Chapter 40
ALENA
I wake with a gasp.
Shooting upright on the couch, momentum carrying me forward until I'm half-falling off the edge. My hand slams against my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath my palm like it's trying to escape.
Drogo.
My heels—still on, I never took them off—knock against the wooden floor as I slide down, knees hitting the ground hard enough to bruise.
I look around frantically. Searching. Scanning every shadow, every corner.
Nothing. No one.
The house is silent. Empty. Dark except for the faint glow of streetlights through the windows.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Did I—did I hallucinate?"
Oh god. Oh god. I'm losing my mind. Finally, I am completely, irreversibly insane. The ghosts won. They've broken me. I'm seeing Drogo now, fucking phantom Drogo, feeling phantom cocks inside me while I—
I freeze. Because I'm soaked.
Not just wet. Drenched. Slick running down my inner thighs, cooling against my skin. I can feel it—the heaviness, the proof.
My hand travels down slowly. Shaking. Slips between my legs. I push two fingers inside myself.
They slide in easily. Too easily. "Fuck."
I used to be tighter. I know I used to be tighter. But now there's this… space. This stretched, used feeling. Like something—someone—big was just there. Filling me. Claiming me.
This happened. This happened.
My eyes land on the coffee table. A note. White paper. Black ink. Handwriting I'd recognize in my sleep.
I missed you.
Take that shower.
Wash him off.
—D.
I stare at it. At the words that feel like a brand burning into my retinas. At the proof that I'm not insane. That he was here. That everything happened. That I'm his now whether I agreed to it or not.
"Fuck!" I slam back against the couch. Cover my mouth with both hands to keep the scream inside. "Fuck fuck fuck—"
He was here. Is here?
I jump up. Run through the house. Dining room—empty. Candles burned down to nothing. Food still on the table. But no Drogo. Kitchen—empty. Gun drawer hanging open.
"Lucy." I need Lucy. Need to hear her voice. Need her to tell me I'm not insane. "Phone. Where's my—"
I spin. Check the dining table again. The floor. Nothing. Must have fallen somewhere. Laptop.
I sprint to my office. Nearly trip over my own feet. Slam into my desk. Yank the laptop open. Click. Click. Click. No internet.
"What?" I stare at the screen. At the little "no connection" icon mocking me. "How?"
I stand so fast the chair crashes backward. Run to the hallway where the router lives. And freeze.
The router is gone. Just torn cables hanging from the wall. Sparking faintly. Destroyed.
My heart starts beating faster. Too fast. Arrhythmic. The ghosts didn't do this. The ghosts can't destroy routers. Someone did this. Someone real.
Car. I need my car. Need to get to Lucy. Need to get out. I need to tell her that he has returned. Fuck. I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my lips. He was back. Drogo. My Drogo.
I grab my keys from the bowl by the door. Hands shaking so badly they rattle. Yank the front door open—
And stop.
Two men block my path. Black suits. Black shirts. Ties. Expressionless faces. Built like walls. Standing on my porch like sentries. Like guards. Like I'm the prisoner and this is my cell.
"Miss." The one on the left raises his palm. Calm. Polite. Deadly. "You cannot leave."
My stomach drops.
"Please return inside," the other says.
I stumble back. Almost fall. A scream builds in my throat but gets stuck somewhere behind my teeth. I look down at the floor. At the reality sinking in like ice water. Then it hits me.
The gun. Kitchen. I have a gun.
Who are they? What do they want? My mind spins. There's a very high possibility that I'm legally insane right now. Standing here shaking. Holding a loaded gun in my near future. None of this can be real. None of this can be happening.
But it is. Maybe at least.
I stay frozen for one more heartbeat. Two. Three. Then I run.
Back through the house. Into the kitchen. My heels stick to the floor—spilled wine from dinner, or sweat, or both. Straight to the drawer. Lean down fast and grab the Glock from the floor. I shot at Drogo; I remember that. So it must be real. Right?
Check it—still loaded, magazine almost full, safety off because I never put it back on after—
The cold metal burns against my shaking hands. Heavy. Real. The only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways.
I look toward the kitchen door. The one that leads to the side yard. Another exit. Okay. Okay. Think, woman. Think.
Gun in hand, I move slowly toward the door. Every step deliberate. Breath held. I reach for the handle. Turn it. Pull.
Another man. Same suit. Same expressionless face. Same calm, terrifying politeness.
"Miss." He looks down briefly when he sees the gun pointed at his chest. Then back up at me. Meets my eyes. "Please get back inside."
I raise the gun higher. Press it directly over his heart. "Move."
He doesn't. Just stands there. Doesn't reach for a weapon. Doesn't grab my wrist. Doesn't do anything except look at me with those dead, patient eyes.
"Miss," he repeats. Calmer than anyone should be with a gun aimed at their chest. "Please. Get back inside."
I start trembling. Full-body shakes. The gun wavers in my grip.
"So the way out is murder?" My voice cracks. High. Desperate. "That's what you're telling me? I have to kill you to leave my own fucking house?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't move. Just waits. Like he has all the time in the world. Like I'm the one trapped. Not him.
The gun shakes harder in my hands. Tears burn behind my eyes. "Who sent you?" I demand. "Who—Drogo? Did Drogo send you?"
Still nothing. No confirmation. No denial. Just that patient, immovable calm.
I lower the gun slowly. Not because I want to.
Because my hands are shaking too badly to hold it steady.
Because the reality is sinking in. I'm trapped.
In my own house. With guards at every door.
No phone. No internet. No way out that doesn't involve pulling this trigger.
And I don't know if I can. Don't know if I should.
The man at the door tilts his head slightly. "Miss. Inside. Please." It's not a request. It's never been a request.
I step back. Lower the gun completely. Let it hang at my side. He nods once. Satisfied. Then closes the door.
The lock clicks from the outside. Heavy. Final. The sound of a prison door sealing shut.
I stand there in my kitchen. Alone. Trapped.
Still holding the gun. The silence presses down like a physical weight, too thick after the panic and the screams. My bare feet are cold against the tile.
The house feels smaller now. The walls closer.
Every window a reminder that I can see out but can't get out.
Tears spill over. Hot. Fast. