to spend more time with this gorgeous man
and revel in the intoxicating chemistry we share. Why would I argue with
him about his imperious manner when I’m eagerly hanging onto his every
word?
“What kind of medicine do you practice?” I ask, anticipating more
intimate confessions from him. “You must really care about helping people
if you chose to move to a strange city and start from scratch.”
The slight shake of his head is a touch self-deprecating, and I think he’s
going to dismiss my enthusiastic description of his altruism.
“Like I said, it’s just a job,” he reiterates. “I chose plastic surgery
because I’m good at it.”
He might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over my head. All
of the giddy excitement drains from my system, leaving me strangely
hollow. I’d been so caught up in the fantasy of what I might share with
Dane that I didn’t even stop to consider the fact that he might not be as
perfect as I’ve imagined.
For months, I’ve been idealizing this man. The reality of his
imperfection crashes down on me, and my heart sinks.
“Oh,” I reply, and my voice is a touch colder than I intend. “I didn’t
realize that’s your area of expertise.”
His brow furrows. “It bothers you.”
I’m far too easy to read. I take a small breath and summon up a genial
smile. My shoulders straighten, and I’m too focused on navigating the
disappointing moment to assume a more relaxed posture.
“You must’ve worked very hard at school to get accepted at Johns
Hopkins.” I avoid his insightful remark with a polite statement. “What
made you want to go into plastic surgery?”
 Maybe if he tells me that he’s just in it for the money, I can dispel the
last of my attraction to him. He’s chosen a profession where he gives people
fake masks to present false perfection to the world. I’m torn between
feeling sorry for his patients’ insecurities or disdaining them for choosing to
live inauthentically.
The image of my grandmother’s strangely stretched features fills my
mind. She’d never looked like herself after the facelift. And my mother’s
perpetually frozen expression haunts my most anxious nightmares—even
when she’s feeling especially cruel, her face remains disturbingly serene
from years of Botox treatments.
We need to get that large freckle on your cheek removed, Abby. Imagine
having the blemish in your wedding photos. You don’t want that. And you’ll
find a husband more easily once it’s cleared up.
The snide comments about my own physical flaws tease at the back of
my mind, but I manage to ignore them and focus on Dane.
His dark brows are still drawn together, and the slight pinched lines
around his mouth suggest frustration rather than regret. I suppose I’m being
a bit rude, but I can’t bring myself to pretend I approve of his profession.
“I specialized in plastic surgery because I’m skilled at it,” he reiterates.
We clearly aren’t a match, and it’s best for me to leave before I get more
foolishly attached to him. I’ve been thinking of him like he’s an idealized
fairytale hero, but he’s just a man. A gorgeous, undeniably charming man,
but imperfectly human, nonetheless. The longer I stay on this date, the more
awkward things will be at the café when we inevitably accept that we aren’t
right for each other.
I drain the last of my Champagne.
He gestures at my empty glass. “Another?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, yes. Your strawberry daquiri.” He says it with warm indulgence, as
though he’s savoring yet another of my secrets. The way he delights in the
knowledge is every bit as erotic as his sexy smirk.
He grasps my hand and starts leading me toward the bar before I
remember to dig in my heels.
“I don’t need another drink,” I assert.
Even if I choose to stay, buying a cocktail simply isn’t possible on my
budget.
“I’m buying the drinks. Order whatever you want.”
 My spine straightens, and a shadow of the anger I felt at the market
tightens my gut. Just like when he’d tried to buy my paintings in exchange
for a date, now I bristle at the prospect that he might use his money to hold
sway over me.
“No, thank you.”
He frowns at my frosty tone. “I want to pay,” he insists. “I want to take
care of you, Abigail. There’s no need to deny yourself out of some
misguided sense of pride.”
“It’s not pride,” I refute, even though that’s not exactly true. “I don’t
want to owe you anything.”
His jaw tightens with a shadow of his own anger. “Is that the kind of
man you think I am? That I’ll expect some sort of favors in exchange for a
few drinks?”
“No!” I say quickly. This situation is spinning out of control. I’ll still
have to see him at the café every morning. I don’t want to leave on a sour
note. “I don’t think you’re like that.”
He fixes me with a level stare. “Who hurt you, Abigail?”
I realize that his anger isn’t directed at me; he’s incensed on my behalf.
Shock renders me mute. In my haste to get away, I revealed a far deeper
secret than the fact that I don’t like his job. A few ill-considered words from
me, and he can tell that I’ve been subject to financial control.
My heart squeezes. Despite my misgivings about his job, Dane is
obviously a good man.
I compose myself and manage a small smile. My lips barely twitch at
the corners.
“I have an early shift tomorrow,” I say instead of answering his intense
query. “I really should go home.”
He considers me for another long moment before he sighs, allowing me
to deflect his incisive question about my painful past.
“If you don’t want another drink, I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest. “Stay here and enjoy your old
fashioned.”
Even his frown is handsome, like some master sculptor chose to depict
an ancient god’s divine disapproval.
“I came here to see you,” he replies. “I have no intention of staying
without your company.”
 I can’t force him to stay here without me. I get the sense that no one can
force Dane to do anything.
“All right,” I acquiesce.
We go to the bar, and I don’t protest again when he pays for our drinks.
What if I want to take care of you? His question from the beginning of
our date tempts and torments me.
Even though I know I’m avoiding eventual awkwardness at the café, the
prospect of cutting this date short is becoming more difficult to bear.
My resolve wavers when we step into the elevator. The moment the
golden doors close, erotic tension fills the space. He stands beside me, just
at the edge of my bubble of personal space. Desire builds between us,
making my skin tingle with anticipation of his touch. The phantom caress of
his thumb on my lower back sends a shiver dancing through me. He hasn’t
made physical contact since I pulled away from him on the rooftop, but in
this private moment, he might as well be trailing his fingers along my spine.
The elevator comes to a merciful stop, and the doors open. Cool air
conditioning floods the desire-heated space, like the shock of an icy shower
after a long summer run.
We step out into the gallery space, and I’m so focused on evading his
allure that I don’t pause to glance at the art that’s on display.
He has other ideas. With the barest brush of his fingers around my wrist,
he gently urges me to turn away from the exit, so that I’m looking at the red
abstract piece again.
“What do you like about it?” he asks, his voice dropping to that
seductive register.
I can’t resist the calm ring of command.
“I’m an impressionist, but abstract expressionism fascinates me,” I
reply.
My focus centers on the painting, but I’m still keenly aware of his hand
on my wrist. His thumb slides along my palm, tracing my heartline in a
shockingly intimate caress. My senses come alive, and the painting’s varied
shades of red become richer, as though someone has turned up the
saturation.
He releases a low hum. “Explain it to me. I just see red.”
I blink at him in surprise, and he shoots me a devastatingly sexy smirk.
“I like science; you like art. I want to understand what you see when you
look at it.”
 “You seem like you belong in spaces like this,” I say, puzzled. Dane is
almost painfully suave, and I’ve imagined him to be a man who enjoys the
finer things in life. “I can easily picture you at a glitzy gallery opening with
a glass of Champagne in your hand. Or at some sort of charity gala.”
It’s the kind of world I walked away from two years ago, and I’m
surprised to realize that I don’t resent this impression I have of him. He
embodies effortless elegance rather than putting on a show for others.
Maybe it’s just the sexy English accent throwing off my usual
judgmental assessment of entitled rich people, but I can’t see Dane in the
same negative light as I view my family’s social circle.
His eyes shutter for a second, and his smirk melts away. “I’ve attended
my share of gallery openings and galas,” he allows. “It’s never meant much
to me.”
His big hand fully engulfs mine, and my mind blanks for a moment as
pure lust surges through me.
“Tell me what you see.”
Heat sinks from his hand into my flesh, warming me all the way to my
core. He’s not looking at the painting anymore, but I’m fixated on it as
though it’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. His intense focus is
centered on me again, and I bask in it like I’m soaking up the August sun on
Folly Beach.
The power of his will compels me to respond.
“Passion,” I breathe.
I gesture at a deep crimson splatter: “Rage.” A brighter spray with an
orange hue: “Joyful abandon.” A swath that’s a rich shade so dark it’s
almost purple: “Seduction.”
“Stunning,” he remarks. His other hand lifts to touch my hair, his finger
twining in the amethyst curl again.
An echo of the giddy thrill at the beginning of our date tempts me to
surrender. I recall the initial surge of desire for him in the elevator ride up to
the rooftop—how excited I’d been to get to know him.
Who hurt you? His insightful question plays through my mind. The
protective, angry flex of his jaw made something melt inside me.
He slowly dips his head toward mine, and I tip my own head back
without pausing to think about the implied invitation. His full lips are just
as soft and sensual as I imagined, and I sigh into his mouth as all of the
tension releases from my coiled muscles. The kiss is a mercy after the
night’s erotic buildup. He’s barely brushed his lips against mine, but the
release from torturous waiting sends me flying. Bliss sings through my
veins, going straight to my head. His salt-kissed cedar scent invades my
senses, intoxicating.
I melt into him, and his tongue teases my lips, tracing the shape of my
mouth before flicking deeper. All of my sensitive nerve endings light up,
and the tingling sensation dances all the way down my spine.
Euphoria floods my system, and I’m floating in the darkness behind my
closed eyes.
A macabre white skull flashes through the inky black. My clit pulses,
and desire shudders through me hard enough to make my body quake.
I’m burning inside for Dane, but my skin is chilled. The air conditioning
turns frosty, and ice sinks into my heated flesh. Nausea churns in my gut as
my twisted desire rises, threatening to consume me.
For an awful moment, Dane’s hand is encased in a supple leather glove,
and the cloying scent of heavy amber cologne overpowers the spicy cedar
that enthralls me.
I gasp for air and jerk in his hold. His hand firms at my nape, trapping
me for a fear-drenched, arousing moment.
I’m perverted, broken. Something is deeply wrong with me, and it’s not
just because of the masked man’s horrific attack.
My body only finds this thrilling pleasure in moments of violation. My
instinctive fear response makes me wet when I should be screaming for
mercy.
Consensual sex has always been a painful experience for me; my
muscles are too tense to accept a man, and my sex won’t soften to
accommodate a cock. But when I’m forced…
I shake my head, throwing off the terrible thoughts and disentangling
my hair from Dane’s fingers.
“I have to go,” I announce. “You don’t need to walk me home.”
He frowns. “It’s dark. I’ll escort you.”
“It’s East Bay Street,” I counter. “And my walk home is well-lit. I’ve
never had a problem before.”
“You were robbed this afternoon,” he reminds me. “I’ll feel better if I
know you’re safe.”
My heart flutters even as my stomach turns. I wish I could be a good
match for this protective, white knight of a man, but I know I never will be.
My sick reaction to our kiss is proof of that.
“I really need to go. I have that early shift.”
His disapproving frown doesn’t dissipate, but he tips his head in
acknowledgment.
When I step outside, the humid night is still hot, but I feel chilled in the
absence of Dane’s steady warmth.

OceanofPDF.com
 9

ABBY

CAGEDBIRD
I’m sorry I logged off last night. Are you free to chat?

M
y teeth worry at my lower lip as I anxiously wait for GentAnon’s
reply. He’s offline, and after the way I ghosted him last night, I
won’t be surprised if he ignores the notification about my message.
I heave in a shuddering breath when the tick mark beside his
screenname turns green.
GENTANON
Are you ready for your punishment, little dove?

My stomach flips.
CAGEDBIRD
Yes. I know I deserve it.

I will never be worthy of a man like Dane. I’m too fucked up for a
normal man to want the real me.
GENTANON
Are you going to be a good girl for me? I’m almost
disappointed. I like a little fight in you. Clipping your wings is
such a pleasure, my little dove.

My core turns molten, and I squirm beneath my duvet as my clit begins

to pulse in response to his crass threats. They should terrify me, but the
thrill that fizzes through my veins is subversively alluring. I’m addicted to
this fear, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
And I want him to burn me up until I don’t have any thoughts left
except for the desire to submit to his perverted will.
CAGEDBIRD
Tell me what you want to do to me.

GENTANON
Making demands? That’s not how this works. Beg.

Arousal wets my labia, and my inner muscles clench.

“Please…” I whisper the plea aloud as I type it. I’m practically panting
for him, desperate for him to ravage my psyche and draw out all of my
shameful secrets. He’ll put them on full display, revealing the dark truth at
my core.
I know what I am, no matter how many sunny smiles I present to the
world. It’s only right that I’m huddled alone in the dark while I give myself
over to a stranger online.
Despite the electric chemistry I share with Dane, he doesn’t make me
wet with nothing more than a cruel glance. Our kiss proved that I can’t
experience intimacy with him without thinking about being violated.
I allow my eyes to drift closed for a moment. Dane’s gorgeous face fills
my mind, and I recall the angry flex of his jaw when he asked who hurt me.
But in the darkness of my fantasy, instead of being enraged on my behalf,
that dangerous frown is directed at me. His green eyes spark with
displeasure, and I tense in anticipation of his retribution.
My messenger pings an alert, and my eyes snap open.
GENTANON
“Please” isn’t good enough. Get on your knees and show me
how sorry you are.

CAGEDBIRD
Make me.

GENTANON
Stubbornness is a distasteful trait in such a pretty toy. I’ll break
you of that.

My breaths come fast and shallow, and my hand skims down my belly.
 GENTANON
Don’t you dare touch yourself. Wait for my permission.

All of my muscles coil tight with the effort of restraining myself, but I
still on his command. It’s unnerving that he knows me so well after months
of confessing my darkest secrets in the middle of the night, but that
disturbing fact only stokes my lust.
GENTANON
If you don’t want to kneel for me, I’ll bind your ankles to your
thighs and force you onto your knees. Then you won’t be
capable of doing more than crawling for me. I think I’d like to
have you as my needy pet. I’ll slip a ring gag between your
teeth so that you can’t do anything but whimper and drool for
my cock.

My fingers are shaking from the adrenaline coursing through me. My

inner thighs are slick with my desire, and I’m aching to touch myself.
But I won’t. I’m enjoying our game too much to deny his control, even
if he’s not here to witness any disobedience.
CAGEDBIRD
You left my hands free. Your pet still has claws.

GENTANON
Claw at me all you want. It will make taming you all the more
satisfying. I can feel your nails sinking into my forearm while I
pin your throat. You writhe and whine, but you’re so small and
weak. So breakable. Your fingers soften as your vision tunnels.
You can’t breathe unless I allow it. You’re trapped on your
bound legs, and you melt into my arms. It’s almost too easy to
wrap the rope around your wrists. Do you hear me laughing,
little dove? It’s no effort at all to subdue you. You’re my tame
pet now, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m your
master. I own you.

Green eyes flash through my mind, and sensual lips curve in a cruel
smirk. My core contracts, desperate to be filled.
CAGEDBIRD
Please. I need to come. I need to touch myself.

GENTANON
Naughty thing. Pets don’t talk. You’ll take my cock in your
mouth and moan around my dick if you want to beg me for an
orgasm.
 CAGEDBIRD
I love how your cock tastes, Master. I love when you use me
for your own pleasure.

GENTANON
Sweet little pet. You feel so good when I’m fucking your mouth.
I know you’re trembling for release. Your cunt must be aching,
but you aren’t allowed to come yet. This is your punishment.
You earned it. Show me how sorry you are.

CAGEDBIRD
Deeper, please. I don’t want to breathe unless you allow it.
Make me suffer for you, Master.

My lungs are burning. I’m not breathing, my body bending to his will
even though he’s nothing more than words on a screen.
GENTANON
Swallow everything I give you, and come for me. Now, little
dove.

I shatter at the barest brush of my fingers over my swollen clit. Ecstasy

crashes through me in vicious waves, and I bite down on my other fist to
hold back a scream.
In this moment of cruel bliss, I’m stripped down to my most primal,
perverted self. Tears slip down my cheeks as I sob my release. Deep in my
soul, I know that this is where I belong: alone in the dark with my shameful
secrets.

OceanofPDF.com
 10

DANE

I
t isn’t difficult to learn how to pick a lock; all the information is readily
available on the internet, including practice kits. It only takes a bit of
time and concentration to acquire the necessary skillset.
The lock on Abigail’s aged front door is simple enough. It clicks softly,
permitting me entry. The rusty hinges squeak as I push my way inside her
private space, but I’m not concerned about the noise.
She isn’t home to hear my break-in, and her neighbors won’t think the
sound is out of the ordinary in their creaky old building. I know for a fact
that she’s currently out with Franklin, probably on her first cheap beer of
the night at the dive bar they like to frequent.
It’s only eight-thirty, just dark enough for me to slip into her building in
my baseball cap without anyone taking note of my presence.
Now, I can see her personal space up close. I plan to scour her
apartment for clues about what makes her tick. She will submit to me. I just
have to figure out the best way to seduce her.
She consumes my thoughts, and as much as I’m enjoying the novelty of
these feelings that she brings out in me, I can’t abide the imbalance between
us.
I didn’t go to the café this morning; I won’t see her again until I know
exactly how to woo her. My control nearly cracked when we exchanged
dark fantasies online last night, after she fled from our date.
Something sours my stomach. Jealousy again.
 I’m jealous of my own online persona. Abigail trusts GentAnon with
her intimate secrets, but she cringed and ran when I kissed her in person.
I shake off the ridiculous notion that I’m envious of myself. I’ll have all
of Abigail soon enough.
With any luck, I’ll find what I need to seduce her during this clandestine
exploration of her private space.
I decide not to risk turning on the overhead light. The streetlight outside
casts an eerie green glow through the tiny apartment, and that’s enough for
me to navigate the small space.
Her front door opens directly into an area that could generously be
called a living room. Her kitchen is to my right, and her couch is to my left.
In between, her easel is propped up without a canvas. She never puts the
easel away, as though she can’t bear to spare even a few moments setting up
when she feels the feverish drive to paint.
Peculiarly, the peeling wallpaper that surrounds me is devoid of art.
Does she find it distracting to her creative process? Why doesn’t she hang
her own paintings in her living space?
A keen, gnawing sensation hollows my stomach, both irritating and
fascinating. I think this strange discomfort must be what desire feels like.
Not sexual desire, but an emptiness that can only be satisfied by intimate
knowledge about the object of my obsession.
I shake off the unpleasant, distracting sensation and take two steps into
her cramped kitchen. It’s only a matter of minutes for me to determine that
there’s very little food in her cupboards—boxed macaroni and cheese is
shelved between tinned ravioli and a massive tub of creamy peanut butter.
The fridge houses a few wilting vegetables.
Abigail has a willowy frame, and I wonder if she makes an effort to
maintain a trim figure or if she simply can’t afford more food.
In the freezer, I find a single pint of ice cream: Belgian chocolate flavor.
Her one indulgence amongst supermarket-brand basics.
I make a mental note of it. Once she agrees to another date, I can use
this knowledge.
But it’s not nearly enough. I already know that Abigail is fond of sweet
treats because of the silly badges she wears on her work apron. Usually, I
would find an adult woman’s affinity for such things childish and a bit
idiotic, but with her, I’m charmed. Each little enamel pin is a clue to her
quirks and personal preferences, and I’ll eagerly study every small
eccentricity that might reveal her secrets.
I cross back into the living room, spanning the small space in four paces
to reach her bedroom. It’s barely big enough for a twin sized bed, which is
tucked into a corner beside the only window. The view shows peeling
yellow paint on the building next door, and nothing else.
Abigail’s art showcases the natural world. Surely, she must feel stifled
in this cramped, urban space?
The gnawing sensation has returned. I grimace and choose to ignore it.
A quick perusal through her drawers tells me that she either doesn’t care
much for fashion, or she can only afford a few basic items. I recognize the
simple, soft black t-shirts she wears for her barista job. There are a few
more delicate tops mixed in: camisoles with paint stains.
I trace the shape of a particularly beautiful spray of azure on the
neckline of a pale pink top. The colors are barely discernible in the dim
lighting, but I imagine the blue hue is similar to the remarkable shade of her
eyes.
My fist closes around the soft cotton, and before I can think better of it,
I tuck the small shirt into my pocket. She might miss it, but I know she does
her laundry in an aging machine that’s shared by all six apartments in her
building. If she can’t find the top later, she’ll assume she lost it there.
I try not to think too much about my rash act of possessiveness and turn
my attention to the knickknacks on top of her dresser. There are three
unicorn figurines in various poses—two of cheap plastic and one fashioned
in clay with a pearlescent glaze.
I recognize Franklin’s signature style in the small sculpture. A sudden,
vicious urge to smash the delicate figurine causes my fingers to flex with
unspent aggression.
I take a breath and manage to quell the irrational impulse, reminding
myself that he’s just her platonic friend. Abigail would be sad if I damaged
her little treasure.
She’d probably be even more distraught if I damaged her friend with
my fists.
Willing my fingers to my usual surgeon’s precision, I pluck up a more
refined piece that’s tucked behind the others. This tiny, rearing carousel
horse is clearly valuable in comparison, crafted in porcelain. But it’s almost
completely hidden behind a neon sign, as though its monetary worth doesn’t
mean much to Abigail.
If the sign were illuminated, the cursive script would read: live
deliciously.
It suits her flair for whimsy.
I think about the pink and gold unicorn pin that’s a constant presence on
her apron. Otherwise, various anthropomorphic cartoon foodstuffs seem to
be on regular rotation amongst her badges. I’ve noted a cupcake, an iced
coffee, a donut, and even a frowning broccoli.
There are two similar food-related pieces on her dresser alongside the
figurines and neon sign, but these smiling toys are plush and stuffed with
cotton wool. I brush my fingers over a velvet-soft avocado and a little pod
of happy peas.
They’re mildly ridiculous, but I can’t help finding them fascinating.
They’re childish toys for a woman in her mid-twenties, but Abigail seems to
be an exception in so many ways. There’s a fragility beneath her cheery,
sunshine smiles and shy glances, and although she doesn’t know it, I’ve
glimpsed an alluring darkness at her core that calls to my own.
A bizarre desire to shelter and covet that sunshine girl wars with my
craving to shatter her cheerful façade and reveal her darkest secrets.
My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the soft fabric of her paint-splattered
camisole.
I force my fingers to unfurl and turn my attention back to her bedroom.
There’s a stack of books that can’t be contained by her small nightstand.
The bedroom isn’t big enough for a proper bookshelf, but there must be at
least three dozen titles in a haphazard array beside her bed.
I shake my head at the mess, but my disapproval of her disorganized
nature doesn’t stop me from thumbing through the books. I recognize some
of the more popular titles, and I get a sense that she enjoys fantasy novels
with heavy romantic elements.
On her nightstand, a copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is well-
worn, as though she’s read it several times. I check the book quickly,
searching for any signs that she bought it secondhand.
No price stickers or penciled dollar amount on the interior.
It’s likely that she’s the one who damaged the binding while indulging
in the story over and over again.
 My touch lingers on the fine cracks that mar the spine, and I think about
her long, elegant fingers caressing her beloved book.
This is what I came for, the reason I broke in. I’ve discovered one of her
secrets, and I will leverage this vulnerability to my advantage.
I set the book down and turn to the final space in her apartment that I
have yet to explore: her closet.
I grasp the small knob and have to tug it sharply to open the ill-fitted,
shuttered door. After a stuck moment, it snaps toward me. Something
lightweight but rigid falls forward, colliding with my thigh.
I curse softly and catch the canvases before they fall to the floor.
There’s a stack of them packed into the closet, and they’re about to tip
over into the bedroom. Carefully, I tilt them back so that they rest against
the interior wall.
There are only a few extra dresses tucked away in here. The space is
dominated by more paintings that are stacked on three shelves. There must
be scores of them hidden in darkness.
That irritating sensation gnaws at my gut again. This time, I don’t
suppress it. I choose to indulge myself and sate my curiosity.
I pick up three of the larger canvases and place them on her bed. No one
will see me through the bedroom window if I use the light on my phone.
The building next door is mere feet away, close enough to touch if I were to
open the window. There aren’t any vantage points to see into this room
from outside.
My phone illuminates the first painting, and my breath catches.
Rough hemp rope digs into soft flesh. Her thigh cushions the bindings
in creamy pillows, as though welcoming the painful bonds to sink deeper.
Another painting shows her delicate wrist, abraded from rope that’s
been recently removed. The ecstatic high of release after being cruelly
bound is evident in the gentle furl of her long fingers: blissful relaxation in
the wake of being utterly devastated.
The third depicts a gloved hand encircling her pale throat, the black
leather in shocking contrast to her creamy skin. Thick fingers sink into her
neck beneath the soft taper of her jaw, restricting the blood flow through her
carotid arteries. Her rosebud lips are parted—a gasp for air and a plea for
further torment.
I’m not sure how long I indulge myself in her art, drinking in her
twisted fantasies that match my own.
 Abigail is perfect for me. I know that I can fulfil her darkest desires.
She’s kept them secret from everyone, choosing to hide them away in her
closet where no one can see her true artistic brilliance.
Does she hide them even from herself? Is that why her walls are devoid
of art, and she keeps her masterpieces shrouded in shadows?
I revel in the gnawing sensation that torments me almost to the point of
physical pain. This…feeling is a gift only she can give me. The semblance
of emotion might be cruelly possessive—and maybe even a little malicious
—but I learned to accept my monstrous nature a long time ago. With
Abigail, I can fully indulge my darkest urges.
I just have to seduce her first.

OceanofPDF.com
 11

ABBY

D
ane enters the café, and my cheeks heat with a mix of embarrassment
and regret. Our date had held so much promise, and the sour ending
has left me feeling awfully hollow ever since.
I’m fucked up, broken deep inside. It’s why I haven’t allowed myself to
date for two years, and I’ve found my sexual release in anonymous online
erotica.
Going out with Dane was a mistake for so many reasons.
So, I avoid eye contact while he’s ordering at the register and brace
myself for the moment when I’ll have to hand over his Americano with a
polite smile. I can’t quite roll the stiffness from my shoulders, and my rigid
posture persists as I grind the espresso for his coffee.
“Good morning, Abigail.”
It’s the same smooth, suave tone he uses with me every morning, that
enticing accent caressing my name.
“Hi.” I attempt a breezy but perfunctory greeting. “Your Americano will
be ready in one minute.”
The rich espresso is already pouring into the paper cup. All I have to do
is top it off with hot water within the next twenty seconds.
“Take your time,” he replies smoothly. “I’m going to sit in today.”
I blink and can’t help glancing up at him in surprise. Our eyes lock.
“But you always take your coffee to-go,” I blurt. “Do you want a mug?”
 It’s an inane question, and it comes out on autopilot after years as a
barista.
His smile takes on an indulgent twist. The smirk is almost arrogant, but
he’s so unbearably handsome that it doesn’t come off as overly cocky.
“It’s fine as-is,” he reassures me. “I decided to sit in and read for a while
this morning. It’s a bit wet outside.” He gestures one of those big,
masculine hands in the direction of the glass frontage, indicating the stormy
day. Rain falls in warm, fat drops as thunder rolls gently in the distance.
Lightning will be striking over the ocean right now. Longing tugs at my
chest. I’d so much rather be painting the tempest than pouring coffee this
morning.
I blow out a soft sigh and turn my attention back to Dane’s Americano,
grateful that his comment about the weather offered me the brief distraction
I needed to break from his intense eye contact.
I place his coffee on the counter between us and quickly withdraw my
hand before our fingers can brush accidentally.
“How are you today?” he asks when I don’t look at him again.
“I’m doing well, thanks.” It’s a rote, cheery response.
I glance up out of reflexive politeness, but I stop myself before I make
the mistake of meeting his entrancing eyes again. Instead, my gaze fixes on
the book he’s holding casually at his side. His fingers conceal most of the
title, but I’m familiar enough with the shape and shade of the font that I
recognize it instantly.
The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.
I’ve read it at least half a dozen times, and the worn copy on my
nightstand is a testament to my love for the dark, fantastical story.
“I love that book,” I exclaim before I can think better of it. “What part
are you on?”
His low chuckle rumbles toward me, low as the thunder outside. “No
spoilers, Abigail,” he admonishes. “I just bought it this morning.”
“You’ll have to tell me what you think when you finish.” I’m gushing,
and I can’t help it. “It’s so good.”
I linger over the final words, and Dane’s eyes flash with something like
predatory, carnal awareness. As though I’ve just expressed orgasmic joy in
the middle of the café.
My cheeks flush, but I can’t suppress my genuine smile. “I hope you
like it.”
 “I want to know what you like about it. Maybe you could tell me when
you finish your shift.”
As seems to be his habit, it’s not really a question. But it’s still more of
a request than a demand.
“Why?” I ask before I can think better of it.
Our date didn’t end well, so I don’t understand why he wants to spend
more time with me now.
He sighs and speaks slowly, as though explaining something very
obvious. The twinkle in his eyes softens any condescension that I might
read in his tone. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m interested in getting to
know you?”
My mouth opens and then closes. I take a moment to consider my
response before acting on the instinct to give him a polite refusal.
He’s reading my favorite book. Maybe I was hasty to judge him for his
career. I recall our commonalities—he also chose to defy his family and
forge his own path.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
My knee-jerk reaction to finding out that he’s a plastic surgeon was to
feel self-conscious my own imperfections. That insecurity had been a
catalyst that unraveled our date.
It was my perverted reaction to his kiss—the flashback to being
attacked and violated—that made me run away entirely.
I still don’t think I’m worthy of this man, but I’m curious enough to
know what he thinks of Addie LaRue to consider spending a little more time
with him.
I don’t currently have any friends who are avid readers of my preferred
genre. Franklin and I have bonded over our love of art and cheesy musicals,
and when I go out with my girlfriends from work, we spend most of our
time dancing or singing karaoke.
I haven’t indulged in a book club since I dropped out of college and left
my old social circle behind.
And I’m burning with curiosity to know why a man like Dane would
choose to pick up my favorite book. The fact that he’s reading fiction rather
than an autobiography or something similarly pragmatic is intriguing
enough to tempt me.
“All right,” I say after a long moment of consideration. “I finish work at
five.”
 His grin hits me like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
“Excellent. There’s a dessert bar on Broad Street. We can indulge in
something sweet and talk about the book.”
I summon up a practiced, cheery smile, reminding myself of the simple
but happy life I’ve built for myself over the last two years. I can do this. I
can deny my darkest impulses and go on another date with Dane.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
“Abby, we’re getting a line.” Stacy laughs in outwardly friendly
admonishment, but it’s a touch too sharp to be casual.
I’m being an annoying colleague. The drink orders have piled up during
my short conversation with Dane.
“I’ll see you at the end of your shift,” he says, then strolls away with his
Americano and book in hand.
He settles into a leather armchair and reads for hours. I struggle to focus
on my job when he’s flipping the pages with those deft fingers. A few times,
my mind wanders to what that careful, almost reverent touch would feel
like on my own spine rather than the hardcover. I think I might be a little
jealous of a book, and that’s mildly ridiculous.

OceanofPDF.com
 12

DANE

A
bigail is still wearing her basic black t-shirt and jeans from her barista
shift, but I can’t stop staring at her as though she’s the most stunning
woman I’ve ever seen. Her apron is gone, and I almost miss the sight
of her silly badges—the grinning iced coffee had accompanied her unicorn
and lavender cupcake today.
But her sunny smile is bright enough to eclipse the cheery expressions
on her shiny pins.
I blink and try to ease the hungry set of my jaw, arranging my features
into a genial smile that won’t scare her. During our date at The Magnolia,
she seemed to enjoy dancing on the edge of my savage energy, so I didn’t
bother to fully harness it. With Abigail, I’m able to let the mask slip ever so
slightly, and she doesn’t cringe in horror.
Something spooked her when we kissed for the first time, but I know
that she revels in dark sensuality. I just have to tread carefully until she’s
ready to trust me enough to accept the deviant games that we both want to
play.
She offers a breezy goodbye to her coworkers and then rounds the
coffee bar to approach me. As she closes the distance between us, she tugs
loose the tie that gathers her thick hair into a messy bun for work. Sable,
wavy locks cascade down her back, and that perfect amethyst curl falls in
front of her shoulder. She winds it around her slender finger, smoothing a
few errant strands.
 My own finger tingles with the memory of the silken texture of that
curl. I want to wrap it around my fist and anchor her in place while I claim
a ruthless kiss from those perfect, rosebud lips. They’re soft and tinged with
a subtle pink shade from her customary strawberry Chapstick that she
always keeps tucked in her pocket. Even her lip balm has a sweet flavor.
My own mouth waters in anticipation of tasting the sweetness on her
lips and sampling their soft, pliant shape. I’ll memorize every caress that
makes her sigh and submit. Abigail will melt for me by the end of our date
tonight.
Once my little bird flies willingly into her cage, I’ll gently clip her
wings so that I can keep her safely locked away. She’ll never want to be
free because I’ll keep her so drunk on pleasure that she’ll be utterly devoted
to me. I’ll keep and protect her, and she’ll have no reason to think of
leaving me.
I blink again to clear the dark, ruthless glint from my eyes. She seems
uncannily capable of reading me, and I’m determined to appear
nonthreatening today: a perfect gentleman.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says, her voice taking on the slightly softer
tone she uses when she’s feeling shy around me. “We had a rush in the last
twenty minutes, so I needed to stay for a while longer before clocking out.”
Her gaze is hesitant when her azure eyes meet mine. “Do you still have time
for dessert?”
“Of course.”
I offer her my most charming smile, and satisfaction warms my chest
when her lovely face brightens in an answering grin.
Abigail is attuned to my moods. She often mirrors the people around her
—I’ve witnessed her empathic nature many times when she’s dealt with
customers at the café. She smiles when they smile; her eyes tighten with
anxiety when they complain; and one time, I noted a slight quiver in her
lower lip when her coworker burst into tears during a particularly stressful
morning.
A strange, sour feeling turns my stomach. Jealousy again.
Even the thought of anyone else holding sway over her emotions is
enough to make my cruelest, most possessive instincts sharpen.
I keep my smile in place and remind myself that I’m in control of this
seduction, not her. My will is strong enough to regulate my responses to
her, even if these feelings she brings out in me are almost as unnerving as
they are addicting.
“Ready to go?” I prompt her before my mask slips again.
She nods and falls into step beside me. I barely suppress the urge to rest
my hand on her lower back while we walk out of the café. At the very least,
she allows me to open the door for her and even thanks me for the gesture.
So, Abigail isn’t completely averse to being taken care of. It’s not
entirely feminist sensibilities that made her prickly when I tried to buy her
paintings and her drinks during our date.
Abigail will surrender eventually—she will eagerly accompany me on
lavish dates where I provide her with everything she could possibly want—
but for now, I’m irritated that I have to be cautious.
On our date, it became clear that she’s been subject to financial control.
Is that why she was skittish after our kiss too?
Some bastard hurt her in the past, and that’s getting in my way of
winning her trust.
Her abuser will face my retribution. It’s only a matter of time before I
get his name.
Then I can work out some of these unpleasant feelings of frustration and
resentment. I’ll extract my revenge in blood and soothe myself with his
screams.
The memory of the wild rush that’d overtaken me when I beat the thief
flashes through my mind. The power and savagery of the violent moment
had been the most ecstatic high I’ve ever experienced.
Until my kiss with Abigail eclipsed it.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her tone mildly curious but
her gaze a bit wary.
Internally, I curse my slip-up, but I quickly ease the sharpest edge of my
smirk.
“I’m wondering what dessert you’ll order,” I reply smoothly.
“Something with strawberry?”
Her soft laugh is the sweetest music, and she relaxes at my side, her
steps lengthening slightly to match my stride perfectly.
“No daquiris for me this evening,” she says. “I have another early shift
tomorrow. But I can always indulge in something chocolatey.” Her gaze
takes on a slightly unfocused, dreamy quality. “I hope they have peanut
butter gelato today too.”
 The way her voice deepens is pure temptation, like she’s experiencing
physical pleasure at just the thought of her favorite sweet combination.
It’s the smallest bit of new knowledge—I’d noted her Belgian chocolate
ice cream and her huge jar of creamy peanut butter when I broke into her
apartment. But the fact that she blends the decadent treats and experiences
such bliss is just as addictive to me as her soft sigh of arousal when I
caressed her spine on our first date.
“What do you think you’ll order?” she asks, her gaze focusing on me
again. Her eyes are wide and guileless; I love how open she is with her
emotions, and I’m hungry for more.
“I’ll have to try what you like,” I say. “Chocolate and peanut butter
together is a very American combination.”
She cocks her head at me. “Oh? What would you have back home in
England?”
“Mr. Whippy.”
“What?”
I shake my head. I should’ve known she wouldn’t get the reference.
“It’s an ice cream that we used to have at the seaside when I was a boy. I’m
sure your chocolate-and-peanut-butter combo will be much sweeter.”
In truth, I don’t like overly sweet things. Food is fuel, and I care more
about staying physically fit than treating myself to unhealthy options. My
self-control has never been remotely tempted by dessert before, but now,
I’m curious to experience the flavors that make Abigail feel such sinful
pleasure.
“Did you go to the beach a lot when you were growing up?” she asks as
we wait to cross the street, her clear blue gaze swinging back to mine in the
moment of stillness. “My hometown, Georgetown, is just an hour and a half
drive away from Charleston. We spent all of our free time on the beach
when I was little.”
“The North Sea is a bit colder than the southern Atlantic,” I reply in
traditional British understatement. “It’s a very different experience to the
South Carolina coast. I never cared for it much.”
“I’d love to see it one day.” She sighs the words, and that dreamy
expression softens her gaze again. “I’m fascinated by Whitby. Have you
ever been?”
I blink at her in surprise. Whitby was a staple day out during my
childhood, and just thinking about the dreary place fills my memories with
scents of briny sea and newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. “Many times.
How do you know about Whitby?”
She cocks a brow at me, as though the answer is obvious. “The ruined
abbey was the inspiration for Dracula. All of the pictures I’ve seen online
are breathtaking.”
I’m about to rebut that the pictures don’t show how cold, windy, and
rainy it is, but I’m too entranced by her innocent enthusiasm to ruin her
fantasies about the seaside town.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you like Dracula,” I say instead.
I’m starting to sense a darker theme to the fiction she prefers. I already
know that she’s perfect for me, and I’m relishing each new revelation about
her forbidden desires.
The crossing light turns green, and we finish walking the short distance
to the dessert bar.
“I have to admit that I was surprised when you walked into the café
with a copy of Addie LaRue,” she says. “What made you pick up the
book?”
“It’s a bestseller, isn’t it?” I say smoothly, covering the strange,
disconcerting sensation that the pavement just dropped two feet beneath my
next step.
Why didn’t I think that she might ask me this?
I manage a casual shrug. “I was browsing the bookstore, and I thought
the premise sounded interesting.”
We arrive at Delia’s Dessert Bar, so I open the door and gesture for her
to enter. It’s warm now that the storm has broken, and there’s a sizeable
queue of overheated tourists waiting to buy ice cream. There are too many
people ahead of us for me to distract her by placing an order immediately.
She’s still looking at me with that clear, keen blue gaze. She’s
completely open to me, but the sense that she’s peering deeper than my
mask makes my chest tighten.
Anxiety?
I definitely don’t like this particular feeling.
“Do you usually read fiction?” she asks. “For some reason, I would’ve
pictured you with some politician’s autobiography in your hand instead of
Addie LaRue.”
I shake my head and don’t bother to hide the slight twist of distaste that
curls my lip. “You’re right, I usually prefer nonfiction. But I’m not
interested in other people’s self-indulgent ramblings. I like theoretical
physics, particularly astrophysics.”
Her smile takes on a rueful tilt. “Science isn’t my strong suit,” she says,
as though it’s an admission of a personal failing. “I’ve always been more
into the arts.”
She sees the natural world in a way that I’ve never considered before,
and she captures the darkest aspects of human nature in the stunning
paintings that she keeps hidden in her closet. I’m in awe of her art, but she’s
not ready to hear that yet.
“I like understanding how things work,” I explain instead. “Knowledge
is power. But I’m starting to appreciate that the arts have their own power
too.”
Our gazes are locked, and her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink.
It’s the ideal complement to the stunning aquatic blue shade of her eyes.
The soft, rosy hue is enhanced by the cool purple tones of her amethyst
curl. She’s completely beguiling and utterly perfect.
It’s all I can do to stop the impulse to touch her cheek and feel the
warmth of her blush.
Her voice is a bit breathless when she speaks, as though she’s just as
affected by our intense connection as I am. “If you prefer nonfiction, what
made you pick up Addie LaRue?”
She’s not ready to let this go.
“You’ll have to tell me what you love about the book if you want to
know the answer to that,” I taunt, delaying the moment when I’ll have to
figure out a proper explanation for my reading choice.
She tries for an exasperated huff, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh.
“Do I have to beg for more information?”
I release a low hum, and I don’t resist the urge to touch my forefingers
to her wrist, testing her racing pulse with the lightest contact. “I don’t hear
you begging yet.”
“Can I take your order?” The woman behind the counter has raised her
voice pointedly. I wonder if it’s the first time she’s asked.
I’ve been so entranced by Abigail that I almost forgot where we are.
“I’ll have a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of peanut butter, please,” she
requests, her cheeks still flushed as she answers the irked server. “With
Reese’s Pieces.” She adds yet another sugary confection to the sweet treat.
 My tongue already curls at the prospect of so much processed sugar, but
I smile at the woman too. “I’ll have the same.”
Abigail shoots me a teasing glance. “I thought chocolate and peanut
butter might be too American for your English sensibilities.”
I don’t bother to hold back the wolfish edge to my grin. “How else will I
learn to fit in with the locals? Teach me your ways.”
She shakes her head at me. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re a
difficult student?”
I fix my features in an expression of mock-disappointment. “I’ll have
you know that I was head boy at Eton.”
Her brows lift. “Is that supposed to mean something in American
English?”
She’s not impressed by my posh upbringing, and I’m starting to realize
that I like this about her. There’s a reason I left all that bullshit behind and
moved an ocean away from my family and their expectations of me.
I shrug. “No, it doesn’t mean anything, really. Other than the fact that
I’m a model student.”
The server hands over our heaped scoops of ice cream, and I suppress a
frown when I allow Abigail to pay for her own in change—likely from the
meager tip jar at the café.
She blows out a soft sigh, and her expression drops to something more
serious. Her eyes focus on her dessert, denying me the access to peer into
her soul.
“I figured you must’ve been good at school to get accepted at Johns
Hopkins.” Her tone is polite but cool.
Fuck. We’re going to talk about my job again.
“Are you going to tell me why my career bothers you so much?” I ask,
keeping my own voice bland and nonconfrontational as I open the door for
her.
She takes a moment to soak in the sunlight on her face before she
replies. Her porcelain skin is luminous beneath the bright summer sun,
practically glowing against the midnight black of her soft cotton shirt. Rich
jewel tones would suit her complexion better, but she’s breathtaking even in
these simple, understated clothes—alluring like my own personal sea
nymph.
She keeps her gaze on her dessert rather than meeting my eye. “I would
never change my appearance to be more pleasing to others.”
 I study her lovely profile: the gentle slope of her nose, the sharpness of
her cheekbone with that fascinating freckle, and her slightly stubborn chin
that offsets the soft definition of her jawline. Her petal-soft lips are
understated—I have plenty of patients who might ask for fillers with that
mouth to keep up with current trends. But Abigail’s Cupid’s bow is sharply
defined and symmetrical. Her lips are perfectly in balance with her large
eyes and the delicate taper of her jaw.
“You value authenticity,” I surmise rather than extoling her beauty. I
don’t want her to retreat into herself if I compliment her physical attributes
when I sense that she’s talking about something much deeper.
Her gaze finally meets mine, as though she’s surprised at my incisive
remark. “I don’t like fake people,” she admits.
“I meant what I said before,” I assert. “It’s just a job. I do it because I’m
good at it.”
She presses her lips together, dissatisfied with my answer. “You don’t
care at all about what you do? You must’ve studied very hard for something
you’re not passionate about.”
“Are you passionate about being a barista?” I challenge, my own lips
pursing in irritation at her imbalanced assessment.
She blinks. “No. But it’s how I pay my bills. It allows me the time and
creative energy I need to paint.”
“And my job affords me the lifestyle I desire,” I counter.
She’s quiet for a beat, and I struggle to maintain eye contact as she
stares straight into me. This connection goes both ways, and the power of
our intimacy unnerves me.
Something squeezes in the center of my chest, and I can’t draw breath
until she offers me absolution. I need her approval more than I need
oxygen, and I’m bizarrely cold in the absence of her sunshine smile.

OceanofPDF.com
 13

ABBY

B
eing the center of Dane’s focus is like riding a rollercoaster—thrilling
but also scary in its intensity.
On our first date, I made assumptions about his career and decided
to get away before I became attached. The prospect of being subject to
casual cruelty and emotional manipulation regarding my personal
appearance had been too difficult to bear.
My response to his profession had been more about my own damage
than about his choices.
But Dane isn’t my family. If anything, we both have trauma inflicted by
the people closest to us.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way. I recall his confession
about his own fraught relationship with his family.
He’d started to open up to me, but I ran at the first hint of personal
conflict.
“You value your independence, too,” I finally murmur. “You said you
left your family behind in England and chose a different path for yourself. I
understand. And I’m sorry I judged you.”
He draws in a sharp breath, as though he’s shocked at my apology.
I suppose I didn’t do a very good job of maintaining a polite veneer
when I first found out about his area of expertise.
“What do you like to do in your free time?” I ask. He said that his career
affords him the lifestyle he wants.
 I work so that I can paint. I want to know what he values if he isn’t
passionate about being a doctor.
He shoots me a sly smile. “Reading.”
He’s practically taunting me to ask why he picked up Addie LaRue
again.
I don’t hear you begging yet.
Heat flushes my cheeks as his suggestive words echo through my
thoughts. They’re so similar to GentAnon’s dirty messages.
GENTANON
Making demands? That’s not how this works. Beg.

I shake my head slightly, as though I can toss away the memory of the
shameful exchange with my online pen pal. I’m with Dane now, and he’s
far too refined and protective to ever indulge in fucked-up fantasies about
hurting me while he gives me forbidden pleasure. I might picture his
heartbreaking face and stunning eyes when I’m alone in my bed, but I have
to be careful to differentiate that fantasy of him from the real man.
My skin is strangely tight and hot, so I take a bite of my ice cream to
cool down.
We’re walking through Battery Park now, approaching the iconic
gazebo. In a rare moment of luck, no one is taking up the space for their
wedding photos. Dane walks toward it with confident strides, and I keep
pace, eager to claim the shady spot before someone else comes along.
“What chapter are you on?” I ask in between decadent bites of my
sugary treat. “I don’t want to spoil anything for you.”
We come to a stop inside the gazebo, and Dane sets his cup of ice cream
on the railing so that he can open the book. He’s still holding it in his other
hand, and he checks the page he’s bookmarked with a simple leather cord.
“Your gelato is melting,” I remark before he can tell me what scene he
was reading when my shift ended.
He plucks my now-empty cup from my hand and replaces it with his.
“This is for you.”
My lips quirk at the corners in a teasing smile. He’s only tried one tiny
bite, so he’s clearly not enjoying it. “Too American for you?”
His low chuckle rumbles over my skin like a palpable caress. “I don’t
have much of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “I’d much rather see you enjoy it.”
“It would be a shame to waste it,” I say.
 The texture of the creamy treat is velvety from softening in the summer
heat, and the candy topping crunches in a delicious contrast.
I don’t realize that I’ve released a soft moan of pure delight until his jaw
tightens with his own hunger. I tear my gaze away, embarrassed at the
almost wanton noise I just made. It feels practically erotic when he’s
looking at me like he wants to devour me.
I take another big bite of my gelato and look out at the park. Lacy
Spanish moss drips from the elegantly curving branches of ancient live
oaks. I focus on the gossamer texture of the moss and imprint this moment
in my memory; I’ll paint the scene later, expressing all the intense feelings
that I’m struggling to contain while he watches me eat the last of the ice
cream like it’s a sensual act.
The electric chemistry that danced between us on our first date crackles
along my flesh. He’s so close that we’re almost touching, his corded
forearms resting on the delicate white railing. The pose is casual, but I’m
practically vibrating with unspent, giddy energy.
My fingers tremble slightly as he takes the empty cup from my hand,
his body heat teasing at the edge of my personal space without making
direct contact. He sets it down beside the other gelato cup and turns his
attention to my favorite book again.
I watch his broad, masculine hands in rapt fascination as he opens it
with deft fingers. His surgeon’s dexterity is obvious now, and I contemplate
how I can capture that in the stillness of a painting.
He taps the chapter heading, indicating where he is in the story. My
spine tingles in response to the soft brush of his fingertip across the first
line, an echo of the way he touched my back when we leaned on the railing
at the rooftop of The Magnolia.
“No spoilers,” he warns. “But I want to know what you love about the
book.”
He must be a fast reader, because he’s already about seventy percent of
the way through. I imagine speed-reading must be a skill he picked up for
his studies, yet another impressive quality that reminds me of his
formidable intelligence.
His gaze is so intent on mine that I have to glance away again. This
conversation suddenly feels achingly vulnerable, as though sharing what I
love about the story will reveal intensely intimate information about me.
 I look out at the glowing green canopy created by the massive oak trees
as I reply, “I love the main character’s fierce independence,” I admit.
“Addie defies her family’s plans for her. She forges her own path.”
“She’s a survivor.” His low murmur cuts to the core of me, and his
thumb brushes the back of my hand in a shockingly tender caress.
I try for a dismissive shrug. “She’s immortal.”
He releases a low hum that sinks deep into my chest and makes my
heart flutter. His fingers thread through mine, fitting our hands together like
puzzle pieces.
“But she endures,” he observes. “Even if she can’t die, she’s a survivor.”
“Yes.” My admission is soft, barely audible.
How can he see straight through me? He told me I’m easy to read. I
can’t seem to hold back around him, even when my instinct is to keep
things light.
“What about the love story?” he prompts. “Do you like that too?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the trees, studying the way the bright sunlight
plays through the leaves. Just like when Dane asked me about the red
abstract painting in the gallery at The Magnolia, it’s as though someone has
turned up the saturation on the world. I’m thoroughly in his thrall, even if
I’m visually fixated on the natural beauty that surrounds us.
“I’m a fan of romance,” I manage, trying and failing to sound
nonchalant. My voice is soft and oddly throaty, almost sultry.
Keeping our fingers firmly locked, he lifts his free hand and twines my
purple curl around his forefinger. “Which character do you prefer: the sweet
love interest or the dark god?”
He’s touching my nape, his sure fingers sliding into my hair. He cradles
the back of my head in one hand and gently urges me to turn, so that I have
no choice but to face him.
His eyes search mine, and his sensual lips tug up at the corners, as
though he’s savoring a secret I haven’t divulged aloud.
“I prefer Addie’s relationship with the dark god too,” he says, his voice
deep and intimate.
“But he torments her.” It’s supposed to be a protest, but the breathiness
in my voice gives me away.
“It’s fiction, Abigail. A fantasy. It’s okay to like it.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m not sure if it’s from shame or arousal.
I have an awful suspicion that it’s both.
 His touch is gentle, but I’m locked in his hold as surely as if he had my
hair tangled in his fist. He binds me in place with no more than his gaze, his
powerful bearing keeping me thoroughly under his spell.
Molten honey drips down my spine to pool in my belly, and an insistent
pulse between my legs echoes the beat of my heart.
“Dane…” His name is a plea, and I’m not sure if I’m begging for him to
release me or for him to grant me the mercy of his kiss.

OceanofPDF.com
 14

ABBY

D
ane’s remarkable eyes flare when I say his name, and his jaw tightens
with masculine hunger. I soften in his hold, allowing him to cradle
my head in his broad palm. My breaths come quick and shallow, as
though I’ve been jogging in the humid summer heat rather than standing in
the mild, slightly salty breeze coming off the harbor. It caresses my flushed
skin, and the dichotomy draws a shiver from me.
“I never want to make you uncomfortable,” he says, easily reading my
tumultuous emotions. “But I’ve wanted you for far too long, and I fully
intend to claim another kiss by the end of the night.”
I blink up at him, shocked at his fierce declaration and undeniably wet
from his confident bearing.
He offers me an arrogant smirk. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
My mouth goes dry, and my tongue wets my lips. He follows the
nervous gesture with those keen, forest green eyes, and his nostrils flare like
a predator that’s caught my scent.
“You’re very self-assured.” I manage a breathy remark.
“And you like that.” His smile tilts into something a touch wicked. “You
chose the dark god, Abigail. I know your secret now.”
It takes effort to conjure up a dismissive laugh and a shrug. “You’re
making a lot of assumptions. Maybe you’re the one who likes the darker
aspects of Addie LaRue.”
His green eyes spark, and his smile sharpens. “We’re a good match.”
 I resist the urge to squirm at his intense scrutiny. He’s looking at me
with carnal hunger, and I feel like I might as well be naked before him.
I glance away from his unbearably intent gaze and look out at the park.
The shadows are lengthening, and sky has begun to blush a soft shade of
pink. I’m hyperaware of the scene, and I imprint the color palette onto my
memory so that I can paint it later. Expressing the whirlwind romance of
this date on my canvas rather than a cathartic purge of the darkness in my
soul will be a welcome respite when I go to my easel tonight.
The quiet between us can’t be described as companionable; the humid
air practically sizzles on my skin at the heat that’s building between us.
Desire dances along my spine, tiny sparks of arousal that tease and torment
me. He draws out each moment of delicious anticipation. I’m immersed in
the unnatural vibrancy of our surroundings, and the rest of my attention is
completely harnessed by the physical sensations he elicits from my body.
I feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I crave more.
I’m almost trembling with sensual awareness, as though all of my
nerves are hypersensitive. The barest flex of his fingers around mine draws
a soft gasp from my chest, and his sexy smirk tilts in response.
Dane is confident to the point of arrogance, but I can’t deny that his
cocky smile makes me melt inside. And that confidence is well-deserved,
judging by the way I’m drinking him in like the most compelling work of
art I’ve ever seen. He’s utterly gorgeous and hypnotically alluring, and it’s
more than just his good looks. The air of easy authority I’ve sensed in him
draws me in.
I don’t hear you begging yet.
I could easily see myself falling to my knees for this man. Worshipping
his perfection like he’s my own personal god.
He lowers his face to mine slowly, his stunning eyes searching mine for
silent invitation. When his lips are an inch from mine, he pauses, his heat
teasing across my mouth. I’m not sure if he’s allowing me to make the final
move, or if he’s relishing toying with me, but his motives don’t matter. I
can’t resist the magnetic pull between us, and I arch up to meet him.
His lips are just as soft and sensual as I remember, and he caresses me
with a tender kiss, coaxing me to open for him. I soften on a sigh, melting
into him. My arms twine around his shoulders for support, and I cling to
him as he claims my mouth deeply enough to take my breath away.
 My mind begins to spin, and I’m swept up in the delicious heat of his
powerful body and the sure, seductive strokes of his tongue against mine.
One broad hand pins my lower back so that I’m pressed tightly against
his hard abs. His other eases up my nape, long fingers pressing firmly at the
base of my skull. The confident hold makes me flower open for him on a
low moan, and his answering growl of desire vibrates through my body.
The masked man’s fierce growl rumbles through me, vibrating all the
way to my core. My clit pulses, and my labia are wet with desire. My entire
body softens and submits, preparing to accommodate my attacker so that he
can slake his lust.
All my muscles lock up tight, and I freeze in Dane’s arms. I’m still
melded close to his body, caged by his strong hands.
Desire shudders through me at the sensation of being trapped and
helpless.
My stomach lurches, and I jerk away from him. For a fleeting instant,
his fingers contract, nipping into my flesh in a punishing hold.
But his grip eases so quickly that I think I must’ve imagined it as part of
my perverted fantasy. He allows me to step away and gasp in a breath of
salty ocean air.
“What’s wrong?” His low rumble is a touch gravelly this time,
roughened by a dark emotion I don’t fully understand. Frustration?
Disapproval? Residual lust?
My gaze fixes on the park again. I can’t bear to look at him. He might
see some of the sickness in my soul if I allow him to look into my eyes.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “It’s too public here.”
I fumble over the almost-lie. It’s not entirely untrue that I don’t want to
have a full panic attack in the park. But Dane will think I’m talking about
disliking public displays of affection.
“What if I want people to see?” he counters, his voice dropping to the
deep register that seems to thrum through me. “What if I want every man to
know that you’re with me?”
Anxiety tightens my muscles, even as my core pulses for him.
Dane clearly likes control, and that prospect intrigues me as much as it
scares me. I could so easily melt for this man, but if he realizes how fucked
up I really am, he’ll turn from me in disgust. He’s far too cultured and
refined to understand the darkest parts of me.
 Gathering my wits, I force my lips to curve at the corners. My sunny
smile is as fragile as the monarch butterfly that flutters near the gazebo,
bright orange wings flashing in a cheery mockery of my own strained
expression of false joy.
He lifts my hand and brushes a featherlight kiss over my knuckles. The
gesture is almost reverent, and my heart skips a beat. His intense attention is
gratifying and more addictive than anything I’ve ever experienced, even
though I’m still reeling from the awful flashback of the attack.
“More later,” he promises.
Desire is still pulsing between my legs, and sweat beads on my brow.
My stomach churns, a physical manifestation of the sickness inside me. I
crave more time with Dane, but I need space to breathe without his alluring
scent threading through my senses. The horrific, cloying scent of amber
cologne still seems to saturate the air, warring with his.
“I need to go,” I murmur, gesturing weakly at the rapidly setting sun. “I
have another early shift tomorrow.”
A muscle barely flutters in his jaw, but it smooths so quickly that I
might’ve imagined it.
“All right,” he concedes, even though his eyes are still burning with
dark green fire. “But I want you to text me when you get home.”
My brow furrows. “Why?”
He blows out a soft sigh, and that indulgent smile curves his delicious
lips. “Is it so difficult to accept that I want to know you’re safe? I want to
take care of you, Abigail. Let me.”
My heart tugs with longing. No one has taken care of me in years.
Possibly ever, if I examine the truth too closely. I’ve been on my own for so
long, resolutely standing on my own two feet. The prospect of leaning on
Dane for support is terribly tempting.
“I can take care of myself,” I say, but the assertion isn’t sharp with
resentment. I’m touched by his concern, even if I can’t allow myself the
moment of weakness. “But thank you for caring about my safety. It’s not
even dark yet. I’ll be fine to walk home.”
“I never said you aren’t capable of taking care of yourself,” he replies
smoothly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to. Trust me,
Abigail. I will never hurt you.”
His eyes flash on the last, and I sense the anger churning behind his
genteel façade. He’s enraged on my behalf again, just like at the rooftop bar.
 Who hurt you?
I glance away from his x-ray gaze, hiding my secrets from him.
Instead of replying to his intense declaration, I focus my attention on
my purse and find my phone. My fragile smile is back in place when I look
up at him once again.
“What’s your number?”
It can’t hurt to text him when I get home. If he’s worried about me, I can
allay that concern.
I tell myself that my decision is more about putting him at ease than
fulfilling my own desire to prolong this connection.
But the truth is that I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
I’m leaving a date with him for the second time, and I don’t want him to
interpret this as a rejection. I just need some time alone to collect myself in
the wake of my perverted flashback when he kissed me.
His smile is sharp with something like triumph when he takes my phone
and enters his number. He connects a call, and his phone vibrates in his
pocket.
He has my number now too.
My belly flips. I crave more time in his addictive presence.
His fingers brush mine as he places my phone back in my waiting hand.
The slow slide of his withdrawal is a sensual caress, and my cheeks flush as
though he’s swept me up in another scorching kiss.
“I’ll text you,” I promise as my stomach flips again. It’s a slightly
queasy sensation this time.
My fingers are itching for my paintbrush. Tumultuous emotions surge
within me, making me seasick. I need to purge them at my canvas. Then,
maybe I’ll be capable of enduring Dane’s kiss without my trauma ruining
the moment.
He offers me a short nod of acknowledgement. “I’m looking forward to
it.”
The statement seals my promise; his firm tone brooks no resistance.
He’s expecting a message confirming that I’m safe.
His protective instincts soften any irritation I might feel in response to
his highhanded manner. I could so easily throw myself into his strong arms
and allow him to shield me from all the bad things in the world—including
the horrors of my past.
 But he can’t change who I am at my core. He can’t protect me from the
darkness that lurks in my own soul.
I have to conceal it from him at all costs. If I’m going to see him again,
I have to learn to control myself. Dane is a good man, and I want to be good
for him too.
I offer him a quick, slightly awkward wave goodbye and force myself to
walk away from him. As I put distance between us, I can practically feel the
twilight shadow of his imposing frame lengthening behind me, as reluctant
to release me as I am to leave him. It makes my skin prickle with residual
awareness of his touch.
I take a breath and resolutely ignore the thrilling sensation that he’s still
with me, even though I know I left him behind in the park.

OceanofPDF.com
 15

DANE

ABIGAIL
Home safe. Thanks for the gelato.

I
stare at her perfunctory text and try to ignore the hot churning in my gut.
I’m irritated. Frustrated.
Almost irrationally angry.
My fist tightens around the phone. I refuse to be ruled by these feelings
she brings out in me, even if I do enjoy the novelty.
So, I relax my grip and tap out a reasonable reply.
DANE
Glad to hear it.

I didn’t buy her cheap dessert; she did. I chose to avoid a potential
argument and didn’t say a word when she handed over her change. There’s
no reason for her to thank me for it.
And that kiss…
She shuddered and pulled away from me when I’d been experiencing
the greatest high of my life. It’d taken all of my considerable willpower to
appear genial and understanding instead of acting on the savage instinct to
cage her in my arms and claim her mouth until she softened and submitted.
I crave to unleash myself upon her, but I have to handle her with care.
She’ll run screaming if I allow her to see the full truth of what I am. I can
be patient. Careful.
 I know she secretly fantasizes about the dark things I need to do to her.
It’s simply a matter of time for me to earn her trust.
She’s setting her phone down and picking up her paintbrush. But I’m
not ready to let her elude me.
I lean farther back into the shadows of my azalea bushes and lower my
binoculars so that I can type out another message.
DANE
I want to see you again.

The rounded end of the paintbrush touches her lips. She stares at her
phone where it rests on the small side table that she keeps beside her easel
for access to her pink water bottle. The brush slips between her lips, and I
imagine my cock sinking into that lush mouth.
She doesn’t touch her phone for several long seconds. She’s looking at
it like it’s a feral animal that might bite her if she makes a sudden move.
The paintbrush is tapping against her lower lip now as she twirls it between
her deft fingers. A small furrow creases her brow.
I forget how to breathe while the seconds tick over into a full minute.
She’s afraid of our connection for some reason. But she’s also intrigued.
Tempted.
The way she’s toying with that damn brush is practically erotic, even if
she has no idea how she’s tormenting me.
Fuck, I need to see her lovely eyes up close, to watch them darken with
that intoxicating mix of trepidation and desire.
My cock stiffens, but I ignore my mounting lust. I’m rooted to the spot,
frozen in breathless anticipation as I wait for her to pick up her phone and
answer me.
There’s a slight tremor in her fingers when she finally bends to my will.
She taps her screen, hesitates, then taps it again.
My phone chimes, and I suck in a deep breath.
ABIGAIL
That sounds nice. Where do you want to meet?

I force myself to pause, determined to make her wait. It’s only fair that
she’s tormented by the same maddening uncertainty that plagues me every
time I’m near her.
 My mind races through potential dates, and my thumb strays toward the
internet browser icon on my phone. For the hundredth time, I consider
looking her up online. If I know more about her, I can manipulate her more
easily.
I take a breath and crush the impulse, forcing my way through the
moment of weakness. Social media is anathema to me, and even if I created
a fake account to stalk her, the information I would glean would be
superficial. I’ve seen into Abigail’s soul, and I won’t be satisfied with a
falsely cheery public persona that she might present to her friends online.
I will learn her secrets in person. She will surrender each one to me,
until I possess her completely.
I return to our messages instead of opening the browser.
DANE
I’d like to surprise you. I finish work at five, so I can pick you up
at six-thirty.

I need her to share her address willingly. Then I can come see her
whenever I want.
The paintbrush dips between her lips again, and she grazes the tip with
her teeth.
I nearly growl as my lust surges, but I manage to cling to my iron
control.
My phone buzzes, and her address appears on my screen.
Triumph heats my chest, and I don’t have to hide the savage edge of my
grin; I don’t have to wear my mask for anyone in this moment. I’m fully
myself in a way I can only be with Abigail.
She’s not ready to see me like this yet, but one day, she’ll moan my
name and tremble for me while I hold her with cruel passion.
I type out a confirmation of our plan to meet and then set my phone
down, allowing her the quiet time she needs to paint. I won’t distract her
again, not when I’m burning with curiosity to see what will spill out onto
her canvas.
Time slips away as I watch her paint. It takes a while for the feverish
brushstrokes to coalesce into a nature scene. For a short while, I’m mildly
disappointed; I’d hoped for another dark fantasy tonight.
But then the elegantly draped branches of live oaks take shape, dripping
with lacy Spanish moss. Battery Park is bathed in waning sunlight, syrupy
and golden where it filters through the rich green canopy.
She’s painting our date.
This is far more intimate than an erotic scene. Those paintings reflect
the dark desires she shares with GentAnon, but this view from the gazebo is
what she shares with me.
I forget all about sipping my Macallan as she continues to work late into
the night. My full attention is harnessed by her vision of what we shared in
the park this evening.
The white railing that surrounds the gazebo is barely visible, a subtle
frame at the bottom of the painting. Two hands are entwined atop it, and I
recognize the familiar shape of her slender fingers beneath my own.
She might’ve run from our kiss, but Abigail is clearly still thinking
about the allure of our physical connection.
By the time she sets her paintbrush down for the night, I’m buzzing
with a strange high—it’s definitely not from the alcohol I barely touched.
My blood thrums through my veins, and desire makes my blood simmer.
It’s not purely carnal desire; I want this woman. All of her. Body, heart, and
soul.
When she disappears into her tiny bedroom for the night, I briefly
consider relocating to my larger, more expensive house across town. But
I’m craving to be close to her, so I choose to stay in the ramshackle
property I bought just so I can watch over her.
I pass her landscapes as I walk through the entry hall and living room.
There’s nearly a score more in my bedroom—a cramped space that barely
fits the high-quality king-size bed. This place might be rundown, but it
doesn’t mean I have to be uncomfortable.
I fall back onto the Egyptian cotton sheets and stare at my trophies: the
stunning paintings I’ve purchased from the tourists who bought them from
her in the market. I keep her stormiest works in my bedroom. It’s the only
glimpse at her inner darkness that’s evident in her otherwise lovely art
depicting the natural world.
My cock is still hard from watching her toy with that damn paintbrush
all night, and my craving for her is keen enough to cut.
I should let her sleep, but I’m too selfish to hesitate. I want her, and she
will meet my needs.
I pick up my phone and navigate to Eroticlit, immediately finding our
months’ long private messaging thread.
 GENTANON
Wake up, little dove. I have need of my pretty pet.

The tick beside her screenname remains stubbornly gray.

I give her five minutes to see that I’ve messaged her.
My gut twists into knots, and my chest heats.
GENTANON
Answer me. Your silence is rude, and rudeness will be
punished.

A green tick mark. Three bouncing dots.

They disappear, then appear again.
And again.
My fingers are tight enough that my knuckles are white around the
phone.
CAGEDBIRD
I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.

I taste copper on my tongue, and I realize I gnashed my teeth hard

enough to cut the inside of my cheek.
Abigail has never said “no” to me.
At least, not as GentAnon.
In person, I’ve been frustrated by her refusals and rejections over the
last several days. Even though she clearly enjoyed our time in the park this
evening, she still ran away from me at the end.
I won’t tolerate her evasiveness. When we’re in this virtual space,
sharing the darkest parts of ourselves, I don’t have to wear my charming
mask.
GENTANON
You can try to run, but I will chase. I will capture you, little dove.
And then you’ll be sorry that you tried to deny me.

Those fucking dots bounce on my screen again. My fist is a vise around

the phone.
CAGEDBIRD
I mean it. I’m sorry, but I can’t.

A low growl reverberates through my bedroom, a predator with its

hackles raised.
 GENTANON
Why not? I expect an explanation.

For several long seconds, I contemplate smashing my phone against the

wall as those three dots dance in a mockery of my mounting rage.
CAGEDBIRD
I met someone. I can’t do this anymore.

Something expands rapidly at the center of my chest to the point of

pain, as though my ribcage can barely contain it.
She’s not rejecting me; she’s choosing me.
The real me, not my anonymous online persona.
And her message indicates that she’s developing feelings for me. Why
else would she stop exchanging dirty messages with her pen pal?
She wants to be loyal to me. To Dane, not GentAnon.
My cock is still painfully hard, but my lust holds a covetous edge. I can
deny my desire to share dark fantasies with her tonight if it means I’ll have
her in my bed for real.
Soon, she’ll be snuggled up beside me in my much nicer house across
town, a space that’s worthy of her. She’ll cuddle close to me, and I’ll make
her so safe and comfortable that she’ll never want to leave. Her dilapidated
little apartment will be a thing of the past, and no walls will separate us.
GENTANON
I understand. Be happy, little dove.

CAGEDBIRD
Thank you.

I log off the messenger service, and my phone doesn’t light up with
another notification. She’s logged off too.
That era in our relationship is over now. Until she trusts me enough to
share her body with me, I’m sure I’ll face nights of sexual frustration. But
the wait will be worth it.
I reach under my pillow and find the soft, paint splattered camisole that
I stole when I broke into her apartment. Her scent is faint beneath the
fading, sweet florals of her detergent, but I can still detect her delicate
strawberry bodywash infused in the fabric.
I imagine burying my face in the crook of her slender neck and
breathing her in as my teeth mark her shoulder. Her sharp cry is the
sweetest music that I’ve never heard, but I’ve imagined it over a hundred
times. I will make her weep with agonized pleasure, and she’ll taste the salt
of her own tears on my tongue when I claim a brutal kiss.
I snarl into her camisole, biting down on the soft fabric as I come
undone for her.

OceanofPDF.com
 16

ABBY

I
’m in the shared laundry room for my building when the stranger
approaches me.
At first, I don’t notice him; I’m too busy grabbing my clothes out of
the dryer. Dane is coming to pick me up any minute now for our surprise
date, and I need to finish this chore first. One of my favorite painting
camisoles went missing the last time I did a load, so I’m not willing to leave
my things in the dryer where they might get taken.
It’s only when the stranger lets out a low whistle that I realize I’m not
alone in the small, hot room.
I jerk upright from where I was bent over the dryer, my heart leaping
into my throat. Instinctively, I recognize the unwanted attention of a
predator.
A thrill shivers up my spine—a primal warning that all women possess.
I dread the shameful heat that might accompany the spike in my
heartbeat, but mercifully, it doesn’t come. Maybe letting go of my illicit
connection with GentAnon last night truly will help me overcome my
sickness. Maybe I can be worthy of Dane.
I just need to evade this creep so that I can go on my date with him.
“Well, hello, Peaches,” the stranger says, his Southern twang more
pronounced that the softer Carolina drawl I’m used to. His pale blue eyes
wander down the length of my body, pausing at the curve of my hips.
 I have an awful suspicion about why he chose to call me Peaches, even
though my butt is now firmly pressed back against the washing machine.
I shake my head slightly and gather my clean laundry to my chest,
holding it between us like a shield.
“My name is Abby,” I say coolly. “And you shouldn’t be in here.”
He chuckles. “Don’t be like that,” he admonishes. “We must be
neighbors. I’m moving in upstairs. Just checking out the rest of the building
in between hauling boxes up to my new place. Too bad I’m not more
presentable. I wasn’t expecting to meet a beautiful woman.”
He waves his hand in my general direction, and I notice the dull glint of
a wedding ring.
“I don’t think your wife would appreciate you flirting with me,” I reply,
speaking calmly and clearly despite my elevated heartrate.
I’ve dealt with skeevy men plenty of times before. But after the attack
by the masked man, I’m flooded with adrenaline. Even though I’m not
experiencing a disconcertingly erotic reaction to this creep, I still can’t seem
to tap into my fight or flight instinct. As always, I’m frozen.
He’s blocking my way to the exit, and I have nowhere to go. Nothing
but my words to talk my way past him. If I can manage to unstick my feet
from the concrete floor.
“Oh, this.” He frowns at the ring, as though he forgot he’s wearing it.
“Damn thing’s stuck. I’m separated. That’s why I’m moving in here. Drove
all the way up from Mississippi to get away from that bitch.”
Charming.
I suppress a contemptuous grimace and keep my features schooled to a
polite mask. Provoking him when we’re alone in here would be stupid,
especially if I’ll have to see him around the building for the foreseeable
future.
I note the small beer belly that strains against his too-tight white t-shirt.
His finger bulges around the constraint of the too-small wedding ring. I
suppose he’s not in the same shape as he was when he first put it on.
“My name’s Ron.” His broad, bright white smile could be considered
boyishly charming, and his tousled brown curls add to his good ol’ boy vibe.
They peek out at the sides of his oversized baseball cap, and I wonder if
he’s hiding a receding hairline. “Pleasure to meet you. I could really use a
friend in the neighborhood.”
 My new neighbor has an entitled air about him that I recognize all too
well.
“I’m sorry to hear about your troubles,” I say, barely managing to soften
my tone to something conciliatory. “I hope your move goes smoothly. But I
need to get this laundry folded.”
He steps toward me. “I can help with that.”
I recoil from his grubby hands. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
He chuckles again and shakes his head. “I’m just being neighborly,
Peaches. I’ll help you, and then you can help me. I don’t know the area yet.
You can show me the best dive bar in the neighborhood.” He winks at me.
“We’re gonna get real close. I can tell.”
My stomach churns, and sweat beads on my brow. The intensity of my
fear response is out of proportion with the perceived threat. I should be able
to laugh my way out of this and politely disengage, but instead, adrenaline
is coursing through my veins.
He takes another step toward me, and his dirty hand fists one of my
black work shirts.
The air in my lungs turns to solid ice, and my entire body locks up tight.
I want to tell him to leave me alone, but I can’t find the oxygen to
speak. I’m so cold despite the heat of the running dryers in summer.
The door to the laundry room opens, revealing my white knight.
“Dane!” I say his name like a prayer, and his forest green eyes narrow
on my creepy new neighbor.
Ron is in between us, my shirt still trapped in his fist. He turns his head
to see who’s interrupted us, and his throat bobs when he takes in Dane’s
thunderous expression.
Then his shoulders draw back, and his arms flex. He drags my shirt out
of my arms and turns to face Dane.
“This your boyfriend, Peaches?” He asks, his twang heavy on the
contemptuous question. He eyes Dane up and down, taking in his perfectly
tailored, light blue shirt all the way down to his polished leather shoes.
My white knight couldn’t be more different than the creep who’s still
stubbornly at the edge of my personal space. Ron is wearing a worn white
shirt with sweat stains, and there’s dirt smudged on his brow beneath the
brim of his baseball cap. In contrast, Dane oozes refinement and easy grace.
He prowls toward us, every step a warning. Ron stiffens, but he holds
his ground. His pathetic posturing would be almost laughable if it weren’t
for the fact that ice lingers on my skin. The sour tang of fear curls my
tongue. The remembered terror from the night of the masked man’s attack
clings to my psyche, and I’m reeling as I try to focus on Dane’s remarkable
eyes.
His gaze is fixed on Ron, his forest irises darkening to a dangerous
shade of hunter green.
He comes to a stop within punching distance, and I realize that Dane
has at least three inches of height and considerable bulk on Ron.
“Her name is Abigail, not Peaches.” Dane’s voice is light and smooth,
so at odds with his threatening stance. “And yes, I’m her boyfriend. So, if
you ever think about harassing her again, you’ll have to deal with me.”
Shock renders me mute at his words. The genteel cadence of his voice
dropped to something rougher on the last: a gravelly declaration of
ownership and a promise of retribution.
Dane tips his chin at my shirt. Ron’s knuckles have gone white against
the soft black fabric.
“That doesn’t belong to you.”
For a moment, I think that he’ll insist on giving it back to me.
Instead, he plucks my shirt from Ron’s loosened grip and claims it for
himself.
Ron’s jaw works. “Tough talk for a fancy man. I was just being
neighborly and helping with her laundry.”
Dane’s eyes remain fixed on Ron like he’s a bug he’d like to grind
under the heel of his designer shoe, but he addresses me.
“Do you want his help, Abigail?”
“No,” I manage to breathe.
With every passing second, the ice is melting from my bones, leaving
me wrung out and shaky. Fear is giving way to shock at the unexpected
events unfolding in the cramped space of the stifling laundry room. Dane
radiates menace, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle. But at
the same time, relief rushes through me at his protective presence.
“You heard her,” Dane prompts darkly. “She doesn’t want you. Unless
you have a good reason to be in here, I suggest you leave now.”
Ron throws up his hands and shakes his head, as though Dane is making
a big deal out of nothing. “Fine, buddy. I have boxes to move.” He shoots a
glower in my direction. “Ungrateful bitch.”
 Dane moves lighting fast, and suddenly, his chest is almost pressed
against Ron’s. His entire body swells with barely leashed aggression, but
his face is completely devoid of emotion. The cold, clinically calculated
way he’s studying Ron is more terrifying than his warning scowl.
“Use that language with her again, and you’ll end up with a broken
jaw.”
Ron seems to finally understand the gravity of the danger he’s in, and he
takes a hasty step away, edging toward the open door behind Dane.
“Fine,” he says again, but his voice wavers this time. “She’s your girl. I
get it. Fucking psycho.” He mutters the last as he ducks out the door to
evade my fierce protector.
Dane’s cold gaze glitters. He keeps his frigid focus fixed on Ron until
the threat is gone. Ron’s quickly retreating footsteps slap against the
concrete floor of the entry hall as he makes a swift exit onto the street.
“How did you know I was in here?” My lips feel oddly numb, but my
voice barely wavers on the question.
The dangerous glimmer melts from Dane’s eyes when he turns his
stunning gaze on me. “I was knocking on your front door when I heard your
voice,” he explains. “You sounded scared.”
“Did I?” I’d thought I was speaking in a calm, disarming tone.
I guess I was even more shaken up than I realized. My body is still
reeling from the spike of adrenaline, and my knees are strangely weak.
“I’m sorry.” I offer a reflexive apology, and embarrassment flushes my
cheeks. “I should’ve been able to handle him myself.”
If I weren’t still jumpy from the masked man’s attack, I might’ve been
capable of walking away from Ron on my own.
But I can’t explain myself to Dane. He can never know what happened
to me, my shameful reaction to being violated.
My white knight is touching me again, his careful fingers making light
contact with my wrist to test my pulse. It’s still racing from the burst of
irrational fear.
“You shouldn’t have to handle him by yourself,” he rumbles, his jaw
flexing with a shadow of his righteous anger. “I’ll take care of you, Abigail.
He won’t bother you again.”
I try to shrug. “It wasn’t that serious. I would’ve been okay.”
A shadow deepens in his cheek as his jaw ticks more with more force.
“I’m not asking,” he says firmly. “I want to keep you safe. Trust me.”
 His long fingers close around mine before I can respond. “You’re
shaking,” he remarks. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. You need to sit down and
hydrate.”
I attempt a dismissive laugh to alleviate his concern. “I’m just being
silly. It really was nothing.” I square my shoulders with considerable effort
and summon up my sunny smile. “I thought we were going out on a date?”
He fixes me with a disapproving frown, and my chest hollows out.
“Come on,” he prompts, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders.
“Let’s go into your place.”
“You really don’t have to take care of me.” I try to protest as he steers
me out of the laundry room. The humid summer air is oddly cold against
my sweat-slicked skin after the heat of the running dryers. “I’m fine.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to,” he counters. “And don’t lie
to me, Abigail. It’s okay to be disturbed by what happened in there. That
bastard shouldn’t have cornered you. You were a woman alone in a small
space with a much bigger man. You don’t have to be proud around me and
conceal your emotions.” That shadow at his jaw flutters again. “Did he
touch you?”
“No.” I soften on a sigh and lean into Dane, allowing myself the
moment of weakness.
I’m so tired of holding myself together, and he’s refusing to allow me to
pretend I’m fine. I don’t want to lie to Dane, even if I can’t tell him about
the masked man’s attack. I can at least be honest with my emotions. I can be
vulnerable with him.
He opens my unlocked front door, and his frown deepens. But he ushers
me inside without admonishment.
“Ron didn’t touch me,” I say. “He just tried to help me fold my laundry.
I told him I didn’t want his help, but he grabbed my shirt anyway. Thank
you for getting it back from him.”
My arms are still locked around the rest of my clean clothes, holding
them like a shield.
But I don’t need to shield myself from Dane.
When he steers me to the couch, I unlock my muscles and drop the
laundry onto it. Then my knees finally fold, and I sink down onto the
cushions beside my clothes.
His big hand squeezes my shoulder, and my stomach flips. My fear
responses are still on high alert, and I internally curse the warning flutter at
the center of my chest.
I’m alone in my private space with Dane, but he’s not a threat. I’ve
conditioned my body to have this thrilling response to his touch because of
my fucked-up fantasies about him.
I take a breath and try to calm my racing heart.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, and again, it’s not a question.
My place isn’t exactly difficult to navigate, so he has no trouble walking
three paces to enter the cramped kitchen space. He manages to find my
water glasses on the first try—there aren’t many cabinets to choose from—
and makes quick work of filling one.
He returns to the couch and presses the cool glass into my colder hand
before settling down beside me. The seat is so small that his hip brushes
mine. I could move the laundry and scoot away from him, but I don’t want
to put any distance between us.
His body heat pulses over me, chasing away the last of the chill that
lingers in my flesh. I melt, my tense muscles easing as calm finally settles
over me like a soft blanket on my shoulders.
Allowing Dane to take care of me feels almost euphoric after years of
stubbornly making my own way. A sense of lightness makes my bones feel
almost hollow, as though I could soar like a bird. I lean into my fierce
protector, tentatively pressing my shoulder against his corded arm. His hand
comes up to cup the side of my head, and he gently urges me to tuck myself
close to him. My breaths slow to match the steady rise and fall of his chest,
and his deft fingers trail through my hair in a soothing motion.
A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and for a few blissful
moments, my mind is utterly quiet. I can simply languor in this safe space
with Dane, and I don’t have to feel guilty or weak for accepting his support.
He won’t allow me to refuse it, so I’m able to give myself permission to
surrender, sinking into his strength.
“Is that the first time he’s harassed you?” he rumbles after I’ve taken a
few sips of water.
“Who, Ron?” I ask on a sigh. I’m so comfortable and calm that an echo
of my fear doesn’t so much as tingle up my spine. “That’s the first time I’ve
met him. He said he’s moving into one of the apartments upstairs.”
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and little sparks ping along
my scalp in response to his tender touch.
 “But it’s not the first time a man has harassed you.” He says it like a
condemnation of all men, his voice dropping to a deep, disapproving
register.
Who hurt you? I recall his intense question from our first date.
I’m not ready to open up to him about my past trauma; I’m still trying to
get a handle on my own physical responses, and I don’t want to scare him
away with my baggage.
“No,” I agree softly. “It’s not the first time. I’m a woman.” That’s
explanation enough, and he blows out a sigh so rough that it’s almost a
growl.
“But I can handle myself,” I assure him, trying to allay his mounting
anger on my behalf. I want to stay in this quiet, safe space with him for a
while longer without emotional upheaval.
“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he says with the weight of an oath.
“Not when I’m around.”
My heart tugs with longing, but I know it’s foolish to become too
attached to him so quickly. I’ve never been good at guarding my emotions.
“You didn’t have to tell Ron that you’re my boyfriend,” I murmur. “But
thank you for coming to help me.”
Two fingers curl beneath my chin, and he guides my face to his so that
I’m caught in his intense green stare.
“You have a rather bad habit of telling me what I don’t have to do,” he
remarks, and his thumb traces the line of my lower lip. He speaks over my
soft gasp of arousal at the tender touch. “I make my own choices, Abigail.
You don’t need to protect me from them.”
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I don’t want to be controlling.”
I will never be like my mother. She controls everyone around her with
cutting comments that she wields with the precision of a scalpel.
Dane releases a low chuckle, and his chest rumbles against my cheek.
The sound vibrates into me and warms my flesh like a lover’s caress.
“You can’t control me, Abigail. No one does.” His voice drops deeper
on the last, a private declaration that he’s spoken aloud.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
I reach for him reflexively, drawn to connect with him on a deeper level
as I recall what he said about his estrangement from his family. It’s
something we have in common, and I crave to know more about my
dashing hero.
 Our fingers entwine, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
“I like the way we fit together,” he remarks. “I particularly like the way
you captured it in your painting.”
My cheeks heat, and I resist the urge to squirm in his hold. I realize that
my painting of our date scene is still propped on my easel, and an intense
sense of vulnerability knots my stomach.
“I didn’t think you’d see that,” I say quietly.
His eyes are green pools, drawing me in deep. “It’s stunning.”
He traces the line of my cheekbone, and my breath catches.
“You said I don’t have to tell people that I’m your boyfriend,” he says.
“Do you want me to be?”
“We hardly know each other,” I try to protest, but the longing in my
heart roughens the words.
His fingers slide into my hair in a gentle grip. “I don’t want to see
anyone else. I only want you, Abigail.”

OceanofPDF.com
 17

ABBY

D
ane pins me in place with nothing more than a tender touch and his
intense green gaze as he slowly dips his head toward mine. The
instant his lush mouth brushes my lips, I melt for him. Warmth floods
my chest and spreads all the way to my fingers and toes. It’s a safe, gentle
heat rather than passion that strikes like dangerous lightning.
I sink into the sweet moment, clinging to the sense of security. I won’t
allow my twisted desires to rise up and ruin this moment with my white
knight.
I will be worthy of Dane.
I only want you, Abigail.
His declaration rings through my mind, and I allow it to anchor me in
this sweet kiss.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs against my lips. “I know someone’s hurt
you in the past.” His fingers firm in my hair ever so slightly before he takes
a breath and relaxes. “But you’re safe with me.”
“I know,” I promise.
Dane is nothing like the men who have hurt me. The men I’ve been
drawn to despite my head knowing better than my traitorous body. I can’t
seem to help making myself their victim, and something about me must
alert them to the truth of what I am: prey.
But Dane is different. He’s everything I never dared to dream I could
have.
 I won’t ruin this connection with my sick compulsions.
So, I melt into his muscular arms and allow myself to lean into his
strength. He’s so much more powerful than I could ever hope to be.
The thought of my helplessness to resist him makes my core pulse with
dark desire. My lips still beneath his caresses for a tense moment of
pleasure and shame.
He must think I’m getting scared again, because he strokes my hair in
response, petting me as though I’m a spooked animal. The tender care he’s
showing me draws a shudder from deep in my chest, and my eyes sting. I
keep them resolutely shut and master the bizarre urge to cry. Instead, I focus
on the softness of his full lips on mine, the hot flick of his tongue as he
traces the shape of my mouth.
I sigh and open for him, welcoming him deeper.
He enters my mouth in a tentative stroke, testing me. When I don’t
recoil in fear, he kisses me more boldly, taking me with firm confidence.
I flower open for him, and to my surprise, my body responds to his
careful, gentle treatment. Warmth pulses between my legs. It’s not the
painful throb of full arousal, but it’s pleasant.
Safe.
“I only want you too,” I pant against him. “Only you, Dane.”
He seals my lips with his, and he plunders my mouth, as though he’s
savoring the taste of his name on my tongue. His hand cradles the back of
my head, holding me like I’m made of porcelain as he ravages my mouth.
The dichotomy draws a shiver to the surface of my skin, and a fine
tremor races over me. I’m protected, cherished. No one can hurt me while
Dane is holding me in his strong arms. They shelter me as though I’m a
precious, fragile treasure that he’s shielding from harm.
I release a soft cry of loss when he tears his mouth from mine, but his
lips are immediately on my heated flesh once again. He kisses his way
down the column of my throat, featherlight brushes like a butterfly’s wings.
My fingers spear through his dark hair, tugging him closer, inviting him to
mark me with his teeth.
But he remains achingly gentle with me.
I take a deep breath and inhale his spicy cedarwood scent. It reminds me
that this is Dane. I can be good for him. His tender care touches something
deep in my heart, even if it does little to incite arousal at my core.
 Taking another calming breath, I force my fingers to loosen in his hair.
This seduction will be slow and sweet, and I refuse to allow my perversions
to darken the intimacy between us.
He keeps one hand cradling my nape as the other skims up my thigh,
slowly pushing the hem of my dress up to expose my bare legs. He doesn’t
pause to ask for permission, but his movements are slow. I could stop him
with nothing more than a word of refusal at any time.
And even though I’m barely aroused physically, I don’t want to refuse
this connection.
His fingertips brush over my pale pink, cotton panties, and I sigh into
his mouth when he resumes our deeper kiss. I make little humming noises
as he rubs my clit through my underwear in a confident but gentle rhythm,
coaxing out my pleasure.
My inner muscles give a weak flutter because this is Dane. My white
knight. My gorgeous protector.
But it’s not enough to make me wet. I’m not throbbing for him, and the
soft sounds I’m making are meant for his benefit rather than giving voice to
my own passion.
I encourage him to continue with hungry flicks of my tongue against
his, urging him on.
He releases a low hum that rumbles through me, and my clit pulses once
in response to the primal sound.
More than anything, I want to please him. I want him to want me.
One thick finger slips past the band at the edge of my panties, finding
my heated folds. He strokes my clit directly, and I gasp into his mouth at a
soft burst of pleasure. It dances through me like dandelion seeds on the
wind, gentle and calming rather than sweeping me up in a tempest of
churning lust.
He slowly penetrates me, but I’m not wet enough to ease his entry. My
inner walls close, clamping down on the intrusion of his finger and refusing
to accommodate him. Pain lances my core, and I can’t quite manage to
swallow my whimper.
He breaks our kiss. His heavy brows are drawn together, and his mouth
is tight with restraint. “Did I hurt you?”
“Don’t stop,” I plead, crushing my lips to his so that he won’t be able to
see the fine lines of discomfort around my eyes.
 He kisses me like he wants to consume me, and I manage to pass off my
sounds of pain as desire while his tongue is deep in my mouth. The tension
in my fingers can be interpreted as fierce passion, and my fingernails bite
into his upper arms as I desperately hold him to me.
I can’t bear for him to pull away and leave me alone.
I only want you, Abigail.
I cling to his promise, playing the words over in my mind like a mantra
as I will my body to accept his finger. How will I be able to accommodate
his cock if I can’t even manage this smaller intrusion?
My fingers flex with determination, and I focus on the gentle pleasure
of his thumb on my clit while he crooks his finger inside me.
Sweat slicks my skin, and I’m panting as I attempt to breathe through
the pain.
When I can’t keep up the pretense any longer, I intentionally clench my
inner muscles and sharply cry out into his mouth.
His lips firm around mine, a grim pinch before he recoils from me.
“Did you just fake an orgasm?” The angry shadow flutters at his strong
jaw, and this time, the rage is directed at me.
My stomach drops to the floor. Cold rushes over me, and I suddenly feel
awfully exposed. He’s not touching me at all anymore.
I close my legs and quickly tug my dress down to cover myself.
“No!” I say, reaching for his hand.
He jerks back, and his lips curl as though he’s tasted something
disgusting.
“I warned you not to lie to me, Abigail.”
A pang lances my heart, and my chest tightens around it in a protective
cage. I barely find the breath to protest, “I want you, Dane.”
He shakes his head as though he can toss my desperate words from his
ears.
He surges to his feet, and for a terrifying, arousing moment, he towers
over me like a vengeful god. My lips part, and I suck in a sharp gasp. His
eyes darken as his gaze roves over my face, reading my carnal secrets in
response to his threatening posture.
In the next second, he’s striding away. I stare after him for a dumbstruck
moment.
“Wait!” I beg. “I’m sorry.”
 I stumble after him and manage to grab hold of his forearm. “Please
stay.”
He shakes his head again, but he won’t look at me. As though the sight
of me is too disgusting to bear.
My stomach churns, and my head spins with rising nausea.
He wrenches his arm from my weaker grip. “Goodbye, Abigail.”
My door slams shut between us, a resounding refusal to listen to my
pleas. Dane walks out of my building, and I fear that he’s walking out of my
life entirely. I might never see him again.

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 18

DANE

CAGEDBIRD
Are you free to chat?
I’m sorry about what I said before.
Please, I need to talk to you.
I need you to use me. I need you to hurt me.

I
stare at the string of messages on my lock screen. All to GentAnon.
Nothing from Abigail to Dane.
I won’t log on to answer her desperate pleas, no matter how hard my
own unslaked lust is riding me.
I’d been so careful not to spook her. I’d been the perfect gentleman. And
even though I usually prefer kinkier sexual games, I’m expert in
manipulating women’s bodies. I know exactly how and where to touch to
wring pleasure from them.
But Abigail faked her orgasm.
I’d been right when I’d sensed that she was in pain. But based on her
hungry kisses and soft whimpers, I’d assumed she was enjoying a twinge of
discomfort that accompanied penetration. She’d been so tight around my
finger, and I’d almost lost my control at the thought of her cunt squeezing
my dick.
But she hadn’t softened and opened to accept me. She’d been rigid and
tense when I’d expected her to melt for me.
 Our chemistry has never been a problem. I don’t understand what
happened between us. All I know is that this particular feeling that’s
assailing me is familiar, and I don’t like it.
My teeth are clenched as tightly as my fists, and my muscles are
bunched as though I’m preparing to fight. Or I’m bracing to take a blow to
my gut.
Fury.
I force my fingers to unfurl so that I can pick up my glass of whisky.
When I lift it to my mouth, I catch the faint scent of her pussy that lingers
on my hand.
My cock is painfully hard, despite my rage.
I’m tormented by thoughts of how I want to punish her for lying to me.
For daring to fake her pleasure with me.
She treated me as though I’m some simple fool with a fragile ego that
she has to placate.
I grimace around a long draw of Macallan.
The next time I have my hands on her, she’ll shatter for me.
I saw the way her pupils dilated when I loomed over her, barely
containing my wrath. She’d wanted me more in that moment of fear than in
the entirely of the time I’d been kissing her so tenderly.
My darkness calls to hers.
Handling her with care had been a stupid fucking mistake.
When I allow her to come back to me, she’ll come crawling on her
hands and knees.
She will beg for my touch before I grant her the mercy of release.
So, I won’t respond to her messages. She can stew in what she’s done. I
want her twisted up in knots that only I can loosen by the time I reach out to
her again.
I toss back the last of my whisky and will the alcohol to burn away my
maddening lust.
It doesn’t help. My desire for her is a fanged beast with sharp black
claws that rip at my mind, shredding rationality and reason. I’m feral for
her, but I won’t be the first to break.
Only when I’m satisfied that she’s thoroughly sorry and utterly
desperate, I’ll crook my finger, and she’ll come running like my eager,
obedient little pet. She’ll offer her slender neck for my collar, and she’ll
worship at my feet.
 I’ll settle for nothing less than her absolute devotion and complete
submission.

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 19

ABBY

I
’ve barely slept in a week, and the desperation is starting to show on my
face—in the dark circles under my eyes and dullness of my skin.
Whenever exhaustion pulls me under, erotic nightmares of the masked
man’s attack torment me. He always peers at me with burning green eyes.
Dane’s eyes.
The man I want but can never have. I was a fool to ever think I might be
capable of mastering my dark perversions so that I could be with my white
knight.
Because Dane is nothing like the selfish, cruel stranger who took my
body without my consent. He’s patient and tender.
And my broken brain doesn’t respond to that gentle treatment, no matter
how hard I swoon for his protectiveness.
I’ve been making too many mistakes at work, and today, Stacy had to
take me into the kitchen to have a private word about how many ruined
drinks I’ve wasted.
Even worse, I haven’t been able to paint. Every time I sit at my easel,
my fist locks around my paintbrush, and nothing but uninspired daubs of
paint appear on my canvas, refusing to coalesce into a coherent scene.
My only outlets for my pain are closed to me, and it’s eating me up
inside.
GentAnon won’t answer my messages begging to reconnect.
And Dane hasn’t shown his face in the café.
 It should be a small mercy after how terribly things ended between us,
but I find myself searching for him every morning at eight oh-five AM. I
long to hear his melodic accent caressing my name, to see his cocky half-
smile as he locks me in his gaze like I’m the center of his universe.
My exhaustion is so acute that little black dots float at the edge of my
vision, and I completely zone out at the espresso bar.
Pain sears my fingers, and I drop the milk jug with a sharp cry. I
steamed it for too long, and the hot, thick liquid bubbled over to burn my
hand. The metal jug clangs on the tiled floor, and milk spills everywhere.
Little white droplets spray the fridge, and it rapidly spreads to pool under
the counter.
Despite the pain in my hand, I dart into the back to grab a mop without
pausing to treat the burn. I whirl to return to the mess I made, but Stacy is
blocking my way back into the café.
Her hands are on her hips, and her berry-painted lips are pressed into a
thin line. “What is going on with you?”
My eyes burn hotter than the prickling sensation on my fingers. “I’m so
sorry. It was an accident.”
She shakes her head, and her voluminous, glossy black curls sway
around her heart shaped face. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. And I’m
not here to chew you out. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
She blows out a sigh and takes the mop from me. “Run some cold water
over your hand. I’ll clean up the spill.”
“I can do it,” I protest. It’s my mess, my responsibility.
Embarrassment heats my face. I’m the biggest mess here.
Stacy’s eyes soften with concern. She’s not just my manager; over the
last two years, we’ve become friends.
“No, you need to go home.” Her tone is firm but calm, not cruel. “For a
few days, I thought maybe you’d been out drinking late, so I was pissed.
But I texted Franklin, and he said y’all haven’t been out in a couple weeks.
I’m not sure what you’re going through, but I can tell you need a break.”
My shoulders curve inward, and I’m too wrung out to maintain my
straight posture. I feel like a clipped flower, slowly wilting after being cut
off at the root.
“I haven’t been out partying,” I say. “I promise.”
 “I know, and that’s why I’m telling you to go home and get some rest,”
she reassures me. “Whatever you’re going through, we’re here for you. And
not just for karaoke and dancing. You can talk to me.”
My heart twists painfully, and tears well in my eyes. I consider her a
friend, but I realize in this moment that I’ve been keeping her at an
emotional distance. We go out with the girls and Franklin, and we always
have a good time.
But I haven’t allowed any of them to truly know me. They don’t know
anything about my past, my family, my dreams.
Dane is the only person in years to glimpse the real me behind the
sunny smiles and pretty paintings.
Stacy pulls me in for a quick hug. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it
now,” she allows. “Take care of yourself, Abby. When you’re feeling better,
we’ll go out for tacos and salsa dancing. Everything will be okay. We’re all
here for you.”
I dash the tear from my cheek as she releases me from her embrace.
“Thank you. I really am sorry about the mess.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures me. “I’ve got it.”
With that, she carries the mop out into the café to clean up the milk I
spilled.
I move as though in a daze, following her instructions to put my hand in
cold water for a minute. My skin is flushed an angry shade of red, but it
won’t blister. When the prickling sensation eases, I turn off the faucet and
trudge to my locker to retrieve my purse.
My eyes are downcast when I slink back into the café, my cheeks still
flushed with embarrassment. I’m mortified that I’m being sent home
because I’m too tired to function, but I’m touched by Stacy’s concern.
I try to curve my lips in a pleasant expression as I make my way around
the counter and through the seating area. I’m almost at the door when I hear
his voice: that deep, lilting rumble that makes my heart flutter.
“What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing.” I tuck my hand behind my back and fight the urge to
cringe.
I’m barely keeping it together as it is. Seeing the disgust in Dane’s eyes
when he looks at me might break me in my current fragile state.
“You’re hurt.” He’s using his low, bedside manner tone. It’s gentle but
authoritative. “Let me see.”
 Suddenly, his muscular frame is in front of me, blocking my path to the
exit. His sharply tailored black shirt fills my vision; I can’t bring myself to
look directly at him.
“I’m fine,” I say with a breezy wave of my uninjured hand. “I’m just
going home.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” His broad palm appears between us, facing up
in clear expectation. “Show me your hand, Abigail.”
I blow out a sigh, and my shoulders slump again. I’m too exhausted to
fight him. If I just appease him quickly, I can make my escape.
Even if the prospect of enduring his touch makes my heart beat against
my ribs like it’s a frantic bird trying to fight its way out of a cage. I try to
ignore the bruising tenderness at the center of my chest and place my hand
in his waiting palm.
His clinician’s fingers are featherlight on my stinging, bright red skin.
They’re blissfully smooth and cool on my enflamed flesh.
“How did this happen?”
I shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention, and I burned the milk I was
steaming. It was a silly mistake.”
He releases a low hum and turns my hand, inspecting every inch of it.
“I’m taking you home,” he announces. “I can treat this properly there.”
My jaw drops, and my eyes finally snap to his. Those sensual lips twist
in the arrogantly amused smirk that haunts my forbidden dreams.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I say before I can fully consider my
words. “You were so angry with me. Why are you helping me?”
His heavy brows draw together, and his smirk melts away. “I came here
to see you, Abigail. But I want to talk in private.” He boldly cups my cheek
as though he has every right, gently lifting my face to study the signs of
exhaustion. “I should’ve come sooner. But you’re right. I was angry.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, regret tightening my throat around the apology.
“I didn’t want to upset you. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
His jaw firms, but he nods. “I think I understand. Let’s go somewhere
we can talk. Come on.”
He wraps his arm around my hunched shoulders and steers me out of
the café. His other hand holds his phone, and he opens an app to call a car
for us. We stand under the bright Carolina sun for a few quiet minutes, and I
close my eyes. My lids are so heavy, and now that Dane is touching me
again, I finally feel safe enough to rest.
 A black BMW arrives, and he helps me into the backseat before getting
in on the other side. His arm is around my shoulders again, and he applies
gentle pressure to encourage me to lean on him.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of you, Abigail.”
My eyes sting, so I close them again to hold in the flood of relief that
wets my lashes with tears. I inhale his unique, heady scent and allow my
body to fully relax for the first time since he stormed out of my apartment.
I’m not sure how many minutes pass, and I think I might’ve drifted off
for a while because we’re suddenly coming to a stop.
Shock renders me mute when Dane drops a quick kiss on my forehead.
“Stay.”
The world turns surreal, and everything is fuzzy at the edges. He’s
opening my car door for me. I take his waiting hand with my uninjured one,
and he helps me to my feet. He’s every inch the charming, chivalrous
gentleman, and I can’t help swooning for him all over again.
His presence is a miracle, a blessed mercy after days of self-loathing
and regret.
His palm spans my lower back as he confidently directs me to the
sidewalk. Our physical connection hits me like a lightning strike, a visceral
reminder of the way his thumb stroked my spine on our first date. My heart
throbs in a painful, heavy rhythm. I want to be with this man more than
anything. I thought I’d ruined everything, but he might offer me absolution.
He leads me to the hunter green door on a white house with matching
green shutters. I blink and glance around to get my bearings. We’re in
Harleston Village, a nice neighborhood across town from my apartment.
“I thought you said you were taking me home.”
His dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “I am. This is my home.”
He unlocks the door, and it swings open to reveal a large entry hall. My
breath catches when I see the painting that dominates the white wall
directly in front of us.
“Dane…” His name is little more than a tremor on my lips.
He closes the door behind us and ushers me forward, guiding me down
the hall until the painting fills my vision.
It’s the red abstract expressionist piece from the gallery at The
Magnolia. The one we both admired on our first date.
His hard body looms behind me, and his hands frame my shoulders. “I
couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop thinking
about you.”
One hand lifts to my hair, and he twines my purple curl around his
finger. “I’m not good with emotions,” he admits. “I think that must be why
I’ve never really understood art. But you see the world in a way I’ve never
contemplated before. You are remarkable, Abigail.”
“I thought you hated me for what I did.” My voice breaks, and the
painting blurs behind a wash of fresh tears.
“You said this painting is passion,” he says. “But I can barely see the
difference between the shades of red without you to describe them so
eloquently. You said that’s rage.” He gestures at a crimson spray. “And
that’s seduction.” His finger hovers over the purplish smudge. “But to me,
they aren’t so different.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, my heart in my throat. I crave his
forgiveness, but something like fear dances down my spine in a primal
warning. It floods my core with forbidden heat.
“You lied to me when you faked your orgasm,” he says. “But I wasn’t
being myself, either. I think it’s time for us to both be honest about what we
want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“You. All of you.”

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 20

ABBY

ou’re exhausted,” Dane says before I can formulate a reply, his voice
“Y deep with concern rather than judgment. “Let’s sit down, and I’ll
treat your hand. We can talk more after.”
I practically float as he guides me into an ultramodern, minimalist living
room. I’m no longer certain if I’m conscious or if I’ve slipped into some
sweet dream where my charming prince is focused on me like I’m the most
important person in the world.
He urges me to sit on the plush cream couch and orders me to stay
before disappearing into the next room. I take a moment to stare at my
surroundings, taking in his private space.
All of the furnishings are sleek and clearly expensive, but there’s
something almost sterile about the pale color palette. It feels like a show
home that someone has designed as a model of a house rather than a place
someone actually lives in. Everything is too new, too perfectly polished and
clean. Even the glass coffee table doesn’t have so much as an errant water
mark marring the surface.
I remind myself that Dane only moved in a few months ago, and he’s
admitted that he doesn’t have an eye for art. It’s likely that he hired some
high-end interior designer to furnish this place, and he simply hasn’t lived
here long enough to make the space his own.
He returns to me before I can puzzle over it further.
“Give me your hand.”
 I comply without hesitation, even though my cheeks flush with soft
heat. I’m still embarrassed that I was so careless at work.
“It’s really not bad,” I assure him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. My skin
just feels a little tight.”
He frowns at the angry red splotch over the back of my fingers, but his
touch is achingly careful as he rubs a cool salve into the burn. I release a
long, slow exhale. The relief from the lingering burn is almost euphoric; I
hadn’t realized that I was still experiencing pain until he soothed it away.
When he’s satisfied that my injury has been treated, his green eyes meet
mine, pinning me in place with that rapt focus that makes my stomach flip.
“I should’ve come for you sooner,” he says, as though it’s an admission
of a grave sin against me. “But I needed to get the paperwork together
first.”
My brow furrows. “Paperwork?”
He sits down beside me and reaches for a leather folder that I hadn’t
noticed on the side table. His expression is blank, completely enigmatic as
he hands it to me.
“I had my lawyer draw this up. I hope you’re not offended, but I have to
be careful.”
I open the folder and glance over the official document.
“An NDA?” My gaze meets his again, and I still can’t read him. It’s like
a wall has gone up between us, and I’m shivering in its cool, looming
shadow. “What’s this about?” I press. “You can trust me, Dane.”
His jaw tightens ever so slightly, the barest sign of tension. “I think I’ve
made it clear that I’m not exactly close with my family, and I want things to
stay that way.” The words are so formal in his accent that they almost sound
rehearsed. “But if what I want to say to you ever got back to them, they
wouldn’t let me be. It took a good five years for them to accept that I wasn’t
coming back home. They’re content with their spare now, and they leave
me to live my own life in America. I don’t want that to change if I cause a
scandal.”
“Their spare?” I ask, still not understanding. “What do you mean?”
His face remains a careful, stony blank, like a beautiful sculpture of
male stoicism.
“My father is the Earl of Ripley. I am the firstborn son. But I rejected
my birthright when I left England to study at Johns Hopkins. They’ve
learned to make do with my little brother, James, as the new heir.”
 I place my hand over his closed fist, trying to get him to open up to me
again. My heart tugs toward his as though we’re tethered by an invisible
cord.
“My family isn’t royalty, but I understand the desire to avoid scandal,” I
assure him. “I don’t want to draw my parents’ attention, either.”
“Nobility, not royalty,” he corrects me in a bland, rote tone. “The British
media aren’t all that discerning when it comes to celebrity, though. If there’s
juicy gossip, they’ll splash it all over the tabloids.”
I want to earnestly promise him again that he can trust me, but I get the
sense that my words won’t reach him at the moment. He’s protecting
himself; he’s possibly even in survival mode. That’s why he’s shut down
right now.
I’m not good with emotions. I recall his vulnerable confession.
He needs action, not words. I’ll prove to him that he can trust me.
I’m burning to learn more about him now that he’s shared a little more
insight into his fraught relationship with his family. I’d been right to think
that his estrangement mirrored my own.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask.
“You’ll want to read it carefully,” he admonishes. “There are some steep
penalties involved if you break the terms of the NDA.”
I hold out my hand, expectant. “I’m not worried about any
consequences because I won’t betray your trust. I need a pen, please.”
His eyes remain shuttered, but his mouth softens as some of his tension
eases. There’s still something too formal about his bearing, and I realize that
his stiff posture isn’t so different from my own.
He picks up a pen from the side table and places it in my uninjured
hand.
I don’t bother to peruse the NDA further before signing at the bottom. I
meant what I said: the consequences don’t matter. I will never betray Dane.
I close the folder with a decisive snap and place it on the coffee table.
“There,” I declare, capturing his eyes with mine again. “Now you can
tell me anything.”
He huffs out a breath and considers me for another long moment, as
though he’s choosing his next words carefully.
“I treated you gently because I thought you were scared of men,” he
says. “The way you reacted when I kissed you on our dates indicated that
you wanted me, but your fear got in the way. I only ever want you to feel
safe with me, Abigail.”
I thread my fingers through his, and after a tight moment, he parts them
to allow me to hold his hand.
“I do,” I promise. “I haven’t let myself lean on anyone in a long time. I
was scared to let go and trust in your support, but I know now that you
won’t let me fall. I can be vulnerable with you.”
A shadow flits at his jaw. “You’re scared of more than that.” It’s a rough
statement of fact. “You don’t have to tell me what happened until you’re
ready, but I know someone hurt you. That will never happen again. I’ve got
you now.”
I lean into him, finding strength in the undeniable connection we share.
This intimacy is almost painfully intense, and a thrill races through me. He
could crush me with a word, but I’m held safely in his strong hands.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” I breathe, lacing my fingers more tightly
through his.
His eyes rake over my face, reading every nuance of my expression.
“But you want me to.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
He can’t know. I can’t let him see that fucked-up part of me. He’ll be
disgusted, and he’ll walk away from me forever this time.
I remember the way my lust surged when he stood over me after I faked
my orgasm. I’d been afraid that he’d read my moment of dark desire in
response to his dangerous aura, the power of his fury. That beautiful,
terrible scowl directed at me had made me wet.
I open my mouth to protest, to try to salvage this, but he speaks before I
can find the desperate words to keep him close.
“You chose the dark god, Abigail.” He repeats the secret he plucked
from my soul when we talked about The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.
My heart shreds, pain lancing deep in my chest.
He knows.
And I can’t bring myself to lie to him again.
Shame presses down on my shoulders, and my head dips in defeat. I
drop my eyes to the cream rug, unable to bear the censure that I’ll see in his
handsome face.
Two fingers touch my chin, and my ravaged heart gives a weak flutter
as he lifts my gaze back to him.
 His eyes blaze with green fire: desire, not disgust. “I choose the dark
god too.”
Hope buds in my chest, wrapping my aching heart in tentative warmth.
“What are you saying?”
“I want you, Abigail. I want all that you are, and that includes the dark
parts of your heart. Because they match my own perfectly.”
My lower lip trembles as my hope surges through me. “I didn’t think
you’d understand,” I confess. “You’re a good man. You’ve proven that you
want to protect me.”
He cups my cheek, grounding me to him. “I will always protect you.
And I will never violate your trust. But I suspect that I have your consent to
indulge in my darker games.”
Desire shudders through me, strong enough to make my fingers tremble.
He caresses my shaking hand. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I promise. “I’m scared you’ll leave if you find
out what I’m really like. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You have me, Abigail. I’m not going anywhere.”
My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips. “I’ve never talked to
anyone about this. I don’t think I know how.”
His thumb traces the shape of my mouth, and my sensitive lips tingle at
the tender contact.
“This is new territory for me too,” he admits. “I’m skilled at what I do,
but I’ve never kept a submissive of my own before.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve spent enough time reading erotica that I’m
familiar with BDSM, even if my own fantasies have always blurred the
lines of consent.
“Do you understand what I’m talking about?” he asks, his eyes
searching mine.
I swallow hard and nod.
His jaw tightens. “Have you engaged in BDSM before?”
Is he...jealous?
My chest heats with feminine gratification, and my nerves finally start
to settle. Dane truly does want me as fiercely as I want him. The dangerous
flash over his verdant eyes is pure possessiveness, and my core pulses in
response.
“No,” I reply. “But I’ve read about it.”
 The tension eases from his powerful frame, and he traces my
cheekbone. I lean into his touch, proving my trust in him with my body
language. He needs reassurance, too, no matter how strong he is. He’s
making himself vulnerable, and I’m drawn to support him.
“You’re safe with me too,” I promise. “You can be yourself with me.”
He features sharpen with unmistakable hunger, and for a moment, I
think he’s going to crush his lips to mine in a savage kiss.
Instead, his hand drops from my face so that he can retrieve the leather
folder from the coffee table. Cold air rushes over my heated cheek, and I
quickly breathe through the knifing sense of loss at his withdrawal.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” I reassure him. “I won’t tell anyone
your secrets.”
“Yes, you signed the NDA, even if you didn’t bother to read the
ramifications.” He shoots me a wicked smirk that makes my heart skip a
beat. “You’re mine now.”
He flips the page over and sets the open folder on my lap.
“I have a different contract for you now, pet.”
Desire shudders down my spine, quivering all the way to my core.
I think I’d like to have you as my needy pet. GentAnon’s dirty message
plays through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. This is Dane. He’s real and
warm and solid, not an anonymous, faceless man on the internet.
“Is that a Yorkshire endearment? It’s sweet.” I can’t keep the breathiness
from my voice when I try for an offhand tone.
His low chuckle rumbles deep inside me. “You can’t hide from me,
Abigail. You’re pressing your soft thighs together to suppress your lust. I
see you. I see everything. You want to be my pretty pet.” He taps the folder,
an authoritative gesture that has me complying without thinking. “Read it.”
Unlike the NDA, this contract has been written in slanted cursive rather
than neatly typed. I know it’s Dane’s handwriting without having to ask. It’s
every bit as elegant as he is. The bold strokes of black ink indicate a
fountain pen, and I can easily picture his long fingers deftly holding it as he
wrote this illicit contract.

By signing below, my pet, Abigail Foster,

gives herself to me, Dane Graham. She will
abide by my rules and obey my commands.
She will at all times endeavor to please me.
Nothing is more important to her than my
pleasure.
In return, my pet will be rewarded. When
I am satisfied with her behavior, she will be
allowed to come. When she disappoints me, she
will be punished with a variety of implements
of my choosing. She will submit to her
punishments and will thank me for correcting
her.
Sometimes, she will suffer because I will
it, and for no other reason. She will find
ecstasy in enduring this suffering and
surrendering to my control.
In the unlikely instance that I ask too
much of my pet, a safe word will be honored.
“Red” will end our games, and I will ensure
that she feels safe and comforted.
At all times, my pet will be cherished and
cared for. She trusts in me to take
responsibility for her. When it comes my
decisions regarding her wellbeing, defiance will
not be tolerated.
 My pet is a valued individual, and she will
speak her mind. She will deny me nothing, and
that includes giving me full access to her
thoughts and feelings. Dishonesty will be met
with swift retribution.
With her signature, my pet gives herself to
me, her Master.

I stare at the elegant script, struggling to process that this is reality. My

body trembles with lust, and my sex is slick with desire. I can feel my inner
walls clenching, and my labia are almost painfully swollen.
The contract is concise but powerful. There isn’t an endless list of rules
and expectations. Dane’s will is the expectation. He’ll issue commands, and
I will obey, no matter what he decides to ask of me.
Except for the clause that allows me to withdraw consent at any time.
My safe word will make everything stop.
My mind spins at the deviant possibilities. I’ve never imagined having a
safe outlet for my dark desires, but Dane is offering me exactly that: erotic
abandon, but with a promise of security.
I read over the final paragraphs again.
He wants me to give myself to him, not as a mindless plaything, but as
me.
He’d said that he wants all of me, and this contract proves it.
My fingers shake when I pick up the pen, and I can’t bring myself to
look directly at him as I sign myself over to him.
In this moment, I’m choosing to trust that he means it when he says
he’ll take care of me. I’m surrendering to the darkest, weakest parts of me
that want to be both hurt and cared for. I never dared to dream that I could
be with someone who understands my needs but also values my consent.
He plucks the pen from my trembling fingers and places the signed
contract on the table. I stare at his slanted handwriting as he adds a final
line:
 With my signature, I vow to cherish my
sweet pet.

The pen indents the paper with the force of his signature.
I take a moment to imprint the scene in my memory. Later, I’ll paint his
dexterous hand firmly holding the pen, and I’ll strive to capture the
confident strokes as he boldly lays claim to everything that I am.
He turns to me, and his triumphant grin is wickedly sharp, keen enough
to cut straight into my chest and reveal my soul.
“You lied to me when you faked your orgasm,” he says, his tone heavy
with condemnation even as his eyes glitter with carnal anticipation. “What
does our contract say about dishonesty?”
I swallow hard, and warning snakes down my spine. “I’m sorry. I only
faked it because I wanted to please you. I wanted you to feel good about our
connection.”
He trails his fingers through my hair, the tender stroke belying the
dangerous, hungry tension around his lush mouth.
“I know, but your apology won’t spare you. You’re going to suffer for
me, and then you’re going to come for me. We won’t stop until you lose
count of your orgasms. You will learn that there is exquisite pain in
pleasure, and you will beg for mercy before I’m finished with you.”
He stands, looming over me like my own personal dark god. My lips
part for an enraptured moment, and I stare up at his masculine perfection
with open awe.
“It’s time for your punishment, Abigail.”

OceanofPDF.com
 21

ABIGAIL

I
place my hand in Dane’s outstretched palm, and his fingers close around
mine in a firm cage. Apprehension flutters in my belly like the frantic
beats of a trapped butterfly’s wings. The disconcerting sensation sets my
senses on high alert, and my entire focus centers on him.
His handsome face is etched with hungry lines, as though someone has
enhanced the sharpness on the world. His eyes blaze with emerald flames,
burning with dark fire that entrances me. Our connection is hypnotic, and I
rise to my feet as though he’s lifted my limbs on a puppet’s strings.
With no more than a gentle tug at my hand, he pulls me in his wake. I
float alongside him, my breaths coming faster as though I’m jogging in the
summer heat rather than strolling through his house. He leads me up the
stairs, and we enter his bedroom.
The color scheme is vastly different from the sterile, pale tones in the
rest of the house. The walls are painted a deep green that’s so dark it’s
almost velvety, and the furniture is built in sturdy mahogany. A massive
four-poster bed with a black-draped canopy dominates one wall.
My steps falter as my anxiety rises, eating away at my lust.
What if my body won’t relax to accommodate him? What if my inner
muscles close so tightly that he can’t penetrate me?
Now that I’m in his private sanctuary, only mere feet away from his
bed, my insecurities nip at me with sharp teeth.
 As always, he’s keenly attuned to my moods. He pauses and turns to
me. Both hands settle on my waist, holding me so close that our bodies are
almost touching.
“Tell me what you’re worried about.”
“It’s nothing.” I placate him automatically. I don’t want to ruin this
moment with my damage.
I straighten my shoulders, determined to master my own body so that I
can be with Dane in every way.
His lips firm to a warning slash that makes my stomach dip like I’m on
a rollercoaster. A familiar, giddy thrill fizzes through me. I’m riding the
edge of danger, and yet, I’m completely safe with Dane.
I marvel at the dichotomy, the fact that I’m able to indulge in this space
where I’m both threatened and protected.
“Have you forgotten our contract already?” he challenges. “Complete
honesty, Abigail. I want all of you. That means you will tell me all of your
thoughts and feelings. You’re worried about something. Explain.”
“Sometimes, my body gets so tight that I can’t accept penetration,” I
admit. “I’m scared that will happen again.”
His cocky smirk makes my clit pulse. “Trust me, pet. Your body will
bend to my will. I fully intend to claim your sweet cunt. All you have to do
is give yourself to me, and I’ll make sure you experience more pleasure
than you ever thought possible. No matter how long it takes, I will toy with
you and torment you until you flower open for me.”
“But what about you?” I ask breathily. The contract had been clear that
my purpose is to please him, but he’s talking all about me and taking
nothing for himself.
He caresses my cheek. “Sweet pet. Don’t worry. I’ll use you for my
pleasure once I’m satisfied that you’ve been thoroughly punished.” His
thumb rubs my sensitized lips. “I’ll devote just as much time to training this
pretty mouth as I do to conquering your tight pussy.”
My breath stutters at his crass words. It’s like something out of my
darkest fantasies, but this time, I’m completely willing. I’m eager for him to
fulfil his wicked promises. It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding
so that I can worship his cruel perfection.
“I didn’t know it could be like this,” I confess.
His low laugh holds a mocking edge. “You don’t know anything yet. I
will teach you the meaning of suffering, and you will weep in gratitude.”
 This arrogant, domineering side of him should seem shockingly
different from my dashing prince, but somehow, this feels right. It’s as
though I’m seeing him clearly for the first time, but this hidden facet of him
doesn’t diminish the goodness of the man I’ve started to know over the last
few weeks.
I marvel at the prospect that I can have both: my white knight and my
dark god, all in one gorgeous package.
I push up onto my tiptoes, seeking a kiss. His cruel smile pierces my
chest like a knife, but my core pulses in response as he denies me. This
seduction will be on his terms, not mine. I don’t have to guess how to
satisfy him; all I have to do is give myself over to his control.
My breath shudders between my parted lips, but he doesn’t caress them
with his. He shows no mercy.
Instead, he keeps me pinned in his keen stare as he slowly drags my
black cotton shirt up my torso. His hands skim my sides, tracing my shape
without stimulating my most sensitive areas. He hasn’t so much as brushed
my breasts, but my nipples are hard, aching buds against the inside of my
purple bra.
He tugs my shirt over my head and tosses it away. Then he twines my
amethyst curl around his finger and boldly cups my breast with his other
hand.
It’s the lightest flex of his strong fingers, but it sends a pulse of pure lust
humming through my entire body.
“This is a beautiful color on you,” he says. “You’ll wear it for me more
often.”
It’s not a request, and his casual authority makes me melt.
Before I can nod in agreement, he wraps my curl around his wrist and
pulls me in for a vicious kiss. He claims me with tongue and teeth,
alternating the softness of his full lips with punishing bites. My hair is an
anchor in the chain of his hand, keeping me steady as I’m swept up in
desire as strong as a storm-tossed sea. He’s the only thing tethering me to
reality, the only person in existence.
He doesn’t break our kiss or release my hair as he deftly unbuttons my
jeans with his free hand. I shimmy out of them without needing to be told.
I’m eager to be naked with him, to finally feel his hard, glorious body
against mine.
 My fingers fly to his collar, fumbling at the buttons on his crisp white
shirt.
He shackles my wrists, directing them away from his shirt.
“No,” he murmurs against my lips. “I want you naked and vulnerable.
This is your punishment, pet.”
“But I want to touch you,” I protest breathily. “I want to see you.”
He nips at my lower lip. “You have to earn your rewards. It’s time for
you to suffer for me.”
He releases me entirely and takes a step back. Cool air rushes over me,
and my skin pebbles in the absence of his steady heat.
Before I can fold my arms over my chest to chase away the chill of
vulnerability, he commands, “Take off your bra. I want to see what’s mine.”
I almost whimper at the wave of ruthless desire that rushes through me.
My panties are wet with my arousal, and my clit pulses madly.
I’m his possession, his pet.
And he’s going to punish me.
My fingers tremble, but I manage to unclasp my bra after two fumbling
attempts. The straps slide down my arms, and the soft skimming sensation
over each of my goosebumps sets my entire body alight with carnal
sensation.
He takes another step back, and I can’t help swaying toward him, as
though I’m bound to him by invisible rope.
“Stay,” he admonishes. “I’m admiring my pretty pet.”
I manage to obey, but my hands are still shaking with the force of the
adrenaline coursing through me. I want him so desperately that my swollen
sex aches to be touched, but I’m compelled by his will.
A sense of lightness floods my mind, and my thoughts float away. There
are no insecurities, no worries about whether or not my body will accept
him. There’s no room in my world for anything other than his control. He
has claimed ownership of me, but I’ve never felt freer than I do in this
moment.
He strolls around me, taking me in from every angle. I hardly breathe,
determined to obey and remain still for him to admire at his leisure. I feel
exposed but safe. No one will hurt me while I’m in Dane’s care.
No one but him.
He’s promised to make me suffer, and I eagerly await the absolution he
will offer me.
 I feel his heat recede further, and I barely resist the urge to turn so that I
can see where he’s going. My teeth worry my lower lip, and my fingernails
bite into my palms in the long seconds that pass without his nearness.
Just when my anxiety begins to reach a fever pitch, his hand spans my
lower back.
I jolt, and he shushes me gently.
His hard body is behind mine, and his corded arms encircle my waist.
“Give me your wrists.”
I lift my hands in offering, and he loops hemp rope around them. His
movements are quick and efficient, and in less than a minute, my wrists are
bound together. He holds the length of rope like a leash and uses the tension
to force my body to turn. I spin in the cage of his arms, and suddenly, I’m
trapped in his glittering emerald stare.
He’s almost a foot taller than I am, but I feel even smaller in his
imposing shadow—as fragile as a wren captured in his elegant hand.
He keeps me pinned with his imposing gaze as he tugs on the rope,
pulling my arms upward. When they’re fully extended above me, he loops
the length over the wooden beam of the canopy. Another short tug forces
me to stretch until I’m almost on my toes.
His chuckle rumbles with dark amusement at my predicament as he ties
off his work, leaving me bound and naked except for my black cotton
thong. He takes his time to study me, as though I’m not even a person. I’m
a pretty thing for him to admire, a work of art that he possesses to view
whenever it pleases him.
The sense of being objectified should be shameful, possibly even
offensive. But I’m molten for him, my entire being burning for more of his
cruel attention. As long as he’s looking at me, I have value. Without his
imperious gaze on me, I would be insignificant: a cheap replicated print not
worthy of notice.
But he’s looking at me as though I’m his coveted masterpiece, his most
treasured possession.
“Exquisite,” he praises, and I sigh in bliss.
I’ve been so enamored with him that I didn’t notice what he placed on
the bed before he bound me. He reaches past me to pick up the cane, and
my stomach flips.
He touches the cool rod to my belly, using it to pin my bound body to
his front. His erection presses into my ass, huge and insistent.
 I writhe—equal parts need and fear.
“Are you scared yet, Abigail?” His dark question ruffles my hair as he
practically coos into my ear.
“Yes,” I admit on a tremulous whisper. I don’t dare lie to him when I’m
in this vulnerable position.
“Good. Pets should fear their master’s retribution. And you’ve more
than earned mine.” He touches my inner thigh, and his fingers swirl in
silken wetness. “You love the fear. You love being at my mercy, my pretty
plaything.”
“Yes.” I release the affirmation on a shuddering sigh: a confession
offered up from the deepest, darkest part of my soul.
He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply, as though he’s breathing in the
scent of my wanton arousal.
“I’m going to hurt you now. Do you trust me?”
“I do.” It’s an oath, and I let my head fall to the side, further exposing
my throat to his teeth. “I want you to.”
They graze my artery as he commands, “Beg.”
“Please hurt me.” My plea is little more than a desperate whimper. My
inner thighs are wet with my arousal, and my clit pulses in a painful throb.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and pulls away. Cool air closes
over my exposed body, and I shiver in anticipation. My heart flutters
against my ribcage in rapid beats—a bruising promise of the pain that is to
come.
He’s behind me now, and my upraised arms are like blinkers on either
side of my head. I can’t see him without twisting my bound body, and I can
barely maintain my balance as it is. So, I remain perfectly still, taut as a
bowstring. Apprehension and desire coil my muscles tight, and sweat beads
on my brow as though I’m enduring physical strain.
The first tap of the cane draws a yelp from my chest, and it takes me a
second to process that the hit isn’t painful. Another tap: a firm, bouncing
pressure against my ass. Heat blooms beneath the surface of my skin, a
prickling warmth that sinks deep into my tender flesh. The cane is a hard,
unyielding rod against my soft body, but he’s using it with deft precision.
Each short strike sends a fresh wave of warmth thudding through me,
rippling into my core.
He paints my upper thighs with carnal heat, until I’m simmering in lust.
 I’m a being of pure sensation, and I lose myself in him. All that exists is
his will and the light pain he inflicts, granting me the greatest high I’ve ever
known. The pain sparkles like fireworks, crackling through my nervous
system. My mind relaxes in a way I’ve never experienced, and all thoughts
float away.
“Suffer for me, Abigail.”
His dark command is my only warning. The cane lashes me in the first
true, punitive blow. A line of fire blazes across my tender flesh, and I
release a shocked cry.
“One,” he intones, and I scramble to process that fact that he’s counting.
There will be more.
“Dane…” His name is a tremulous plea. My ass is smarting, and my
tight muscles are beginning to strain from maintaining the stress position.
“You lied to me,” he reminds me. “Don’t you want absolution?”
My eyes burn, and my head dips in shame. “Yes.”
He hums his approval. “Four more.”
My next breath hitches on a soft sob, but I nod. I’ll accept whatever he
wants to do to me. I want to be his more than I need oxygen, and I will offer
myself to him in every way.
Fire lashes my skin, an inch beneath the first strike.
“Breathe,” he reminds me.
I gasp for air, compelled by his will. Euphoria floods my mind as I fully
surrender to the sweet rush of pain. A low moan sighs from my lips, and I
sag against the restraints around my wrists. The rope bites into my skin,
another blissful hit of pain. I’m helpless to resist Dane, but I’m completely
safe in his cruel hands.
Another punitive stroke, another line of fire, another rush of white-hot
bliss.
I’m no longer certain where pain ends and pleasure begins. The release
is nothing short of ecstatic. Tears roll down my cheeks, siphoning my
shame in steady streams.
I lied to Dane when I faked my orgasm, but there’s no dishonesty
between us now. There’s nowhere to hide when he has me stripped bare and
bound in place for punishment.
“Are you sorry?” he asks, and the fourth blow lands.
“Yes!” I confess on a harsh cry.
“You don’t have any secrets from me, Abigail. Never lie to me again.”
 “Never.” It’s a fervent promise.
He seals my vow with the final strike, pressing the cane deep into my
thighs after the blow lands to imprint a bruise: a mark of forgiveness.
He kisses my cheeks, and when his soft lips finally caress mine, I taste
the salt of my tears. His tongue plunders my mouth, laying claim to
everything that I am. I relax into his harsh embrace, welcoming him to take
all of me: body and soul.
His hands bracket my hips, and he guides me to turn on the spot. The
rope above me twists, allowing me to turn but keeping me bound for his
dark games.
When I’m facing him, he captures me in his fiery emerald stare. He’s
looking at me as though I’m his most precious possession, and the sense of
being fully seen and valued draws fresh tears to my eyes. I’m more
vulnerable than ever, but Dane will cherish me. He looks at me as though he
doesn’t see any flaws, and I’m desperate to keep his rapt attention fixed on
me.
My jaw drops when he gets on his knees. His white teeth flash in a
wicked grin before he leans in and nips at my black cotton panties. He traps
them in a firm bite that grazes my clit, and a burst of pure pleasure wracks
my body.
My knees go weak, and his big hands catch me, cupping my ass to hold
me steady as he drags my panties down my legs with his teeth.
He’s kneeling before me, but I’m worshipping him. I’m offering myself
as a carnal sacrifice to my dark god.
One hand remains braced beneath my ass while the other tests the wet
heat that paints my inner thighs. His intense gaze fixes on my pussy like it’s
the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and my cheeks heat with a
mixture of gratification and embarrassment.
I’ve never had a man this close to my sex before. My swollen labia are
aching and hot. Each of his even breaths sends a wave of cool air over my
sensitized flesh, teasing and tormenting me.
“Beautiful,” he praises, his eyes fixed on my most intimate area. His
thumb carefully parts my folds, inspecting me like I’m a priceless treasure.
“My cunt is so pretty and pink. And so wet for me.”
He’s talking about my body as though he owns it. I signed the contract
and gave myself to him. Every part of me belongs to Dane now, and
surrendering to him is the most erotic high I’ve ever experienced.
 His forefinger dips between my labia, easing inside me in a slow slide.
My inner muscles clamp down on the intrusion, but there’s no pain.
My eyes sting with the force of my relief. I don’t have to pretend with
Dane. Being with him like this feels right, and my body finally makes sense
to me for the first time in my adult life. I desire him, and my sex has
softened to accommodate him. This is fully consensual, and yet, I’m more
than ready to open myself for his cock.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
What we’re doing is undeniably kinky, but I feel like a normal woman,
not a perverted deviant who can only experience pleasure when forced.
Dane is the only one who can give me this gift, and I will grant him
anything in return.
He eases a second finger into my tight channel, and I tense for a
moment at the sensation of fullness. He shushes me gently and presses his
sensual lips directly to my clit.
Stars burst across my vision, and I blink hard so that I can remain
fixated on his handsome face drawn in sharp, hungry lines. He flicks his
tongue over my clit, and my knees buckle. He catches me with his arm
braced beneath my ass, and his fingers press into the welts left by the cane.
The flare of pain sends me flying even higher, and I’m oddly weightless.
Only the iron band of Dane’s arm behind my thighs keeps me chained to
reality.
“Open up for me, pretty pet,” he urges between licking my clit. “I’ll
need to stretch your tight pussy wide enough to accept your master’s cock.”
He crooks two fingers inside me, finding a sweet spot I’ve never known
before. My entire body convulses at the vicious pulse of pleasure, and I cry
out as the orgasm rakes through me.
“Don’t stop,” he commands. “I want more. You will give me everything,
Abigail.”
“Yes!” I shout when he circles my clit with his tongue. “I’m yours. All
yours.”
Ecstasy crashes in relentless waves, pleasure churning through me like a
riptide. I’m powerless against him, completely at his mercy. I experience
bliss at his whim, and he intends to drown me in it.
My head drops back on a primal scream of release as all of my
emotional walls crumble away beneath his onslaught. I don’t have to hold
myself together. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. Dane has
stripped me bare to reveal the dark truth at my core, and he’s still holding
me as though I’m wanted. Valued. Worthy.
“That’s it,” he urges. “You’re mine.”
A third thick finger slides into me, and this time, the edge of pain is a
sweet sharpness to my pleasure. He pumps into me in ruthless strokes,
willing my body to accommodate him however he chooses. At the same
time, his teeth graze my clit.
“Please…” I writhe in his grip, but there’s nowhere for me to go. “It’s
too much… I can’t…”
“You can take it,” he says, a command rather than a reassurance. “I
want another orgasm.”
My eyes slide closed on a low moan. Pain flares on my inner thigh
when he sinks his teeth into my soft flesh in rebuke.
“Look at me.”
The deep green facets of his glittering eyes are sharp enough to cut into
my soul.
“You belong to me, Abigail. Tell me.”
A tear slides down my cheek and wets my lips as I murmur, “I’m
yours.”
He bites my thigh again, and I cry out at the shock of pain that layers
over the waves of pleasure he’s coaxing from that sensitive spot inside me.
“Master,” he corrects me, his voice dark with warning.
“Master,” I whisper it like a prayer. “I’m yours, Master.”
He releases a savage sound, and he buries his face between my legs like
he wants to devour me. My clit stings in sensitized protest after the multiple
orgasms, but my master isn’t finished with me.
My core contracts helplessly around his invasive fingers as he plays me
like his favorite instrument, drawing pleasure from my overstimulated body
until I’m babbling and weeping for mercy.
But he has none.

OceanofPDF.com
 22

DANE

M
ine.
It’s like something out of one of my most feverish fantasies:
Abigail is calling me Master while she cries and comes all over my
face.
But this is real. Nothing has ever been more real in my life.
Until meeting her, I’d seen the world in cold, clinical terms. I assessed
everything at a numb distance, and I was thoroughly in control because I
wasn’t hampered by the frivolous emotions that weaken other people.
Now, I feel everything. And I’ve never been more powerful.
These savage emotions Abigail evokes in me are almost debilitating at
times, but my control over her makes me stronger than I’ve ever been.
This stunning, talented woman has chosen to give herself to me. She
places her full trust in me.
It’s the greatest high I’ve ever known, even though she’s the one
screaming out her orgasm right now.
Her pussy gives a weak flutter around my insistent fingers, tempting my
own lust to rise to a maddening pitch. My cock is painfully hard, and I’ve
been aching to bury myself in her wet heat. Only my control over her has
given me the strength to restrain my most primal urges. I won’t rut into her
like a beast when having her completely come undone is a far greater
pleasure.
 I want her on her knees, so that I can see those lovely aquamarine eyes
staring up at me with devotion and awe.
Her cunt fully yielded to me three orgasms ago. She’s tight, but her
body surrendered to my will.
I lick my lips and taste her delicious arousal, all that wet desire just for
me.
It’s her turn now.
I keep one arm braced around her lower back to support her as I rise,
then lift my free hand to undo the knot that keeps her wrists bound above
her head. She sags against me, her muscles weak and shaking after the long
period of erotic torment.
I ease her down, guiding her to her knees. She sways slightly, like she’s
drunk on the pleasure I’ve drawn from her lovely body.
I touch two fingers beneath her chin, and her perfect posture
immediately straightens her shoulders. Her back arches slightly, putting her
modest, pert breasts on display for me. Her pink nipples are pretty little
buds, and I wonder how sensitive they are.
That exploration will have to wait for another time. I’ve barely begun to
learn the secrets of her body, even if I already know her hidden, dark
fantasies from our late-night messages.
Abigail is my perfect match.
And now, she’s all mine.
She walked right into her cage when she signed the contract to be my
submissive. There’s no going back now.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the collar I purchased for her weeks
ago. One way or another, this was always going to end up locked around
her pretty throat.
But my pet is proving to be sweetly docile. It’s almost a shame she’s not
putting up more of a fight.
I blink once so that she can’t see the dark thought in my eyes. She’s
staring up at me with that wide, guileless gaze, and I fear she might see
straight into me if I don’t keep my new, surging emotions in check.
I want Abigail to feel safe with me. The fact that she’s willingly placing
her trust in me makes something throb deep in the center of my chest. It’s
almost a painful sensation, but I decide that I like it. I want more of this.
“Lift your hair for me,” I command.
 I don’t wait or ask for her permission to collar her. She’s already agreed
to this with her signature on the contract. Only a single word can stop
what’s happening between us, and I won’t do anything that might push her
to use it.
The black collar is a thin, midnight band of leather against her creamy
skin. The rose gold ring at the front brings out the soft pink hues in her
complexion. The matching buckle at her nape has a small ring that punches
through the leather, and I deftly loop the delicate padlock through it. The
soft click of the lock engaging draws the most delicious shiver from her,
and her hair cascades from her fingers in sable waves.
I find the purple one and curve it around my finger. The gesture is
calming in a way I’ve never known before. I smooth the vibrant locks into
one perfect, loose curl that falls over her left breast, brushing her tight
nipple. The rich amethyst shade against the pink bud is the most
breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.
Her rosebud lips are a deeper shade of pink, slightly glossy from her
tears. I trace my thumb along them, memorizing their shape and pliant
texture.
So many long nights, I’ve laid alone in bed and fantasized about these
lips around my cock.
The time for fantasies is over.
Abigail is my collared pet now, and she will eagerly give me access to
every part of her body.
“Open your mouth.”
As I free my stiff cock from the confines of my trousers, those lovely
lips part. Her hands brace at my hips, and her head dips forward to accept
my length into her mouth.
My fingers anchor in her hair, stopping her short with a little warning
tug. I tap my cock against her cheek in a light slap—a swift rebuke for
trying to take control.
“What did I⁠—?”
I slap her again, more firmly this time. “Open your mouth.” I repeat the
command, clipped and clear.
Her eyes shine with fresh tears, and they’re so blue that they practically
glow like a sunlit, azure sea. Her lower lip trembles when she parts her lips
again, then waits for my next move. She barely breathes as she stares up at
me, completely vulnerable and willing to be used for my pleasure.
 “Stick out your tongue.”
She complies, and I rest my cockhead on her waiting tongue. Desire
courses through my veins, hot and insistent. But I’m strong enough to
master my own lust; mastering her gives me that strength.
I watch in rapt fascination as a bead of my precum drops onto her
tongue. It pools there, spilling deeper into her waiting mouth. A tear rolls
down her rosy cheek. I capture it on my fingertips and rub the wetness over
my cock. Pleasure lances me like a lightning strike down my spine, and I
grit my teeth to hold back my orgasm.
I take a small step forward, wedging my shin between her thighs. She
gasps, and the soft rush of air over my dick torments me. I bite back a growl
and increase the pressure, so that her sensitive little clit is griding against
my leg.
“Don’t stop,” I say. “You’re going to come for me again.”
A high whimper eases from her chest, but she obediently rotates her
hips, stimulating herself even though I know she must be aroused to the
point of pain.
“Good girl. You’re such a good pet.”
I finally, slowly, push my cock into her waiting mouth.
“Does that feel good, Abigail? Does it hurt?”
Broken moans hum around my dick, and I bury my fingers in her hair,
clinging for my control.
A dark laugh fills the bedroom. “That’s right,” I praise. “Pets don’t talk.
All you can do is whimper and moan around Master’s cock.”
Her eyes roll back on a blissful whine, and I tug sharply at her hair to
recapture her attention.
“Look at me.”
Her lovely eyes are dark with lust, her huge pupils rendering the
remarkable aqua shade a thin ring of blue. Her gaze is unnervingly focused
despite her euphoric state, and again, I get the sense that she’s peering
straight into me.
And in this moment, I can’t hold anything back. I let my civilized mask
drop away entirely; I allow her to see my selfishness, my ruthlessness, my
cruel hunger that only she can slake.
She moans around my cock, and I can’t restrain myself in any way. My
length sinks deep into her throat, and she gags around me. I can’t stop. I
pull back slightly to allow her to breathe, but I come all over her tongue.
 The rush of pleasure is strong enough to make my knees weak, and I
grab the bedpost for support as I roar out my release.
I watch in awe as she greedily swallows everything that I offer her.
She’s frantically licking my shaft when she grinds hard against my leg and
lets out a sharp cry, finding her own ecstasy in my pleasure with her.
I withdraw from her and scoop her up in my arms. She’s completely
limp in my hold, implicitly trusting me to take care of her in the aftermath
of absolutely shattering her.
The painful pulsing at the center of my chest starts up again, an
insistent, addictive throb.
I lay my pretty pet out on my bed and tuck her body close to mine. I’m
still mostly dressed while she’s fully naked, but I just need to hold her now.
I can worry about mundane things like clothing later.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, stroking her hair back from her sweat-
slicked brow.
She’s so still and quiet.
I barely breathe until she slurs, “Wonderful.”
My entire body relaxes, and I marvel at this moment of unknown
intimacy. Only a few hours ago, I’d feared that she wouldn’t sign the NDA.
Now, Abigail is naked in my bed, and she looks as peaceful as one of the
sleeping princesses in her favorite animated musicals.
The last week without her has been deeply unpleasant. I was forcing her
to live without me and to reflect on how she’d disappointed me by faking
the orgasm.
But I’d tortured myself too.
Never again.
From now on, Abigail will sleep in my bed every night. I won’t tolerate
another arrangement.
I’m her Master, and she will learn what it means to be mine.

OceanofPDF.com
 23

DANE

A
bigail’s face is upturned to catch the sun, as though she’s a freshly
bloomed flower soaking in the warm rays. In the bright light, her dark
freckle stands out in fascinating contrast with her porcelain skin. Her
cheek is flushed slightly from the summer heat, but I’m reassured that she’s
not getting burned. I helped her put on her sunscreen before we left her
place, where we stopped off to pick up her clothes for this outing.
The memory of her soft body beneath my hands is enough to tempt my
lust, so I take a breath and do my best to suppress it. We’re on a public
beach, and I don’t need an erection right now.
Her outfit is simple and inexpensive, but the style is classic. The bright
blue bikini brings out the lovely hue of her eyes, and a pale pink sarong is
wrapped loosely around her hips.
Abigail clearly has good taste, even if she doesn’t have much money.
Very soon, I’ll be able to dress her up in whatever pleases me most. I
anticipate some defiance when it comes to me spending money on her, but I
already have a plan to subdue her.
She signed herself over to me. She belongs to me.
I don’t want to change her—I covet everything that she is—but she will
obey.
“What are you thinking about?” That clear, open gaze is fixed on me
again, but her lips are curved in a small smile rather than a concerned
frown.
 She isn’t scared of the darkness that lurks in me. When we were
together last night, I allowed my civilized mask to fall away entirely, and
she didn’t run screaming; she came so hard that she passed out for twelve
hours.
“I’m thinking how lucky I am to have you as my pretty pet.” I don’t
bother to hide the wolfish edge to my grin.
I never realized how heavy my mask is until I allowed it to drop in her
presence. I feel free in a way I’ve never experienced before, and it’s all
because of her.
Her cheeks flush a brighter shade of pink, and she quickly glances
around to check if anyone overheard.
Even my chuckle comes with shocking ease—a sound of natural
pleasure rather than a carefully constructed social response to appear
charming. Normal.
“No one heard me,” I reassure her.
The beach is crowded today, but everyone is too concerned with their
own lives to listen in on our quiet conversation. The crashing waves and
cawing gulls overhead provide a backdrop to the buzz of dozens of
conversations. It’s more than enough to grant us privacy, even if we are
surrounded by people.
“And you were right,” I drawl. “Pet is a Yorkshire endearment.”
I pause, relishing the soft downturn of her lips and the small furrow in
her brow. For a moment, she’s disappointed. She wants our game to be real.
She wants her new title to be more than a casual endearment.
Another low laugh rumbles from me. “But don’t worry. We both know
what it really means: you’re mine.”
Her breath catches, and her pupils dilate. Then she huffs and lightly
slaps my chest.
“Don’t mess with me like that,” she admonishes, but her voice holds a
sultry edge. She’s turned on by my possessiveness.
My grin sharpens, and I grasp her hand, holding it so that her palm is
pressed directly over the center of my chest. There’s that steady thrum
again, the beat slightly elevated.
“You love it when I toy with you.”
She scoffs and tosses her hair, but she doesn’t try to pull away.
“You can’t hide from me,” I taunt. “Complete honesty, remember?
Unless you already want another punishment.”
 Her blush is delicious. She’s wearing the sarong to cover the beautiful
marks left by my cane. I caught her admiring them in the mirror this
morning.
She’s perfect for me.
Her rosebud lips press together, as though she’s debating another retort.
She wants to see how far she can push me.
“Go on.” I dare her to try it. “Defy me, and see what happens.”
She blows out an exasperated sigh, but she sways toward me, drawn in
by my cruelty.
I lift her hand to my lips and brush a kiss over her knuckles. “Such a
good girl.”
I’m baiting her. I’d love a reason to hurt her again, to indulge in the
darkest parts of our intense connection.
She practically squirms at the praise. She likes it, even if my patronizing
tone makes her bristle.
I’ll break her of those notions of pride and independence. She doesn’t
need them anymore. Not when she’s mine to care for.
She shakes her head. “I’m not falling for that. Bait me all you want. I’m
not going to give you a reason to punish me so easily.”
I press another reverent kiss to the back of her hand. A strange, giddy
thrill soars through me. I’m more pleased by her response than I could’ve
imagined. She’s not defying me, but she is trying to deny me. Abigail won’t
walk into my traps so easily. It makes our game more complex, and I’ll
never get bored.
“Are you forgetting the part where I can make you suffer at my whim?”
I challenge. “I don’t need a reason.”
“Dane!” My name is a breathy admonishment. “We’re in public. This is
too much.”
“I rather like seeing you blush and squirm for me in front of all these
people. Do you think they know how wet you are right now?”
“Dane!” She’s almost alarmed this time, but that flush deepens to the
prettiest shade of pink, and she licks her perfect lips in open desire.
My arrogant laugh seems to affect her even more, because she tears her
gaze from mine and stares out at the ocean. Her chest rises and falls more
rapidly as she draws in little panting breaths. I shift my hold on her hand so
that I can test her pulse at her wrist. It’s racing for me, elevated with lust
and an edge of fear at public exposure.
 “I can be a merciful master,” I allow, tucking a stray lock of hair behind
her ear. “We’ll discuss this more later.”
She releases some of her tension on a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”
I caress her cheek, lingering on her pretty freckle. “Such a sweet,
grateful pet. How did I get so lucky?”
Her teasing smile is wide and brighter than the summer sun overhead.
“You’re welcome.”
I hum my approval and wrap my hand around her nape to pull her
closer. “I’ll tame this sassy mouth later.”
I press a quick kiss to her parted lips, relishing her little scandalized
gasp.
“I am lucky to have you, Abigail,” I say earnestly.
One way or another, she was always going to be mine. But I captured
her with such ease. I didn’t even have to remove a man from her life to gain
access to her.
Although, there is still the irksome issue of the man who hurt her in the
past. The one who made her thorny about financial control and skittish
when I kissed her the first time. Someone has abused her, and I won’t be
satisfied until I make him suffer. His actions made it more difficult for me
to win Abigail’s trust. He’ll pay for that.
“Tell me about your relationship history,” I say. “How is it possible that
such a stunning woman was single and waiting for me to come along?”
The question is meant to soften my intense inquiry, but she edges away
from me slightly. I’m not sure if it’s my compliment that’s making her
uncomfortable or the prospect of talking about her painful past, but I won’t
relent until I have answers. I want the name of her abuser.
“You don’t want to hear about my past boyfriends,” she says with a
dismissive wave.
“I’ll be the judge of what I want to hear,” I admonish. “Tell me.”
Her brows lift. “Is that an order?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to hide the warning, cold edge to my tone.
She considers me for a moment, then shrugs. “There’s not much to tell.
I’ve only had one boyfriend, and it wasn’t that serious. We dated for about
six months during my freshman year at College of Charleston, but he
transferred to a different school for sophomore year. The relationship was
never significant enough to warrant trying long distance.”
“Is he the one who hurt you?” I ask, my voice dropping even colder.
 She blinks, as though caught off guard by my question. “No. He was a
nice guy. We just didn’t have much chemistry.”
Some of the violent tension eases from my muscles. “So, he’s the one
who couldn’t satisfy you.”
I’m still annoyed that the fumbling fool is the one who made her think
that her body isn’t capable of experiencing pleasure. She was painfully
tense when I was gentle with her that first time. He probably reinforced that
stiffness with his inept attempts at seduction. I wonder how many times she
forced herself to endure the pain to soothe the boy’s ego, the way she’d
tried to do with me when she faked her orgasm.
He might not be the one who hurt her, but he should suffer for that sin
against her.
“What’s his name?” I demand.
“Devin.” Her brows are drawn together in a small, concerned frown.
“What are you going to do, fly to Seattle and beat him up for being too
nice?”
I force my body to relax with considerable effort. She can see me so
clearly. I don’t want her to read the extent of my vicious intentions in my
eyes. I’ll take care of her, but she doesn’t need to know my violent plans for
the men in her past.
“How do you know he’s in Seattle?” My tone is light, as though it’s an
offhand question. “Are you still in touch?”
She huffs an exasperated breath. “No. That’s where he transferred for
college. I don’t know if he’s still living there. Can we please change the
subject? I’d rather spend time getting to know you than talking about my
ex.”
“I’ve never been in a serious relationship,” I offer in order to placate
her.
I’ll have to return to this line of questioning later, when I’ve managed to
get my new, surging emotions under control. I won’t risk scaring her off if I
reveal the extent of my violent nature. She craves my erotic cruelty, but I
suspect she’d be upset if she saw it directed at others.
“I’d rather not hear about your womanizing,” she says frostily.
Fuck.
Sometimes, I feel like a fumbling idiot when I’m around her. I never
lose control of a conversation like this, but I’m saying all the wrong things.
 I’d meant to reassure her that I’ve only engaged in casual flings to sate
my needs. I’m skilled at BDSM because it’s provided an outlet for my
darker urges, even if I’ve never been fully satisfied. I’ve kept my mask
firmly on, and the women I’ve been with never knew anything about my
family or my past. I didn’t put myself at risk for them. I didn’t make myself
vulnerable.
I can only be this way with Abigail.
“I’ve never wanted to be with anyone before I met you,” I say earnestly.
“That’s all you need to know. You make me feel things I didn’t know I was
capable of feeling.”
That seems to be the right thing to say, because she softens, and her
frown eases.
“Sorry, I’m being insecure.” Incredibly, she’s the one offering an
apology.
That throbbing beat starts up in my chest again. I can hardly believe
I’ve captured this sweet woman. She possesses her own inner darkness, but
she’s nothing like me. She doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body.
Distant thunder rumbles, breaking the intense moment. I blink and tear
my gaze from her x-ray eyes. Dark clouds are rolling at the horizon, the
storm drawing closer to the beach.
“We should go,” I say, but she pulls her phone out of her bag.
“Just a few more minutes,” she requests, taking a picture of the
encroaching storm. “This is my favorite weather.”
“Ah, yes. I noticed your preference in your paintings.”
She sets her phone down and focuses on me again, brows raised. “At the
market that day?”
Fuck.
She thinks I’ve only seen her work one time: on the day I came to the
market to save her from the thief.
She has no idea that I stare at scores of her paintings every day. And she
doesn’t know that I’ve found her darker art that she keeps hidden in her
closet.
I manage to keep my expression neutral and nod.
“Do you always paint landscapes?” I ask, pushing her to confess about
her stunning, erotic work.
Her eyes cut away from mine, fixing on the horizon. “It’s what always
resonated with me most. And the tourists seem to like them.”
 She’s not lying, but she is evading me.
“What do you like about them?” I press.
She blows out a sigh. “This will always be home,” she admits, keeping
her gaze fixed on the coming storm. “I have a complicated relationship with
my family, and I sometimes feel resentment about my inability to leave
them far behind. Like you did.” Her clear eyes finally focus on me again,
peering straight into my soul. “You managed to go to an entirely different
country. I’ve only been able to move a few cities away.”
“Why not go farther?” I’m hanging onto her every word, craving more
of her intimate confessions.
“I can’t afford it,” she admits. Then she sighs. “But it’s more than that. I
don’t think I’m capable of leaving. This is home,” she repeats, but the
declaration is soft with something like regret.
Does she feel trapped by her affinity for this place?
“That’s why you favor the storms,” I surmise.
Her paintings are beautiful, but her most powerful landscapes provide a
glimpse into her tumultuous emotions when it comes to her home.
“Yes,” she admits. “How did you manage it? Leaving home, I mean.”
Something twists in my gut, a painful twinge. I breathe through the
strange pain.
“Yorkshire is beautiful, but I’m not the sentimental type.”
She’s looking at me with that keen blue gaze. She’s holding nothing
back, and she expects the same of me.
“I didn’t want my title,” I confess. “The only way my father would
accept that was to leave and not return.”
“Why not?” She seems just as desperate to know me as I am to learn all
of her secrets.
I find that I don’t want to hide anything from her.
“My father is not a good person,” I say, and it’s almost as though the
words are issuing from someone else’s lips. “He uses his title and his wealth
to cover his sins. He’s a selfish, weak man. I refused to take up the same
mantle. I want nothing to do with him.”
For an awful moment, I see the blood, hear the incessant blaring of the
car horn where my father’s unconscious body is slumped over the steering
wheel.
I shake off the childhood memory before it can fully form. I haven’t
thought about that night in years.
 “And your mother?” Abigail asks softly, coaxing.
I sneer. “She just wants her comfortable lifestyle. She will accept
anything my father does, as long as the family keeps up appearances.”
As much as I loathe my father, I disdain my mother. He’s a weak
coward, but she’s calculating. She’s the one who ensures he goes
unpunished and untarnished for his sins.
Abigail covers my hand with hers, calling me back to her. “I have a
complicated relationship with my parents too.”
Before I can press for more of her secrets, fat raindrops begin to fall. I
realize that the other beachgoers have fled the storm, and we’re alone. The
waves creep closer, crashing in furious roars as the wind whips by us.
But the rain is warm. Cleansing.
Abigail closes her eyes and turns her face toward the sky, as though
she’s soaking in the storm. It suits her more than the sunshine. She’s in
touch with the natural world in a way I’ve never known, and I understand
why she’s so deeply rooted to this place she calls home.
Her hair is already drenched, the purple curl relaxing under the weight
of the water. The rain runs down her cheeks like cathartic tears, and her
expression is soft with something like rapture.
Hunger knifes through my gut, and I capture her nape to pull her to me
for a vicious, covetous kiss. I want to consume her. I want to feel the depth
of her emotions. If I kiss her deeply enough, maybe I can sink into them
like she does. To lose myself in the terrible beauty of the storm and the calm
that will come in its wake, when the wind and rain have swept the grime
away from the world.
She opens for me, meeting me with equal fervor. Her lips are feverish
on mine, wet with purifying rain. The storm has broken the midday heat,
but fire courses through my veins. I’m burning for her, desperate for more
of her sweetness, her purity, her darkness. She’s the most delicious
contradiction, the only puzzle I’ve never been able to solve.
Sheet lighting flashes behind my closed eyelids, and thunder cracks, far
too close.
I want to linger in this moment, but her safety is more important.
I tear my lips from hers and gather her up in my arms, lifting her to her
feet. We grab our soaked towels and start to run.
She tosses her wet hair back from her face and releases a joyous laugh
as our feet pound the sand. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard,
and it takes all of my considerable willpower to stop myself from pulling
her into the dunes and fucking her while the storm rages around us.
Instead, I clasp her hand in mine, and my own laugh sounds a touch
cruel as it wars with the thunder.
Mine. She’s all mine.

OceanofPDF.com
 24

ABIGAIL

T
he cool air conditioning in Dane’s house is set to cut through the
humid summer heat, but I’m soaked from the storm, so I shiver from
the cold.
He wraps a protective arm around me and guides me up the stairs.
“Let’s get you warmed up, pet.”
Another shiver races over me, but not from cold this time. Desire begins
to pulse between my legs. We’re walking into his bedroom.
Last night, I fell into a deep sleep after we had oral sex. My exhaustion
from a week of sleepless nights had pulled me under, and I’d finally felt
safe enough to sleep without nightmares haunting me.
But now, I’m keenly aware that Dane hasn’t fully claimed me yet. The
possessive flex of his hand on my waist lets me know that’s about to
change.
I soften and lean into him, silently communicating that I’m ready to
have sex. After the way my body surrendered to him when he stretched me
with his fingers, I’m confident that I’ll be able to accommodate his huge
cock.
He’ll ensure that my body is ready to accept all of him.
I trust him completely.
My dark god.
My Master.
 He’s still shirtless from our beach date, and I marvel that this perfectly
chiseled, gorgeous man wants me.
He guides me past the bed, and my heart sinks for a moment.
His low, arrogant laugh is the most addictive sound in the world. He
told me he sees everything, and I’m starting to believe him. In my one
moment of insecurity, he read my disappointment.
“I’ll fuck you soon enough, my pretty pet. I’m going to warm you up
first.”
We step into a massive ensuite bathroom, and he turns on the shower.
Water sprays from three directions, and he tests the temperature with one
hand.
When he’s satisfied that I’ll be comfortable, he leads me inside and
closes the glass door behind me. We’re still in our bathing suits, but they’re
already wet from the rain. The shower immediately chases away the chill
that’d settled beneath the surface of my skin, and my muscles fully relax as
my goosebumps subside.
His deft fingers find the ties at the back of my bikini, and within
seconds, my sodden top falls to the tiles beneath us. My bottoms drop next
to it, and I fist his swim trunks to tug them down his legs.
We’re both naked, and for a few delicious seconds, we simply stare at
each other, hungry eyes raking over what’s ours.
Because even though I signed a contract giving myself to Dane, he’s all
mine too.
You make me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. I recall
his intense confession.
This connection between us is more potent than anything I’ve ever
known, and I’m desperate to be impossibly closer to him. On the beach, he
started to open up to me more about his fraught relationship with his family.
One day, I might be ready to tell him about mine too.
But for now, I don’t want that negativity to taint the sweetness of our
new relationship.
He grasps my hand and directs my palm face-up so that he can fill it
with sea salt-scented body wash. It’s a masculine smell, but I don’t mind the
idea of imprinting some of his signature scent onto my flesh.
He puts more of the clear gel in his palms and rubs them together to
create a lather. Then he starts skimming his soap-slicked hands over my
body.
 “Touch me,” he rumbles.
I don’t need further encouragement. I finally indulge myself, slowly
exploring the swells of his corded muscles. They flex and bulge beneath my
tender, reverent touch, as though he’s under some unseen strain.
His hands massage my shoulders, and I tip my head back on a low moan
of pure contentment.
His mouth crushes to mine, and he devours the sound of my raw
pleasure. Our tongues tangle in a heated duel, each of us fighting to prove
how much we want the other.
In the end, he fists my hair, and he wrenches my head back to expose
my throat. His teeth graze the line of my vulnerable artery before sinking
into the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
Pain blooms beneath his possessive bite, but my core pulses with lust.
Wet desire that’s slicker than the water slips down my inner thighs, and I
can’t help pressing my hips to his thigh in a wanton attempt to stimulate
myself.
I remember the way he commanded me to rub against his leg last night
while he fucked my mouth. My cheeks heat with delicious shame and
arousal. I marvel that this man can use me like his personal fucktoy but also
make me feel utterly safe and cherished.
“Is my pet horny?” he murmurs against my throat, soothing away his
bite with a flick of his tongue.
“Yes,” I whine, griding myself against him. I’m his needy pet, his
plaything. And I’m eager for more of his cruel passion.
He pinches my nipple in sharp reprimand, and I cry out.
“Is that how you address me when we’re together like this?” he drawls.
“Master,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“Better,” he allows, brushing a doting kiss over my cheek. “I’ll tame
your mouth again if I have to, but I want your cunt today.”
I swallow hard and tip my head back, meeting his sparking eyes with an
open gaze, allowing him to see straight into me. “I want that too. I want
you, Dane. My Master.”
My hand trails over his rippling abs, but before my fingers reach his
hard cock, he grasps my wrist to stop me.
“I’m not nearly finished playing with you, pet. I won’t be done with you
for a long time. You’ll be weeping for me by the time I finally fuck you.”
My stomach flips—equal parts trepidation and lust.
 He traces the shape of my parted lips before capturing me in a quick,
fierce kiss. Then he pulls both of us under the cascade of water so that the
last of the soap is washed from our bodies.
He turns off the shower and leads me onto the heated tiles. Even his
towels are expensive, white and fluffy as clouds. He wraps me in one and
insists on drying me off himself rather than allowing me to do it. He’s
almost fanatical about taking care of me, just as he vowed to do when he
signed our contract.
The fact that we both agreed to this in writing allows me to give myself
permission to just enjoy being with him. I don’t have to stand on my own
two feet. I don’t have to insist that I can take care of myself. Dane knows
I’m capable, but he wants it to be this way between us.
And leaning on him for support feels so good after years of bearing the
burden of making my way alone through sheer stubbornness. I feel so free
with Dane as my master that I don’t stop to think about how I signed away
my freedom when I gave myself to him.
When he’s satisfied that I’m thoroughly dry except for my damp hair, he
suddenly fists the wet locks. Little prickles of pain dance over my scalp as
he pulls me down, forcing me into my knees.
“Crawl for me, pet.”
Lust washes through me in a storm-tossed wave, a wild, undulating
desire that makes my inner muscles clench and my clit pulse.
I release a soft moan at the intense hit of bliss and drop onto my elbows,
eagerly complying with his degrading demand.
He keeps his grip on my hair as he takes a step forward, using the long
strands as a leash to pull me alongside him.
The tiles are hard but warm beneath my knees, and they quickly give
way to plush carpet.
My mind goes serenely blank as he leads me into the bedroom, keeping
my head high with his ruthless hold on my hair.
I’m panting by the time we reach the bed, even though it took less than
a minute to cross the space. Being on my knees before my master feels
right, and I revel in the release of surrendering control to him.
I’ve only ever known this wild, erotic abandon with Dane, and I never
want it to end.
Suddenly, I’m in his arms. For a moment, I’m safely nestled against his
hard chest. Then he drops me. My shriek of alarm almost immediately
morphs into a giddy laugh when my back hits the soft mattress.
His massive body settles over mine, and his hand wraps around my
throat.
“That’s such a beautiful sound,” he says, his voice taking on the soft,
almost detached quality that makes my belly quiver. It’s a bit unnerving, but
I love the rush of fear that makes my fingers and toes tingle.
He’s going to hurt me again, and I tremble in anticipation of the sweet
pain.
“Your laugh is lovely,” he says in that erotically disturbing tone. “But I
think I’ll like it better when you can’t breathe unless I allow it.”
His fingers tighten around my neck, pressing down on my arteries.
Primal panic makes my hands fly to his wrist in a reflexive act of self-
defense.
A cruelly beautiful grin stretches his lush lips, and he doesn’t bother to
restrain me. He lets me scrabble at his hand and squirm beneath him as he
slowly increases the pressure.
“Dane…” His whispered name echoes in my ears alongside the
desperate pounding of my own pulse.
“Yes, darling?” he drawls. “Do you want to say something?”
His palm presses down on my windpipe. Not hard enough to cause me
pain, but just enough to restrict my airflow.
I’m writhing, but I’m rubbing myself on him. My nipples are hard
peaks, and my arousal wets his thigh where I’m grinding my clit against his
hard muscles.
My mind starts to float, and my fingers stop clawing at his wrist. He
indulges himself in a long, tender kiss, exploring the shape of my parted
lips as I struggle to draw in the small sips of oxygen he allows me.
“Are you going to come for me while I’m choking you, Abigail? Is your
tight pussy aching?”
“Yes.” My lips form the word, but no sound comes out.
My entire body is sparkling, and my mind is blissfully silent. There’s
only raw, animal need and his control over my body.
“Go on,” he commands. “Make yourself feel good.”
I rotate my hips, and pleasure bursts through me. I shudder beneath him
as the orgasm wracks my body. Just as I reach the peak, he releases my
throat. Blood rushes to my head, and blessed oxygen floods my lungs. I’m
soaring, and the world goes white.
 There’s a scream tearing through the room. It echoes off the high ceiling
like violent music, and I dimly realize I’m making the primal sound.
I’m shaking and utterly spent by the time the world comes back into
focus. His keen green eyes are the first thing I see, staring into my soul with
raw hunger. He’s watched me come completely unraveled, and he’s reveling
in my total subjugation.
He finally breaks our intense connection when he focuses on my wrists.
I’m limp and trembling as he stretches my arms toward the bedposts and
secures them there with waiting leather cuffs. They’re attached to the study
mahogany frame with short chains, tucked neatly out of sight behind the
mattress until he’s ready to use them on me.
Once my wrists are bound, he makes quick work of shackling my ankles
to the lower bedposts. Before I can fully catch my breath again, I’m spread
out before him like an offering, completely helpless to resist anything he
wants to do to me.
“You have such lovely breasts, pet,” he says, his voice slow and deep, as
though he’s slightly intoxicated. “I want to know how sensitive those tight
little nipples are. I’m going to learn every single one of your body’s secrets.
I own you.”
I lick my lips, my own hunger for my dark god consuming me. “Yes,
Master. I’m yours.”
His nostrils flare like a predator catching his prey’s scent, but he already
has me snared. There’s nowhere to run, no hope of evading him.
And I don’t want to. Even though delicious fear is snaking down my
spine, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. It coils low in my belly, and
tension gathers at my core.
I just orgasmed, but I’m already desperate for more. I want him to
utterly devastate me.
He takes another deliciously tense moment to drink in the sight of my
bound, helpless body before he goes to his nightstand. I crane my head to
see what he’s retrieving from the drawer, and something silvery glints in his
hand. He mostly hides whatever it is in his fist and settles his body over
mine again.
I sigh and relax under his weight, loving the feeling of being trapped by
his strength.
His lips caress mine, a slow, indulgent kiss. I match his intensity,
worshipping his perfect mouth. I trace the shape of his pillowy lips with my
tongue, memorizing the feel of him. His scent enfolds me—slightly salt-
kissed and uniquely Dane in the absence of his expensive cologne.
I tip my head back and invite him to kiss me more deeply, to consume
me.
He palms my breast, and I gasp into his mouth as pleasure crackles in a
sparkling line from my nipple directly to my clit. He hums his satisfaction
at my response and tweaks the hard bud. A small flare of pain sharpens my
pleasure, and my inner muscles clench.
He toys with me, pinching and tugging at my nipples until the pain and
pleasure are inextricable. One can’t exist without the other. I whimper and
writhe, but I can’t evade his onslaught.
I cry out at a particularly sharp pinch, but he doesn’t release the tension.
He keeps my sensitive nipples trapped in a cruel vise.
He pulls back slightly and cups my breasts, massaging gently. But the
pressure on my tormented buds doesn’t ease.
I glance down and find that small silver clamps are biting into my
nipples while he tenderly strokes my breasts. The dichotomy of his gentle
fingers with the cruel pinch fogs my brain. I can’t process the dueling
sensations; all I can do is endure his carnal game.
I release a shuddering sigh and fully submit, my attention harnessed by
him. All thoughts float away, and there’s only his control. I’ll do anything to
please him, suffer any erotic torment for him.
His triumphant grin is wickedly sharp, and I tremble in his shadow.
There’s a slight tug, and the clamps tighten on my aching nipples. I gasp
and arch my back to alleviate the pressure, but it’s no use. The clamps are
connected by a delicate silver chain, and he has it looped around his
forefinger.
He’s harnessed one of the most sensitive areas of my body with no more
than a crook of his finger. His mocking smile tells me it’s no effort at all to
subdue me, to render me utterly helpless and desperate for him.
“What about your pretty little clit?” he taunts. I release a shocked cry
when he taps the hard bundle of nerves. “Is it aching too?”
“Please…” I don’t know if I’m begging for release or for more erotic
torment.
But of course, there’s more. This is Dane: my cruel master. My
gorgeous, dark god.
A third clamp is attached to the chain.
 “No!” I gasp, my eyes flying wide when I realize his intention. “I
can’t.”
His emerald eyes blaze, burning into me. “You can, and you will. You’ll
take everything I give you, and you’ll thank me for it.”
“It’s too much,” I whimper. “Please.”
“You seem to be harboring the mistaken notion that I’m a merciful
master. Your pretty pleas won’t move me, Abigail. I’m greedy for them, and
I’m selfish enough to wring more desperate tears from your lovely eyes
before I finally use your body for my pleasure. This is what it means to be
mine: absolute submission. Now, take your pain like a good little pet, and
scream my name when you come.”
The clamp bites down on my clit, and stars burst across my vision. The
pain is white-hot sheet lighting that flashes through my entire body,
illuminating every inch of me with sizzling heat. Then he tugs the chain
once, and ruthless pleasure wracks my tormented nipples at the same time.
My back bows in an effort to alleviate the pressure, but he’s every bit as
merciless as he promised. Two thick fingers slide through my wet folds, and
he crooks them against that sensitive spot inside me.
“Dane!” His name is a rough, guttural cry that’s barely human.
Ecstasy rips through my body with devastating force, and I’m flying.
The world is bright white, and I’m purified by pain. Sparks dance over
every inch of my sensitized skin as waves of pleasure roll through me.
Just as I’m starting to float in euphoria, he removes the clamps, and
fresh pain assails me as blood rushes back to the abused buds. His thumb
tenderly rubs my clit, and his tongue soothes the sting on my nipples. I melt
away, until the only way I know I still exist is because he’s touching me.
My entire body shudders as ruthless aftershocks ripple through me in
cruel lightning strikes.
“Dane, Dane, Dane…” I’m murmuring his name over and over again,
my own private litany.
He kisses my cheeks, and then I taste the salt of my tears when he
claims my lips in a tender kiss.
“Good girl.” His praise reaches deep inside my chest, wrapping my
heart in gentle warmth. “Such a good pet.”
Supple leather encircles my throat, and the soft snick of my collar
locking in place calms me like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
I’m safe. Owned. Cherished.
 I’m still floating in darkness, but I’m dimly aware of the sound of a
condom wrapper ripping open. I force my eyes to open, blinking hard so
that I can see my gorgeous master.
He looms over me, and he makes quick work of freeing my wrists and
ankles.
“Hold onto me,” he commands, and I cling to him.
I can’t get close enough. I need him inside me, need our bodies
entwined in the most intimate way possible.
He braces one arm beside me, and his free hand comes up between us so
that he can loop his forefinger through the ring at the front of my collar.
With no more than the slightest tug, he pulls me toward him for a deep,
desperate kiss.
His hard cock presses into me, and my body yields to him as though I
was made for him. My pussy stretches to accommodate his thick length,
and he slowly fills me up until I’m hovering just on the edge of pain. It only
sharpens my desire for him.
I boldly wrap my legs around his hips and press my heels into his
sculpted ass, drawing him deeper. He enters me fully in one final, harsh
thrust, and I cry out into his mouth.
His tongue strokes mine, encouraging me to relax and accept him. I
marvel as my body softens further, and all pain dissipates. I’m almost
unbearably full, but we fit perfectly.
“I knew you would be like this,” he murmurs against my neck, dropping
soft kisses on my sensitive skin. “So wet and tight. So perfect for me. My
Abigail.”
My inner muscles contract in a pulse of pure bliss, and he bites down on
my shoulder with an animal growl. I tip my head to the side, welcoming
him to ravage me, to mark me while he lays claim to everything that I am.
He starts to move inside me, careful, shallow thrusts at first. Then
taking me with greater urgency as our mutual lust rises. My low moans
seem to spur him on, and his teeth sink into my shoulder again as he thrusts
harder, deeper. I lift my hips to meet him, urging him to take and take and
take, until there’s nothing left of me that doesn’t belong to him.
“Yours,” I pant. “I’m yours.”
He tilts his hips, and his cockhead drags over the sensitive spot inside
me. My fingernails score his back, and I release a sharp cry at the shock of
pleasure.
 “Mine,” he snarls, slamming into me and stimulating the spot over and
over again.
Pleasure builds like an unbearable pressure between my legs, and my
inner muscles coil tighter and tighter with each ruthless thrust.
“Come for me, Abigail,” he commands in a guttural growl. “Now.”
My back arches on a scream, and I surrender to the tidal wave of
ecstasy. My core contracts around him, and his roar mingles with my own
blissful cry as we find our peak together. His cock pumps inside me, and a
soul-deep satisfaction that I’ve never known before settles in my heart.
This strong, cruel, beautiful man has come undone for me. All for me.
“My Master,” I sigh between languorous kisses. “Mine.”

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 25

DANE

t’s time to wake up, my sleeping beauty.” I brush a stray lock of dark,
“I silken hair back from her cheek. “We need to get ready soon.”
A soft smile curves her lips, and she snuggles into me. A warm
glow suffuses my chest, and I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her
willowy frame in a possessive embrace.
Abigail has been my sweet pet for a week now, and she’s only left my
bed when we’ve both been forced to go to work. We stopped by her
apartment once to pick up some clothes, but otherwise, she’s stayed with
me.
Today, she’ll let me dress her up in an outfit of my choosing. I’m
anticipating some resistance, but she will comply. It’s past time that she
accepts my money. I intend to spend it on her, and I won’t tolerate further
defiance.
She’s accompanying me to my colleague’s wedding this afternoon, and
she will wear the designer dress I’ve chosen for her. She would be the most
stunning guest in attendance even in one of her paint-spattered camisoles,
but I’m proud to show her off in expensive clothing. I want everyone to see
how I care for my woman.
“As much as I’d like to keep you in my bed all day, we have plans, pet.”
I drop a doting kiss on her forehead, and she releases a happy sigh that I’m
coming to find just as addictive as her laugh.
“Don’t worry,” she reassures me. “I’ll be ready on time.”
 She stretches, and her delicious body arches against me.
I grip her hips and roll atop her with a soft growl. “Are you trying to
tempt me, pet?”
She flushes the prettiest shade of pink and giggles. “Do you want me
to?”
I brush my thumb over her smirking lips. “This mouth. How many
times will I need to fuck you here to tame that sassy tongue?”
“At least once more,” she says breathily, her pupils dilating with desire.
I groan and roll off of her. “What kind of master would I be if I give in
to your tempting games?” I tap my forefinger to her nose in light
reprimand. “Naughty little thing.”
She snaps her teeth at me playfully, then laughs. The sound is pure
delight, and it soars through me like the most exquisite song I’ve ever
heard.
“Your pet bites,” she warns, that little smirk still fixed in place.
Something dark stirs inside me. We’ve played twisted games all week,
but this is the closest we’ve danced to the kind of dubious consent fantasies
she used to exchange with GentAnon.
I climb out of bed and cock my head at her, considering her fate.
“I have a gag that would suit you nicely,” I remark. “But I doubt you’d
like to wear that to the wedding.”
Her lips pop open in shock. “You wouldn’t.”
“Test me and find out.” I don’t bother to hide the dangerous threat from
my cold tone.
In truth, I’d never allow anyone to see Abigail like that. Her subjugation
is for my eyes only. But the little fearful tremor that races over her is
absolutely delicious. I won’t reassure her when she looks so beautifully
frightened, those aqua eyes wide and glittering like gemstones.
“Go on,” I prompt. “Take a shower. I’ll make coffee.”
She blushes and drops her gaze in submission. I’m almost disappointed
when she obeys me, but I remind myself that we can’t be late to Meadows’
wedding. I might not feel friendship in the way most people do, but he’s a
good colleague, and the practice that we’re building together here in
Charleston is important to me.
Abigail sees this city as home, so it’s time for me to put down roots here
too.
I’m not going anywhere.
A n hour and a half later , Abigail is wearing one of my oversized white
bathrobes while she sips at the coffee that I made for her. She’s just finished
her makeup except for her lip gloss, which she said she doesn’t want to
smudge. Her hair is fully dry and naturally wavy, but she intends to perfect
the loose curls before we leave at noon.
As promised, she’s perfectly punctual—a quality I admire.
She might be a bit haphazard when it comes to tidying her living space,
but she’s respectful enough of my time that she won’t make us late.
“I’ll need to stop by my place to pick up my dress,” she says. “Just let
me finish my hair, and we can go.”
Her eyes rove over me, taking in my tuxedo. The wedding takes place
later this afternoon, and the invitation said black tie attire. Meadows’ family
is old money, so I’m not surprised at the dress code.
“I bought a dress for you to wear,” I say. “We have some time to relax
before we need to drive to the venue.”
Her guard goes up immediately, her eyes shuttering and her mouth
firming to a thin line.
“I have a nice dress,” she replies defensively. “I won’t embarrass you,
Dane.”
“You could never embarrass me,” I assure her. “But I want to buy
beautiful things for you. You are going to let me.”
Her brows arch. “Am I? When did I agree to that?”
“When you signed the contract that says I’m responsible for your well-
being.” I let my tone drop lower in warning.
She straightens her shoulders. “There’s a difference between my well-
being and buying me expensive things that I don’t need.”
“This isn’t about what you need,” I counter. “It’s about what I want.
And I want to see you wearing the dress I bought for you.”
Her posture goes rigid. “How can you make a gift sound so unbearably
selfish? No, thank you.”
“When did I ever give you the impression that I’m not selfish?” I drawl.
“I’ve shown you exactly who I am. You chose me. You gave yourself to me.
Would you prefer I pretended to be a soft, kind gentleman? No,” I continue
before she can open her mouth to respond. “You like me the way I am, and
that means you’ll do as I say.”
 Her eyes flash. “I don’t think so.”
Fuck.
I’ve let myself get too comfortable around her. My mask has been off
for too long, and now, she’s seeing a side of me that makes her angry when
I’d intended to make her melt.
“Surrendering control when it comes to sex is one thing,” she seethes. “I
won’t allow you to use your money to control me, Dane. I thought I made
that clear on our very first date. Maybe you’re the one who hasn’t been
paying attention to who I am.”
My anger rises to match hers, but it’s directed at her past abuser, not her.
Whoever hurt her is responsible for this argument, not me.
I try for a placating tone that doesn’t come naturally at all. Instead, my
voice comes out gravelly. “Are you going to tell me who did this to you?” I
challenge. “Why are you so scared of accepting my money?”
Her eyes cut away from mine, but her back remains ramrod straight.
“Don’t change the subject. You’re being controlling, Dane. I don’t like it.”
I pause and consider my next words carefully. I am controlling, but I
can’t let the darkest parts of me scare her away. She’s mine, but I want her.
Not a mindless, spineless little plaything.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel strange on my tongue, the shape unfamiliar.
“I’m not explaining myself well because I’m angry at whoever hurt you.”
That much is true. “I don’t want you to reject gifts from me because of
some bastard’s cruelty. I want to take care of you, and that includes
providing for you. It’s not about stripping you of your pride or forcing you
to do something you don’t want to do. Yes, I’m selfish, and I want you to
wear the pretty things I buy for you. But never because you feel coerced or
guilted into it.”
I’m not above manipulation to get what I want, but I can hear the truth
in my own words. I want Abigail to accept me and that includes accepting
my gifts. I want her to trust that they won’t come with strings attached. I
want her to trust in me. In us.
Her eyes search mine, and after a terrible, tense moment, she relaxes on
a sigh.
“It wasn’t a man who hurt me,” she admits. “It’s my family. They wield
money like a weapon. It took me years to understand it, and it’s been
incredibly hard to walk away from their financial control. When I dropped
out of college, they threatened to cut me off if I didn’t go back to my
classes. So, I cut myself off before they could follow through. I got my
barista job and started selling my paintings at the market. I’ve learned to
survive on my own, and I’ve built a good life for myself. I’m not a famous
artist with my own gallery, but I’m happy with my life the way it is.”
I touch two fingers beneath her chin, and she doesn’t flinch away. “Are
you happy?” I challenge quietly. “Would it be so terrible to accept gifts
from me? I will never ask for anything in return. I swear. Trust me.”
Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and she hesitates.
“I left my family’s wealth and expectations behind too,” I remind her.
“I’ve worked hard so that I can live comfortably without their support. Let
me support you now. I can’t think of a better way to spend what I’ve
earned.”
“I can’t rely on you for everything,” she counters, but I can sense that
she’s softening.
Our shared disdain for our families is a bond we share, and even though
I’m exposing my own vulnerability, I will leverage this to my advantage.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” I say. “It’s one of the reasons I
admire you so much. You’re tenacious and determined.”
She offers me a shaky laugh. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m
stubborn.”
My lips twist in a half-smile of my own. “I didn’t say that.”
She sighs again and shakes her head, capitulating. “Okay,” she allows.
“I’ll wear the dress you bought for me.” Her chin lifts. “I’m not going to let
my past get in the way of our relationship. That’s all behind me now, and I
won’t allow my family to control me anymore. I definitely won’t let them
be the cause of an argument between us.”
I brush a kiss over her forehead. “That’s my stubborn pet,” I praise.
She laughs again, a sound of forgiveness. “It’s only okay when I say it.”
“It’s a compliment,” I assure her. “I meant it when I said I want all of
you. Your sweetness and your stubbornness. I want everything.”
She sways toward me. “You have me,” she promises. “I want all of you
too.”
“Done.” I seal my vow with a kiss, proving to her that I will honor the
gift of her trust.
Our kiss deepens, and her breath quickens in between strokes of my
tongue against hers. I tug the tie on her robe, and it falls open. She’s only
wearing a tiny scrap of white lace that barely covers her pussy.
 My possessiveness surges, a carnal, primal hunger that overwhelms
rational thought. I fist the delicate panties in both hands and tear them off
her, revealing my pretty, pink cunt. This is all mine.
I grind my fingers against her clit, and I find that she’s already wet for
me. She cries out into my mouth, and I force a quick, brutal orgasm from
her. Already, I know the exact way to touch her to make her come undone.
Her fingers bite into my upper arms, clinging to me as she greedily
takes all of the pleasure I coax from her perfect body.
She whimpers, a pitiful plea for mercy that only enhances my cruel
desire. Her clit is oversensitive from the ruthless treatment, but I’m not
done with her yet.
I push two fingers into her tight sheath and stimulate her in the way she
likes best. At the same time, I circle her clit with my thumb. My other hand
tweaks her nipples, drawing out her pleasure with a fresh bite of pain.
My perverted pet moans and shakes, and she starts to grind herself
against my palm.
As suddenly as I began, I withdraw, leaving her on the edge of release.
She lets out a delightful sound that’s somewhere between an indignant
shriek and a cry of loss.
I keep her locked in my cruel gaze as I lift her ruined panties to my face
and inhale the scent of her arousal.
My cock is almost painfully hard, but we don’t have time for me to use
her to slake my lust. If I’m going to be denied, so will she. We’ll both suffer
through this wedding, but she’ll be desperate for me by the end of the night.
Her submission is so much sweeter when she’s needy and begging for my
merciful touch.
Her soft lips form a tempting O shape as she watches me shove the
panties into my pocket. I’ll keep my trophy close, and we’ll both know
what I’m thinking about every time I casually slip my hand into my pocket
during the wedding.
I trace her lips with my tongue and claim one more kiss before I spin
her around and deliver a sharp slap to her ass.
“Get ready, pet. You’ll get your reward later.”
Her indignant huff is entirely ruined by her flushed cheeks. My mocking
laugh draws a light shiver from her, and I’m completely enamored with her
responses to me.
 We had our first disagreement, but I managed to soothe her without too
much fuss. Abigail will wear the dress I bought for her, and we’ll never
have the same argument about money again. My sweet pet will let me take
care of her, just as I’ve always wanted.
I’m a selfish bastard, and she still wants me.
You have me. Her promise rings through my mind. I want all of you too.
I’m so savagely pleased at her submission to my will that I don’t stop to
think how much I’ve surrendered to her in return.

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 26

ABIGAIL

D
read is a lead weight in my stomach as we drive through the familiar
gates of Montgrove Plantation.
Why didn’t I think to ask Dane where the wedding would take
place?
“What’s wrong?” He touches my chilled cheek, attuned to my shifting
moods as always.
I turn pleading eyes on him but keep my voice low. I don’t want the
driver to hear the tone of panic that I’m struggling to suppress.
“I didn’t realize that your friend is Meadows Coatesworth.”
I should’ve realized. It’s not exactly a common first name, and
Charleston is a small place when it comes to local families.
Dane’s heavy brows draw together. “Do you know him?”
Nausea tightens my gut, and I swallow hard against the burn at the back
of my throat.
“Not well, but our families are in the same social circle. This isn’t the
first time I’ve visited their plantation.”
My family’s own planation, Elysium, is just another hour’s drive down
the coast. The beautiful, haunted, rotten place where I was raised is far too
close for comfort. Years of distance have allowed me to see how fucked-up
it is that my family lives in a place where so much evil took place, even if
they hide it under the guise of a proud history.
 “Meadows was six years ahead of me at school. I knew of him, but I
rarely spoke to him,” I continue. “But it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
I try to summon up my sunny smile, but my lips barely twitch.
“You’re upset,” he observes, eyes dark with concern. “Why?”
“My family will probably be here,” I say, forcing the words through my
constricted throat. “I haven’t seen them in a long time.”
The last time I spoke to my parents, it ended in a screaming match, and
my father said he was cutting me out of his will. I told him that I didn’t
care, and I never wanted to see him again.
My mother called every day for a month after that, begging and then
scolding and then threatening to get me to come back into the fold. To spare
the family the embarrassment of an estranged daughter.
What am I supposed to tell the women at bridge club? she’d demanded.
What will I say when you don’t show up at the next cotillion ball?
I told her that was her problem, not mine.
Now, we haven’t spoken in two years. We avoid one another, and I’ve
been careful not to do anything that might attract their unwanted attention.
It’s why I didn’t report the thief for stealing my purse.
And it’s part of the reason why I didn’t go to the cops after the masked
man attacked me.
That, and my shameful physical response to being violated.
“Abigail.” I flinch when Dane touches my hand. He frowns and folds
his fingers firmly around mine. “You don’t look well. I’ll take you home.”
“No!” I protest quickly. Dane can’t miss his friend’s wedding because of
me. “I’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he warns, but his voice is soothing rather than
threatening. “If this is too much, we’ll leave. I don’t give a fuck about
Meadows’ wedding. I’m here because it’s expected of me. I only care about
you.”
I draw in a shuddering breath, finding comfort in his fierce declaration.
I squeeze his fingers in a pulse of reassurance.
“You saying that makes all the difference,” I say. “But I can handle this.
I won’t run away from my family.”
He captures my tilted chin between his fingers and gives me a proud
smile. “That’s my stubborn pet.”
“Dane!” I scold under my breath and shoot a significant glance in the
direction of our driver.
 He chuckles and kisses me. “It’s just a Yorkshire endearment, darling.
No reason to get all hot and flustered.”
I release an exasperated huff, and his grin widens.
Oh.
He’s baiting me to distract me.
My heart gives an almost painful squeeze, and I crush my lips to his.
He’s still for a moment, surprised at my boldness. Then his hand firms at
my nape, and he deepens the kiss. For a blissful minute, I lose myself in
him, and all of my anxiety melts away.
“Thank you,” I whisper when we finally come up for air.
“I’ve got you,” he promises. “Say the word, and we’ll leave.”
I straighten my shoulders. “I want to be here with you,” I declare,
finding strength in his staunch support. “I won’t let them control me ever
again. I’m not going to run away.”
The car comes to a stop in front of the antebellum mansion. It’s
undeniably beautiful: a three-story manor with white columned porches and
classic navy shutters. Live oaks surround the circular driveway, and Spanish
moss drips from their elegant branches. The azaleas and hydrangeas are in
full bloom, festooning the manicured gardens in shades of pink, purple, and
blue.
It's a lovely day for a wedding, even if the setting disturbs me.
For a moment, I consider leaving on principle; plantation weddings
shouldn’t be a thing anymore, my own damage aside. It feels wrong to
celebrate love here and pretend that nothing bad ever happened on this land.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” Dane asks, lingering with me in the
stopped car. “We can go straight back home if you’re uncomfortable.”
I shake my head. “I am uncomfortable, but we’re staying. I’m here with
you. I can do this.”
His eyes flash in response, and he lifts my hand to kiss my knuckles. I
swoon for my dashing hero all over again. This gorgeous man has chosen to
bring me to his colleague’s wedding. I’ll focus on that to get me through the
event.
He gets out of the car first and then holds my door open for me. I don’t
protest his gentlemanly treatment as he holds my hand to steady me.
I’m perfectly capable of getting out of the car on my own, but I’m
starting to like leaning on Dane. He clearly derives pleasure from taking
care of me, and I’m becoming addicted to his satisfied smile when I allow
him to do so.
His hand spans my lower back as he guides me around the house and
into the gardens. Hundreds of white chairs have been arranged in neat rows
facing the back porch, where it seems the happy couple will say their vows.
We’re early enough that only about a third of the chairs are filled, and
scores of other guests are milling around the green space.
A table is set up near the huge magnolia tree, and silver cups wait with
mint juleps to keep us cool during the hot day.
“Do you want a drink?” Dane asks.
“No, thank you. I don’t want any alcohol.” If my family is here, I want
my wits sharp.
He nods in easy agreement, and we find two seats on the final row. I
know Dane should make a show of sitting closer to the front, given his
close relationship with the groom, but he’s making a silent gesture that I
have an out if I need it. We can leave at any time, and it’ll be easier to slip
away unnoticed if we’re behind the crowd.
The string quartet starts up, signaling that it’s time for everyone to find
their seats.
By the time the bride glides down the aisle, I finally start to relax. My
family isn’t here.
Dane’s thumb brushes my palm in a pulse of comfort, and I lean into
him. I know he must be hot in his tux, but he looks as cool and handsome as
ever: an untouchable, perfect sculpture of male serenity.
I find that I’m grateful for the beautiful, lilac dress he purchased for me.
The sweetheart neckline is modest enough for a wedding while still giving
my smaller breasts a feminine curve. The waist is fitted perfectly to my
measurements, and the full skirt flows down to my ankles. Tiny, subtle
lavender flowers are embroidered into the lightweight fabric, spilling down
the skirt like delicate wisteria.
In this stunning dress, I almost feel worthy of my dashing white knight.
And knowing that my ruined panties are in his pocket while I’m bare for
him underneath the dress makes my pulse race. We’re the picture of
refinement, but we have a filthy, perverted secret that binds us together.
I touch my fingers to my throat, searching for the leather band of the
collar that marks me as his. Of course, it’s not there, so I drop my hand and
place it back in his firm grip.
 His keen eyes noted my gesture, and they glitter with desire. I wonder if
he’s thinking about my panties in his pocket too.
People are cheering. The ceremony is over.
I laugh, giddy at the intense connection I share with Dane and the fact
that we made it through the ordeal without seeing my family.
He captures the sound of my joy on his lips, sweeping me up in a kiss
that rivals the couple on the porch. But if anyone notices us, they don’t
comment. Everyone is too polite to stare. Besides, they’re supposed to be
focused on the bride and groom.
It’s only when the guests are dispersing into the garden that I hear my
mother’s voice, and my stomach drops.
“Abby, honey! I didn’t know you’d be here.”
She sounds absolutely delighted to see me, but I know that falsely sweet
tone.
I close my eyes and struggle to master the anxiety that rises up my
throat like a choking vine. I should’ve known that she would be here; she
was simply so late that she missed the ceremony.
She won’t miss the opportunity to enjoy a night of gossip and an open
bar.
I look into Dane’s eyes and manage to arrange my features into my
sunny smile before I turn to face her.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Aw, sweetie,” she practically coos, drawing me in for a hug. We barely
make contact. Then she places her hands on my shoulders, and her pale blue
eyes scour my face. “Your lipstick is smudged.”
The criticism about my appearance comes under the guise of concern.
It’s all carefully calculated to set me off-balance at the outset so that she can
politely eviscerate me.
“I think that’s my fault,” Dane says.
I blink up at him, surprised at his genial tone. He fixes my mother with
a broad smile and reaches out to shake her hand.
“I’m Dane. Abigail is here with me.”
Mama’s eyes go wide. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I just love your accent. You
must be Dr. Graham, Meadows’ associate.”
He nods, and it’s almost a formal half-bow. I’ve noticed his imperious
air many times, and the man standing beside me is every inch the perfect
prince.
 “I can see my reputation precedes me,” he remarks.
She waves her hand, as though to dismiss any concern. “All good
things, don’t you worry, Dr. Dane.”
“Just Dane is fine,” he assures her.
I’m staring at them like they’re both alien creatures. They’re so natural
together, their genteel exchange perfectly polite and impeccably charming.
“Abby.” My father’s voice is gruffer on my name than my mother’s. “I
didn’t expect to see you here.”
He steps up beside her, joining our nightmarish little circle.
And, oh god, my Uncle Jeffrey is here too.
“What a happy occasion to see your daughter,” Dane says, all warmth
despite the fact that it’s almost a command. As though he can will my
family to be happy to see me.
“Oh yeah, it’s always a pleasure to see our little Abby.” Uncle Jeffrey
grins at me, and I suppress a cringe.
Dane angles his body slightly in front of mine. “I’m sorry, we haven’t
met.” He extends his hand toward my uncle. “I’m Dane Graham.”
“Jeffrey Carpenter,” he replies, squeezing Dane’s hand in his usual
macho style. “I’m Peggy’s brother.” He tips his head in my mom’s
direction. “But I’m more like a second father to little Abby, if you don’t
mind me saying.” He glances at my dad, who nods absently. “We all spent a
lot of time together when she was growing up. I live at Elysium with the
family.”
“Elysium?” Dane asks, managing to sound almost bored with a single,
drawled word.
My mother’s chest swells with pride. “Our plantation. It’s just down the
road, Dr. Dane. You’ll have to come visit us sometime.”
“I’ll have to see what works for Abigail,” he equivocates. “We’re very
busy in Charleston at the moment.”
“Oh?” Mama’s eyes fix on me, a shark sensing blood in the water. For
two years, I’ve denied her any information about my life. Now, she’s going
to find some way to hurt me, a piece of information she can weaponize to
punish me for my defiance. “What have you been so busy with, honey? Did
you open that gallery yet?”
I try to ignore the stinging slash to my heart.
One of my final retorts to her was that I didn’t need her money, and I’d
find a way to open my own gallery one day.
 Instead, I have a stall at the market and sell my paintings to tourists.
I lift my chin. “Not yet.”
“Well,” she says, all saccharine sweetness. “Let us know when you do.
We’d love to attend the grand opening. You know how much your father
loves your art.”
I hate the tiny spark of hope that pings in my chest when I turn my gaze
on my distant father.
Then I take in his slack, bored expression and the way his eyes are
drifting toward the mint julep table.
My chest feels like it’s caving in, but I keep my shoulders straight
through sheer force of will.
He’s never cared about my art. He only cares about how my success
reflects on the family.
And now, he cares about getting a cocktail more than he wants to
reconnect with me.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I need a refreshment.”
He doesn’t wait for anyone to reply before he ambles off to get a mint
julep.
“What have you been up to, Abby?” Uncle Jeffrey asks. “We sure have
missed having you at the house.”
“Abigail has been busy with her art,” Dane says, sparing me the burden
of a falsely cheery reply. “Her landscapes are stunning.”
“Oh yes, our Abby is very talented,” my mother says, and it almost
sounds as though she means it.
Which makes it hurt so much more that I know she doesn’t give a shit.
“But I’m sure you must be very busy too,” she says to Dane. “I hear
your practice is doing very well. I might have to come in for a treatment.”
Her judgmental gaze rakes over my face again. “We could go in together,
Abby. A mother/daughter day. I’m sure Dr. Dane could remove that freckle
in no time.”
“Abigail is perfect just as she is.”
I stare at Dane. His voice has gone ice cold, and he’s looking at my
mother like she’s a fruit fly he’s found in his drink: insignificant but
disgusting.
My mother takes a step back, and a beat of terrible silence passes before
her high-pitched giggle grates down my spine.
 “Aren’t you the charmer?” she gushes. “Hold on to this one, Abby. You
don’t know when another man will come along who feels the same way.”
“There won’t be any other men in her life.” Dane says it like a matter of
cold, hard fact. “Excuse us.”
His hand settles at the small of my back, and he steers me away from
the awful scene. I lean into him, unashamed that I’m seeking his support in
the wake of the painfully polite altercation.
Abigail is perfect just as she is.
The memory of his fervent declaration warms my heart, chasing away
some of the chill that frosts my skin despite the warm day.
“I’m taking you home,” he says, a decree rather than a question.
“I don’t want to run away from them,” I protest, even though I’m
longing to do just that.
“You’re not,” he replies firmly. “I’m taking you away from them.
Because if we have to breathe the same air as those people for another
minute, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. I’d rather not make a
scene at my colleague’s wedding.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
His fierce mood is shocking but deeply gratifying.
My steps quicken as we exit the garden. I’m eager to get away from this
place. It’s everything that I want to leave firmly in my past.
I’m ready for my future, and I want to share it with Dane.

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 27

ABIGAIL

W
e’re safely back in Dane’s bed when I start shaking. It’s a small
tremor in my hands at first, but then cold sweeps through my entire
body. I wrap my arms tightly around my aching chest as a violent
shiver wracks my frame.
“I’m sorry,” I say through chattering teeth. “I don’t know what’s going
on with me.”
He tucks us both under the duvet and pulls me close. His square jaw is
anvil-hard, but his hands are gentle as he rubs at my goosebumps.
“You’re in shock,” he says in his calm, bedside manner voice.
“What? No, I’m fine.”
I shudder, and he cups my chilled cheek. His eyes search mine for the
lie, but I’m being honest. I don’t understand what’s happening to my body.
He strokes his long fingers through my hair in a soothing motion. “You
clearly have trauma when it comes to your family. Seeing them put you in
survival mode. But you’re safe now, and your brain is struggling to process
that.”
“I didn’t realize you’re a psychologist.” It’s a weak attempt at a joke,
and he doesn’t laugh.
“What did they do to you, Abigail?”
I press my lips together, holding in the awful truths that want to spill out
of me. My instinct is to bottle everything up, to force it down and ignore it
until the ache in my chest subsides.
 But I’m with Dane now. I can lean on him. He’ll catch me if I fall.
“It’s…a lot,” I say softly. “I don’t know if I’m ready to think about all
of it.”
“That’s all right,” he encourages. “Tell me what you can. I’m right here.
You’re safe.”
Hope floods my chest in a forceful, hot wave that makes my heart strain
against my ribs. I want to share this burden with him, and I know he’s
strong enough to help me bear it.
I take a deep breath and begin my confession. “I haven’t spoken to my
family since I dropped out of college two years ago.”
He nods. “You said you didn’t need a degree to prove you’re an artist.
But that’s not the real reason you quit school.”
“No,” I admit on a tremulous whisper. “I failed out. I stopped going to
class. My parents were furious. My dad was so disappointed in me.”
Shame twists my gut on the admission. As much as I want to leave my
toxic family in my past, some foolish, childish part of me still craves their
approval and affection.
“Why did you stop going to class?” Dane presses gently. “I know you’re
intelligent, so it has nothing to do with the difficulty of your course.”
The compliment bolsters me. My dashing prince values me for who I
am. My dark god wants all of me, and he deems me worthy of him.
“I was depressed,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t say anything. He simply holds me and waits until I’m ready
to continue.
I sort through my muddled thoughts and decide to start at the beginning.
For so long, I’ve been terrified that Dane will learn my shameful secrets,
but we’re beyond that now. I’m no longer afraid that he’ll turn from me in
disgust if he knows the truth.
“I was raped on the night of my debutante ball.”
His body hardens to granite, and he’s so still that I don’t think he’s even
breathing. After a tense moment, he resumes stroking my hair, but his
muscles ripple and flex around me with unspent aggression. I know it’s on
my behalf, and I don’t feel so much as a flicker of fear.
I tuck my face into his chest and breathe in his spicy cedar scent,
allowing it to ground me while I talk about the horrors I endured.
“It was my date, Tom. He was two years above me at college, and I
didn’t know him well. My mom asked his mom if he would be my escort
for the night, and he agreed. I thought he resented me. He seemed so angry
all night.”
I’m detached from reality, floating in a space that’s neither past nor
present. There’s only Dane and my voice, recalling what happened to me in
a flat, distant tone.
“Tom got drunk at the open bar, and towards the end of the night, he
said I owed him. He was smoking in the garden behind the Azalea Club.
The ball was still going on inside, so everyone was busy drinking and
dancing.”
The scent of cigarette smoke threads through Dane’s comforting
cedarwood smell, but I continue as though compelled. The truth is drawn
from my soul like poison.
“He pushed me up against the bricks, and I didn’t fight him. I just…let
him do it. And I…” My throat closes, and nausea rolls through me. “I had
my first orgasm.”
Dane’s hand stills in my hair again. He’s rigid around me, his entire,
powerful body coiled tight.
“Later that summer, I saw him at a house party.” I’m no longer
connected to my body. I’m just a voice, floating around us. “I knew he’d do
it again. I knew. And I let it happen anyway. It felt good. So, it happened
again a few weeks later.” Another party, another shameful night of vicious
pleasure. “And again.”
“Where is he?”
It takes me a moment to work out that the inhuman snarl came from
Dane.
“He’s dead.” My voice remains disturbingly flat. “He decided to drive
drunk after the last party. He never made it home.”
Dane’s fingers bite into my skin for a bruising moment, and the small
flare of pain calls me back to reality. I blink and focus on his face. It’s
carved in lines of rage, and his green eyes blaze with fury.
“So many times, I wished he was dead,” I confess on a strained whisper.
“That’s why I became so depressed that I couldn’t get out of bed. I knew
that the only way it would stop was if he was gone for good. Because I kept
letting it happen. I think part of me wanted it to happen. And then he was
dead, and it was like it was my fault.”
“Nothing he did was your fault,” Dane growls.
I shake my head. “I liked it. You’ve seen how I am. You know now.”
 His eyes flash, and a shadow ticks at his jaw. “I am nothing like him.
That’s not how it is between us.”
I shrink in his arms. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I know you
would never hurt me like that. Everything we do is consensual. I trust you.
More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”
He captures my face in his hands, holding me like I’m his most precious
treasure. “I will never betray you, Abigail. I will always protect you.
Always.”
“I know.” I seal my promise with a kiss. “I’m safe with you.”
I’m not shaking anymore. The cold that’d taken root in my bones has
melted away, and I’m warm in Dane’s embrace.
“That’s why I don’t talk to my family,” I finish. “I’ve never told them
what happened. But even if I did, they would still see me as a failure. I
didn’t live up to their expectations, so they threatened to cut me off. I cut
them out of my life before they could follow through on their threats.”
“You took back control,” Dane says, his voice still rough with residual
anger. “My brave, fierce pet.” He caresses my face and stares into my soul.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”
My eyes sting as relief floods me. I’d known that I could trust him with
my darkest secrets, but his acceptance means everything to me.
I can tell him anything. One day, I might even tell him about the masked
man.
But I’m too raw, too wrung-out. That’s been enough emotional labor for
an afternoon. For a lifetime.
I blow out a long sigh, releasing all of the remaining tension from the
difficult day as I lean into him.
He cradles the back of my head, holding me firmly against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he promises.
I’ve never felt safer than I do in this moment. I’m protected in the cage
of his strong arms, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

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 28

ABIGAIL

D
ane holds me for hours, and I drift, simply indulging in his reassuring
presence. I doze off for a while, and when I wake up, it’s dark
outside.
I blink, disoriented. “What time is it?”
He kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep, pet.”
“You don’t sound sleepy,” I observe. “Have you been awake long?”
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
I sit upright and turn on the bedside lamp. “I’m sorry. You must’ve been
bored. I didn’t mean to drift off.”
He strokes my hair back from my cheek. “You needed the rest. And I
could never get bored when I’m holding you.”
Pleasure flushes my cheeks. “That’s very sweet.”
Sometimes, I struggle to process his intense declarations and praise. No
one has ever treated me like this, like I’m precious. Valued.
And after the awful altercation with my family, my old feelings of
unworthiness are raw and exposed.
He hums, considering me as though he’s trying to puzzle out my
complex emotions.
“There’s nothing sweet about me,” he replies. “That’s not a word I
would use to characterize myself.”
I giggle. “Are you offended? Should I say you’re a very scary, very
intimidating master?”
 He grabs my hair, and suddenly, I’m trapped beneath him with his other
hand around my throat. His wicked grin takes my breath away, even though
he doesn’t apply pressure with his fingers.
“Exactly,” he drawls. “I’m very cruel and entirely selfish. And you love
being afraid. You love when I make you tremble and whimper.”
My heart flutters, and my blood heats, but I tip my chin back in an act
of reckless defiance. In the wake of my difficult day, I want him to
completely overwhelm me. I want to revel in the darkness we share, not
hide from it.
I don’t want to feel ashamed anymore.
“I’m not trembling,” I challenge.
His eyes flash, and his grin sharpens. “Is that how you want to play
tonight, my naughty pet? You’ve been so docile for me. Am I going to have
to tame you?”
I suppress a shudder as desire courses through me, and I meet his
glittering gaze without an ounce of fear. If he wants me to tremble for him,
he’ll have to make me.
I’m not truly afraid of him, and I’m ready to engage in a more twisted
game. I’m completely safe with Dane, and I can push the boundaries of my
darker fantasies without fear of judgment.
“Your pet has claws,” I retort.
It’s so similar to what I’ve said to GentAnon in the past.
But this is Dane.
This is real.
He’s warm and solid, caging me in his corded arms. And he’s all mine.
He quirks a taunting brow at me. “I don’t feel you using them.”
His fingers tighten around my throat. “You’re so weak and fragile. What
do you think you could possibly do to hurt me? To deny me?”
Blood begins to pound in my ears as he applies pressure to my arteries,
but I can still breathe. I can still speak.
“I am not fragile.”
I’ve never fought back in real life; the fantasies that blur the lines of
consent have always been nothing more than words on a screen. But now,
I’m safe enough to finally indulge in this game.
Summoning all of my strength, I bend my knees between us and try to
leverage them against his abs to force him off me. At the same time, one
hand shoves at his chest, and the other rakes red lines into his forearm with
my nails.
He doesn’t bother to restrain me further. He just laughs and presses me
deeper into the mattress.
“Careful, pet,” he coos. “I don’t want to break you.”
I’m starting to float, and black spots dance at the edge of my vision. My
struggles grow more frantic as fear coils low in my belly. It snakes up my
spine in a slow, slithering slide that makes me quake. My responses are
becoming more primal, a true impulse to escape danger rather than a teasing
game.
“You’ll never break me,” I manage to hiss through my constricted
throat, and my fingernails dig into his wrist.
But his firm grip is unbreakable. The world is softening, sliding out of
focus until the only thing I can see is his cruelly perfect face, split in an
almost maniacal grin.
My fear morphs into a thrill that shivers through me. It undulates all the
way to my fingers and toes, making them tingle as though my nerves are
hypersensitive. My nipples are hard peaks that rub against his chest as I
writhe, and the forbidden stimulation is darkly erotic.
“No,” he agrees softly. “I won’t break you, my pretty pet. I like you just
as you are. But I will tame you. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll
kneel at my feet and worship me.”
It’s a threat, but his intense declaration mirrors what he said in my
defense at the wedding.
Abigail is perfect just as she is.
With that sweet reminder, he slips past my defenses, and I start to soften
in his ruthless hold.
Or maybe that’s the lack of oxygen flowing to my brain.
Darkness creeps in, gentle and alluring. I blink hard, desperate to keep
his glittering eyes in focus. I don’t want to lose sight of him. I need him
more than I need the breath he denies me.
His grip loosens, and euphoria floods my system. My body is
weightless, and my mind is floating. He presses a tender kiss to my throat,
and the gentle flutter of his soft lips is an intoxicating dichotomy with the
ruthless way he was handling my body only moments ago.
A low moan issues through my parted lips, and my core pulses in a
heavy throb that matches my racing heartbeat.
 He grabs my cunt in one hand, grinding his palm against my clit as his
fingers easily slide inside me.
“So wet for me,” he rumbles, dropping another featherlight kiss on my
neck.
He strokes the sensitive spot inside me once, and my entire body
convulses at the answering burst of ecstasy.
Then he withdraws entirely.
His weight no longer pins me to the mattress, but I’m limp, my mind
still sapped by primal chemicals elicited by fear and lust. Adrenaline and
oxytocin mingle in a potent cocktail, and I can’t gather my wits.
I barely manage to stir by the time he retrieves the tools for my torment
from beneath the bed.
My eyes widen when I see the gag in his hand. Earlier, I’d thought it
was nothing more than a sexy threat.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I challenge, but it comes out as a breathy whisper.
I try to scramble away. I’m almost on my feet when he launches his
bigger body across the bed. His arm loops around my waist, and he drags
me back to him. I kick out at nothing and shriek my defiance. He pushes me
onto my front, and his weight traps me again. His hand pins my nape,
forcing my cheek into the pillow.
“I will do whatever I want,” he says, a cool statement of fact. “And
you’ll take it for me like a good girl. I won’t hear a word of complaint.”
The gag appears in my line of sight, hovering near my face. I try to turn
so that I can snap my teeth at his fingers, but his grip on my neck
immobilizes me.
“No biting, pet.”
The red ball presses against my lips. I grit my teeth together and growl
in staunch refusal.
His hand leaves my nape, but before I can twist away, his fingers lock
around my jaw, applying steady pressure.
My mouth opens despite my stubborn defiance, and I taste rubber on my
tongue as it slides so deep that I almost gag.
He buckles the leather straps tightly at the back of my head, and I
struggle to draw in deep breaths through my nose to calm my mounting
panic.
When I’m thoroughly silenced, his hand returns to my nape, gentler this
time. He stares down at me with raw hunger tightening his square jaw. His
other hand traces the shape of my lips where they’re forced apart around the
gag. My sensitive nerves tingle and dance beneath his reverent touch.
I still beneath him, and my eyes roll back as euphoria soars through me
once again. The sense of complete helplessness is the greatest release I’ve
ever known. I can’t fight him. I don’t have to pretend to be stubbornly
independent.
I’m his, and there’s nothing I can do but accept him as my master.
“Isn’t that better?” he asks, as though his cruelty is a mercy. “My pet is
so calm and sweet now.”
I give a halfhearted jerk beneath him, and he shushes me gently.
“You don’t need your pride.” His low, accented voice is deeply alluring,
drawing me into temptation. “You only need me. Submit.”
A shuddering sigh convulses my chest, and he kisses the cathartic tear
that rolls down my cheek.
His weight lifts off me, and I whine at the loss.
His arrogant chuckle rumbles over my skin like a caress, drawing a
shiver from me. He grasps my shoulders and pulls me upright, so that I’m
on my knees in the center of the bed.
I want to turn to face him, but I’m meekly compliant and don’t try to
defy him again. I’m bound by his will: his control chains my mind, and my
body is now his to use however he wants.
Rope wraps around my wrists, and my elbows are forced to bend with
my arms behind my back. I give the restraint a gentle tug, testing it. I relax
further when it holds firm without biting into my skin.
My master might give me pain, but he will never cause me harm.
The rope winds around my chest, looping beneath my breasts. He
weaves it around me in a complicated pattern that my mind is too hazy to
follow. There’s only the delicious tension of the hemp and his long fingers
brushing over my sensitized skin as he slowly binds me. It’s a sensual act,
and my body flushes with carnal heat. Arousal drips down my thighs, and
my swollen labia ache with every heavy beat of my heart.
He ties off his work at my back, and then he fists the complex web
behind my shoulders. The rope draws tight around my chest, stimulating my
trapped breasts until they throb in time with my core.
He reaches around me and tweaks my nipples, and my shocked cry of
ecstatic pain is muffled by the gag. He toys with me, pinching and rolling
the tight peaks between his deft fingers until I’m writhing in his ropes.
 I try to plead for mercy, but I can only moan and whimper around the
gag. His mocking laugh rumbles into me, stimulating my pussy like a
vibrator pushed deep inside me.
“Are you going to come while I torture your pretty nipples?” he asks,
giving them a particularly vicious twist.
Pain bursts through me, ravaging my psyche. My tormented mind
interprets it as pleasure, and I scream out my orgasm. He rubs my abused
nipples, and sparks dance directly to my clit. My release goes on and on,
until I sob from overstimulation.
Finally, my master shows mercy and releases my breasts.
“I’m going to use you now, pet.”
Yes, I want to babble. Please use me, Master.
But I can’t speak. I’m just his pet, his plaything.
I close my eyes and float in a blissfully peaceful headspace, where
nothing exists except for his will. More than anything, I want to please him.
It’s not even a coherent thought; it’s a primal need.
He lowers me face-down against the mattress, but he grasps my hips so
that I remain on my knees. My ass is lifted like an offering, my dripping
pussy waiting for his cock.
I hear a condom wrapper tear, and then there’s a quick spike of pain
when he enters me in one deep, rough thrust. I release a raw, ragged cry,
and he reaches around me to stimulate my clit.
I come again on a scream, my pleasure ripping through me in a tidal
wave. My inner muscles contract around him. He growls, and his fingers
bite into my hips, hard enough to leave a mark.
I want him to mark me. I love being owned by Dane, and I’ll proudly
wear his bruises.
As he fucks me hard and deep, I give myself over to him completely. I
lose count of my orgasms. I’m not sure if they’re even separate peaks.
There’s only relentless ecstasy, and every moment of him inside me feels
like the most perfect peace.
My pussy flutters around him helplessly, and I sob into the gag as
sensation and emotion overwhelm me.
He roars out his release, and he thrusts deep one last time. He keeps me
pinned there for a long minute as his cock pulses inside me. We linger in
our mutual pleasure, our bodies connected in the most intimate way
possible.
 This is exactly where I want to be.
I’m his, and he’s mine.
Our souls are bound by darkness, and in this safe space, we can indulge
in it together without shame.

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 29

ABIGAIL

I
hum to myself as I fold my laundry, which is warm from the dryer. My
headphones are on, and I do a little happy dance to the beat of my
favorite alternative band.
I’ve never been so content in my life. Dane is perfect. He’s my miracle,
my gorgeous prince.
I’m safe and cherished. He likes me just as I am: a gift no one has ever
given me. Not a romantic partner, and certainly not my judgmental,
withholding family.
Anticipation buzzes through me, and I give an extra shake of my hips. I
can hardly wait to see him again in a few hours. My short shift finished at
noon, so I have to wait for him to get off work too. In the meantime, I
decided to spend a little time at my place to catch up on laundry.
I might even paint if I have time.
It’s been over a week since I last picked up my brushes, and even
though I miss my art, I’m not desperate for the release of my inner darkness
that I usually find at my canvas.
Instead of releasing it, I reveled in it last night.
My cheeks heat at the memory of the gag in my mouth and Dane’s
filthy threats. His condescending praise. The pleasure he wrung from my
body.
I jolt when my headphones are tugged from my ears, and I whirl on a
sharp yelp.
 Ron, my creepy new neighbor, grins at me.
“No need to scream like that, Peaches.” He lifts my headphones to his
ears as though he has every right. “What are you listening to that has those
hips swaying like that?”
I breathe through the burst of fear and lift my chin to stare him down.
My shoulders straighten, and I hold out my hand.
“Give those back, please.” My tone is cold, even if my words are polite.
I won’t provoke him while we’re alone in here, but I don’t want him to
think I’m remotely welcoming. His attention makes my skin crawl, and he’s
blocking my way to the door.
He gives me a rueful chuckle when he returns my headphones. I quickly
toss them into my plastic hamper along with my laundry and hold it
between us, forcing him back a step.
“Where’s your scary boyfriend?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on my
breasts. My camisole has dipped lower than usual while I was bent over the
dryer, and my cleavage is on display.
I can’t tug my shirt up while I’m clutching the hamper, and I don’t want
him to know that he’s getting to me. I sense that any sign of weakness will
be interpreted as invitation.
“He’ll be here any minute,” I lie.
Dane won’t arrive for a few more hours, but Ron doesn’t need to know
that. I’m hoping that the mere threat of my white knight’s imminent arrival
will make him back off.
Instead, he beams at me. “Oh good. We’ll have a little time to get
properly acquainted. I think we got off on the wrong foot before. We’re
neighbors. I want us to be friendly.”
“I’d prefer if we were simply cordial,” I reply coolly. “I’m sorry, but
I’m really busy. I need to get this laundry put away before Dane gets here.”
I’m quick to remind him of my lie.
“Hey, I get it.” Ron holds up his hands as though in defeat. “You’re a
classy lady, and he’s a fancy man.”
Then he takes a step toward me, and my stomach drops.
“But you have that sexy Carolina drawl, and you need a Southern man,
not some foreigner.”
“What I need is for you to leave me alone,” I assert.
My butt bumps against the hot dryer. There’s nowhere for me to go.
“Back off,” I warn, and my voice doesn’t waver.
 I’m done being polite.
“There’s no need to be rude, Peaches,” he admonishes with a shake of
his head.
“You’re the one being inappropriate.” I struggle to keep my tone calm
and even when my heart leaps into my throat.
“Oh, come on.” He’s cajoling now, and he takes another step toward
me. He’s close enough that his weight presses my hamper into my belly,
pinning me. “We could go up to my place. Have a drink. You’ll see that I’m
a nice guy.”
My fingers are numb around the handles of the hamper.
“Let me out.” The demand is a ragged whisper.
My twisted fear response is causing me to shut down. Forbidden lust
doesn’t stir this time, but I’m not running away from danger, either. As
always, I freeze.
It’s going to happen again, and I’m going to let him do it.
He shoves the hamper aside, and it clatters to the concrete floor. My
clean laundry spills everywhere, but my eyes are fixed on the threat.
“I knew you liked me,” he says with smug satisfaction.
His breath smells like stale tobacco, and his lips taste bitter when they
crush down on mine. The faint scent of cigarette smoke threads through my
senses, and I’m not sure if it’s coming from him, or if I’m getting dragged
into the memory of Tom and my debutante ball.
I close my eyes, as though I can hide from what’s happening to me.
Dane’s fierce green eyes fill my mind. They glitter with possessive
hunger.
I’m his.
Ron has no right to touch me.
For the first time in my life, I fight back.
My knee jerks up between us, slamming into his balls. He chokes
against my mouth, then reels away. He doubles over and makes a pathetic
retching sound.
“Fucking bitch,” he wheezes, stumbling toward me.
I spin on my heel and run. I dart out of the laundry room and into the
open breezeway on the ground floor. I’m at my front door in seconds, and I
wrench it open. I slam it shut behind me and throw my weight against it,
sliding the lock in place just as Ron’s bulky body slams into the wood.
 “Come out here, you little cunt!” he roars. My entire door vibrates at my
back. He’s kicking it, punching it.
If he manages to get inside, he’ll do the same to me.
The violence reminds me of a different night when I was pressed against
my door, when the masked man pinned me here and violated me in the
worst way.
My knees fold, and I sink to the floor as horrific memories threaten to
pull me under.
I force my shaking hand to find my phone in my pocket. It takes a few
trembling attempts to find Dane’s contact information and connect the call.
He answers after three rings. “I’m at work. Can I call you back?”
I can’t breathe. I try to speak, but all that issues from my throat is an
awful choking sound. Ron pounds on my door, shouting curses at me.
“Abigail!” Dane’s usually cultured voice is rough. “Where are you?”
“Home,” I manage to wheeze.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My head is pounding in time with Ron’s fists on
my door.
“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me.”
I can’t do more than nod mutely.
“Tell me what’s happening,” he commands sharply.
“Ron…” His name is all I can force past the lump in my throat before
the horrors of my past overwhelm me.
“I’ll be there soon,” he promises darkly. “Are you in your apartment? Is
the door locked? Answer me, Abigail.”
“Yes,” I whisper, compelled to obey.
“Stay right where you are. Breathe. Just keep breathing. That’s all you
have to do until I get there, understand?”
I heave in a painful breath that’s like a knife through my chest.
He must hear my attempt to comply because he praises, “Good girl.
Another. Just focus on your breath.”
His voice is my anchor to reality, preventing me from getting lost in
awful memories. He continues to talk me through my terror, commanding
each of my ragged breaths.
At some point, the hall outside goes quiet, and my door stops vibrating
on its hinges. Ron has given up.
I’m not sure how much time passes before I hear Dane’s voice at the
door. It takes a second for me to realize that it’s not coming through my
phone.
“Let me in, Abigail.”
I have to grab the doorknob to haul myself up onto my shaking legs, but
I manage to unlock the door. It swings open to reveal my dark god, his
heartbreaking face drawn in sharp, vicious lines of rage.
But his hands are gentle when he cups my cheeks, inspecting my face
for signs of injury.
“He didn’t hurt me,” I say through numb lips. “I hurt him. That’s why
he was so angry.”
Dane steps inside and scoops me up in his arms. He carries me into my
bedroom in a few long, confident strides and lays me down on my bed. It’s
small, but he wraps his massive body around mine and pulls me close
enough that we both fit.
I’m shaking, and he strokes my body in soothing caresses, imbuing me
with his steady warmth.
After a while, my breaths come easier, and I melt into him, utterly
wrung out and exhausted.
“Tell me what happened.” It’s a low order, and I’m compelled to reply.
“Ron cornered me in the laundry room again. I told him to leave me
alone, but he wouldn’t.”
“Did he touch you?” The question rumbles like thunder.
“He…kissed me.” I manage to speak through the nausea that surges at
the visceral memory of his rank breath.
Dane’s fingers flex into my arms, his entire body tensing with unspent
violence.
“But I fought him off.” Dimly, I marvel at the fact. I still can’t believe I
managed to kick him instead of freezing.
But I didn’t freeze. I didn’t let him take advantage of my body.
And it’s all because of Dane. Because in my most panicked moment, I
thought of him, and I knew he would never allow another man to touch me.
He wasn’t there to save me, so I had to save myself.
I did it for him.
I did it for me.
“I’m yours,” I promise, turning to face him so that he can read the depth
of my devotion in my open gaze.
His eyes burn with emerald flames, and his hand curves around my
nape. “I’ll take care of this, Abigail. I’ll take care of you.”
 “I know. I trust you. I…”
I trail off, holding back the words that tease at the tip of my tongue. It’s
too soon to say them, even if they run through my mind like a litany.
“I need you,” I say instead.
His lips are hot on mine, and I open for him on a sigh. I welcome him
into my mouth with a flick of my tongue, urging him to claim me more
deeply. In the aftermath of the assault, I need to feel connected to my fierce
protector. I need to bind him to me, to join our bodies as closely as our
souls.
I tear at his clothes in a frenzy, and his hands fist in my camisole. After
a few feverish minutes, we’re both naked. He touches my pussy, and we
both discover than I’m already wet for him. My body will always be ready
for him, eager to join with him.
He reaches for his discarded pants and grabs a condom from his wallet.
He sheaths his thick cock as he looms over me. I reach for him, tracing the
harsh line of his cheekbone and the tight set of his jaw. His nostrils flare
with desire, and he shudders at my tender touch.
I’m powerless to resist this man, my master, but I hold power over him
too. It goes straight to my head, intoxicating. My fingers twine in his thick,
black hair, and he allows me to tug him in for a fierce kiss.
His cock nudges my inner thigh, and I spread myself wide for him.
“Take me,” I beg. “I need you inside me.”
He eases into me in a deliciously slow slide, and my legs wrap around
his hips. My fingernails bite into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper,
harder.
He groans into my neck and breathes me in, as though he can’t get
enough of my scent.
For the first time, there aren’t any kinky games. There’s no darkness
between us. There’s only carnal passion and fierce possessiveness as we lay
claim to each other’s bodies. I mark him with my nails, and he marks me
with his teeth.
He pumps into me, his sculpted ass tight beneath my insistent heels as I
drive him deeper.
Warmth floods my body, a painful heat. He’s seared into my soul, my
heart.
“I love you,” I confess. “I love you, Dane.”
His eyes flash, and his jaw goes slack with something like wonder.
 Then he gnashes his teeth, and his handsome face contorts into
something almost feral. He slams into me, lighting up my body with
pleasure and sweet pain.
“Mine!” he snarls, his voice inhuman.
My heart swells. It’s more than enough for me. He doesn’t have to say
the same words back to me. I can feel the depth of his affection for me in
the rough thrusts of his cock and the bruising bite of his hands on my arms.
He pins me beneath him and ravages me, fucking me in a frenzy.
I meet each of his harsh thrusts, showing him how much I want him,
how I accept everything that he is. And how I willingly give all of myself in
return.
We reach our peak together, our ecstatic shouts a violent crescendo to
our vicious lovemaking.
He stays inside me even as he softens, and I keep him locked there with
my legs around his waist.
Dane is mine, and I won’t let him go.

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 30

DANE

S
talking my prey is almost too easy. Ron doesn’t seem like a man with
something to hide. He doesn’t seem bothered at all by the fact that he
tried to rape a woman just a few hours ago.
My blood simmers in my veins, already heating in anticipation of the
violent retribution that’s to come.
Abigail is safely in my home across town. I took her to our personal
sanctuary after our intense sex at her place.
After she told me she loves me.
Something thuds at the center of my chest, an aching beat.
I choose to ignore the disconcerting sensation.
I’m not capable of love. She’s introduced me to emotions I never
thought I’d experience, but the depth of that feeling is impossible for
someone like me.
Love is meant to be selfless, and that’s something I will never be.
I’m a selfish bastard, and I’ll covet Abigail’s love for me, even if I can’t
return it in the same way. I’ll cherish her and care for her. She will want for
nothing.
That will have to be enough.
My job now is to ensure her safety. Ron will never touch her again.
I blink back the red haze that clouds the edges of my vision and find the
cold, merciless truth at the core of who I am. Now isn’t the time to indulge
in rage. I need to be thoroughly in control.
 The aged wood creaks beneath my boots as I stroll down the dock
toward my prey. He turns at the sound, and his eyes narrow in a squint
against the setting sun behind me.
As I draw closer, he blinks, and recognition dawns on his round face.
He drops his fishing rod and squares up to me in a pathetic attempt to
make his weaker body seem intimidating.
I fix him with my most charming smile.
He draws back slightly, thrown off by my affable demeanor.
“What’re you doing here?” he demands. “This is private property.”
“Yes,” I acknowledge. “I saw the signs. But it’s not your property, is it?”
He scowls at me. “None of your business.”
I shake my head at him, still smiling. “You snuck in. No one knows
you’re here.”
The marsh is eerily silent around us, as though even the gulls have fled
in the face of the threat I pose. I’m the most dangerous predator out here,
and Ron finally seems to understand.
He swallows hard, but he manages a contemptuous sneer. “What’d you
do, follow me? If you’re here because of your girlfriend, don’t bother. I
don’t want that frigid bitch.”
Fury swells my muscles, but I manage to maintain my composure.
“I warned you not to speak about her like that,” I remind him coolly.
He rubs his jaw absently, as though it already aches from the impact of
my fist.
“No,” he retorts. “You told me not to say it around her.” He spreads his
arms wide, gesturing at the empty marsh. “She’s not here.”
“She’s not,” I agree. “There’s no one here but you and me.” I unbutton
my shirt cuffs and casually roll up my sleeves. “She wouldn’t like to see
what I’m planning to do to you. But she’ll never have to know. You’ll never
bother her again.”
He takes a step back, then teeters at the edge of the dock. He throws
himself forward to stop from crashing into the saltwater creek. He falls
straight into my brutal punch.
His head snaps back, and he drops onto the aged wood. I pin him while
he’s stunned, pummeling his face until the lips that dared to kiss my Abigail
are a bloody mess against his broken teeth. Warmth sprays my cheek, and
my knuckles split at the force of my relentless blows.
 I don’t fight the red haze any longer. I sink into it, allowing it to suffuse
my senses. I revel in the rush of vicious power that I’ve only known since
meeting Abigail.
When he stops moving, I grab his curly hair and drag him down the
dock. He releases a garbled shout through his broken jaw as thick splinters
pierce his cheek.
Ron’s boat shoes scrabble at the gravel as I pull him onto the rough
driveway, as though he can run from the inevitable.
Then we’re in the mud, my boots sinking into sludge as I pull him
toward the dark water.
His hands scramble for purchase, and he screams when his palms are
sliced open by the sharp oyster beds. He grabs at my arm, and his blood
smears on my white shirt.
The water flows up to my knees, but he’s trapped under my ruthless
hands, his face shoved beneath the muddy surface. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see a ripple moving toward us, and I recognize the ridged back of an
alligator.
I won’t even have to clean up my mess.
This fucker just needs to drown before the beast reaches us.
He thrashes in the water, the desperate sound calling to the gator like a
school of jumping bait. Then his body convulses when he fills his lungs
with saltwater. He jerks in my hold once. Twice.
He goes utterly still, and his bloody hands float at his sides. I shove his
body in the direction of the alligator, and before I’ve managed to trudge out
of the mud and onto the shore, Ron disappears into the murky creek.
He’ll never touch my Abigail again.

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 31

ABIGAIL

re you okay?” Franklin’s voice is rough with worry over the phone.
“A “I just walked past your front door, and the paint is all fucked up like
someone’s been trying to kick it down. You didn’t answer when I
knocked.”
“I’m fine,” I promise, quick to allay my friend’s concern. “I’m at Dane’s
place. There was an altercation with that new guy, Ron, earlier. But I’m fine
now.”
“What did that curly-haired creep do to you?” Franklin demands. “I
swear to god, I will make his life hell until he moves out of this building.”
My heart warms, and my lips curve in a small smile.
“Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
Franklin is a wonderful friend, but I know he’s capable of chilling acts
of passive aggression when someone crosses him. He can make Ron so
uncomfortable that he’ll move out sooner rather than later.
“But I’m safe with Dane. Plus, I kicked Ron in the balls. I don’t think
he’ll try anything again.”
“What? Who are you, and what have you done with sweet Abby? I
mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you hurt the fucker if he was harassing
you. But I didn’t think you could hurt a fly.”
“I didn’t either,” I admit. “But I’m glad I did it too.”
“Good for you,” Franklin approves. “So, you’re across the street right
now? Can I come see you, or are you busy with your gorgeous doctor? I
haven’t caught up with you in weeks.”
“Across the street?” I’m not sure where he got that idea. “No, I’m at
Dane’s place.”
“Right. The old powder blue house. I know the one.”
“No,” I correct him, confused. “Dane lives in Harleston Village.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then Franklin asserts, “I’ve seen him
coming and going from the house across the street for months now. I
noticed him when he moved in. He’s too hot not to notice.”
“You must be mistaken. I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood except
when he’s come to visit me.”
“Okay, maybe he has an identical twin,” my friend says slowly, but I
can tell he’s suspicious. “Because a man who looks exactly like him lives in
the house across the street from our building. I thought you said you knew
him because he comes into the coffee shop every morning.”
“He does.” My throat is getting tight, and my stomach churns.
I don’t understand what’s happening. Franklin has to be mistaken.
“The Sunny Side Café is three blocks away from where we live,”
Franklin reasons. “Nowhere near Harleston Village. I assumed Dane was a
regular because he lives in the neighborhood.”
“He just likes the café,” I say.
“Is it near his workplace?”
“I…I don’t know.” I’ve never asked where Dane’s practice is located.
A thought occurs to me. “Why don’t you just ask him?” I suggest. “I’m
sure there’s a simple explanation. He should be at our building right now.
He told me he was going to talk to Ron.”
Another beat of silence. “Okay, let me check.”
I hear Franklin’s door open and close, and then he’s knocking on Ron’s
door across the hall.
He knocks again.
And again.
My heart is in my throat.
“No one’s here, Abby.”
That can’t be right. Dane’s been gone for almost an hour now. It’s less
than a twenty-minute drive between our places, even with traffic. If he’s not
with Ron, he should be back with me already.
“Okay.” My voice is a bit shrill. “Thanks for checking.”
“Are you all right? Something weird is going on.”
 “Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m fine. Listen, I’ll have to call you
back. I need to get in touch with Dane.”
“Text me to let me know how it goes,” my friend requests.
“I will.”
I end the call, and my thumb hovers over Dane’s contact. I’m about to
message him, but I hesitate.
Something is wrong. I sense it in my gut, and I can’t shake the slightly
queasy feeling.
I take a breath and tell myself I’m being silly. Franklin is mistaken.
There’s no way Dane lives in the house across the street from our building.
An image flashes through my mind: Dane’s living room the first time I
ever came here. It was so clean. Sterile.
Like no one lived here.
It’s different now. There are coasters on the coffee table downstairs, and
a few crumbs litter the counter, despite Dane’s fastidious nature.
Maybe I’m just messy, and I’ve made his house a little less tidy.
I’m being ridiculous. Dane will come back soon, and he’ll explain
everything.
I decide to text him.
When do you think you’ll be back? How’s it going with Ron?
My phone pings seconds later with his reply.
Everything is fine. I’m sure Ron and I will come to an understanding.
I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry, pet. I’ll handle this.
My heart sinks.
But he’s not with Ron. He’s not at my building. Franklin just checked.
Dane is lying to me.
I shake my head. This is getting out of control, and I’m on the verge of
spiraling.
I can clear this up easily enough. I’ll just go to the powder blue house
and find out who really lives there. Then, I’ll come back here, and Dane
will be waiting for me.
I look at his text again. He didn’t say that he’s with Ron right now. Just
that they’ll come to an understanding.
It’s vague and a bit cryptic, now that I’m reading it with greater
scrutiny.
Gathering my resolve, I open the app to call a car and head downstairs.
Within minutes, I’m riding across town, back to my neighborhood.
 I stare at Dane’s text during the short drive:
I’ll handle this.
I recall the way his eyes went ice cold when he threatened Ron in the
laundry room.
Use that language with her again, and you’ll end up with a broken jaw.
At the time, I’d swooned for his protectiveness. But now, I can’t stop
thinking about the dangerous glint in his eyes. How his face had gone blank
and unnervingly devoid of emotion.
My stomach is churning by the time the car stops in front of the powder
blue house. I straighten my shoulders and force myself to walk at a normal
pace. I climb the three steps up to the wooden porch and ring the doorbell.
I note that the lights aren’t on inside, but it’s still bright enough out that
the sunshine illuminates the space. There’s a narrow, vertical window to the
left of the front door. When no one answers the second ring of the bell, I
press my face closer to the glass and peer inside.
I stop breathing. I recognize the painting that’s hanging in the front hall.
It’s one of mine.
I swallow against the burn of bile at the back of my throat and reason
that locals sometimes buy my art, not just tourists.
My footsteps are heavy with dread as I walk farther down the porch so
that I can look into the larger window with a view into the living room.
My landscapes cover the walls. There must be a dozen of them
crowding the small room.
Fear tingles down my spine.
This isn’t right. I don’t understand what’s happening, what this means.
A wild, reckless impulse overtakes me, and suddenly, there’s a rock in
my hand. It smashes through the rectangular window beside the front door.
I reach through the jagged hole I made and unlock the door from the inside.
Broken glass scores my wrist, but I barely feel the sting of the cut.
I feel like I’m floating outside of my body, like this is happening to
someone else.
The front door swings open, and I walk through the house in a daze,
taking in my familiar style that’s mounted on every single white wall.
Otherwise, the space is unfurnished except for a small kitchen table.
And the bedroom.
The cramped space is dominated by a king-size bed, but I can’t focus on
that. More of my paintings hang on the walls. They’re all images of storms.
 That’s why you favor the storms.
Dane knew so much about my work when we talked on the beach that
day.
How did he know?
I sink down onto the mattress as my knees give out. My fists tangle in
expensive sheets, as though I’m desperate to cling onto something solid,
something real.
Because none of this seems real.
It can’t be.
I suck in three deep breaths and force myself to think. There’s nothing
tying Dane to this place. Franklin thinks he’s seen him in the neighborhood,
but that’s not proof that Dane lives here.
I grip the sheets more tightly, and my fingers clamp down on something
soft and familiar.
A soft cry of pure horror bursts from my lips when I see my paint-
splattered camisole in my fist. The one I thought I’d lost in the laundry.
Desperation claws at my insides, and I surge to my feet. A sort of
fevered madness overtakes me, and I start tearing the room apart, as though
I’ll uncover some secret that will make sense of everything.
I wrench open the nightstand drawer, and my heart skips a beat. My
fingers tremble as I reach out to touch the black wool. Part of me hopes it’s
a hallucination, but the material is all too real in my hands.
I stare down at the macabre skull that’s painted onto the black ski mask.
My brain blanks. My body goes numb.
I can’t process this. I can’t accept it.
“You shouldn’t be here, little dove.”
I whirl, and Dane is standing behind me. He’s covered in mud and
something crimson that makes my stomach turn.
The man I love has blood on his face.
He’s here. In this awful shrine to me.
Little dove.
He’s never called me that before.
That’s GentAnon’s nickname for me.
“No.” My tremulous whisper is barely audible.
It’s him.
He’s my dark god.
He’s my online confidante.
He’s the masked man who violated me.
They’re all the same man. They’re all him.

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 32

DANE

S
omething sharp pierces my chest, robbing my breath. She’s not
supposed to be here.
She was never supposed to see this.
She was never supposed to know.
I came back here to get cleaned up, so that I wouldn’t be covered in
blood and grime when I returned home.
Now, she sees the ugly truth of what I am.
I’m her stalker.
Her attacker.
Her villain.
I was a fool to ever delude myself into thinking I could be something
else to her, something more.
“Tell me it’s not true.” Her lovely eyes are shining, but her tears don’t
bring me a shred of pleasure this time.
“Abigail,” I rasp.
My stomach knots, and I reach for her.
She cringes away.
“Tell me it’s not true!” The words are a desperate shriek this time.
I grasp her shoulders, forcibly pulling her to me. Her fists beat at my
chest like the frantic beats of a trapped bird’s wings.
“Let me go!”
 “No,” I refuse. My fingers bite into her soft flesh, preventing her from
putting an inch of space between us. “You love me.”
If I say it, it might still be true.
Her cheeks are chalk white, and her jaw is slack with horror.
“You violated me.”
The truth in her soft whisper hits me like a gut punch.
“It was you!” she rails.
The skull mask is still clenched in her fist, irrefutable evidence of my
sin against her…
I wait in the midnight shadows of her apartment. Abigail will come
home from the bar at some point, and I can be patient. Every moment that
passes sharpens my senses, heightening my awareness of the world in a way
I’ve never known before.
The thrill of hunting my pretty prey is the most addictive feeling I’ve
ever experienced.
Abigail wants this. We’ve been exchanging dark fantasies for months.
Our desires are perfectly matched.
But I’m tired of keeping things virtual.
She’ll find as much pleasure in this twisted encounter as I will. I’ll make
sure of it.
“You liked it,” I say, even as my stomach lurches. “You came all over
my hand.”
She looks up at me like I’ve betrayed her on a level she never could’ve
imagined.
The knife in my chest twists, an awful, shredding sensation.
“I knew we were meant to be together,” I continue, as though I can
salvage this. “That’s why I came into the café and asked you out. You were
meant to be mine.”
“I’m not yours!” The words are wrenched from her chest on an
anguished cry.
I wrap my arms around her, caging her in an unbreakable embrace.
“You are. Nothing will change that. You love me.”
She does love me.
She has to.
“I’m scared,” she whispers. “You’re scaring me. Let me go.”
“I can’t do that.” It’s a rough statement of fact.
I’m incapable of letting her go.
 She writhes in my hold, and she opens her pretty mouth to scream.
I harden my resolve. If she sees me as her villain, then that’s what I’ll
be.
I spin her around and clamp my hand over her mouth before she can cry
out for help. My other arm captures her throat, applying pressure to her
arteries.
We’ve played like this before, but this time, it’s not a game.
Her fingernails rake red lines into my forearm, but I don’t feel them any
more deeply than a tiny kitten’s claws. She’s every bit as fragile as I’ve
always said.
My breakable pet.
My little dove.
Her tears stream over my hand where it covers her mouth, and unlike
her painless scratches, the tears scald me. I grit my teeth and force myself to
maintain my ruthless hold on her delicate body.
She softens in my arms, and I catch her sagging, unconscious weight. I
cradle her close to my chest and brush a kiss over her motionless lips.
“I’ll keep you safe, Abigail,” I swear. “I will do anything to protect
you.”
I will do anything to keep her for myself.
She said she loves me.
She’ll say it again. She doesn’t have a choice.
Abigail is mine: body, heart, and soul.

Thank you for reading Compulsion! I hope you loved this first installment
in Dane and Abigail’s story. Their dark romance continues in Redemption.

One-click Redemption >

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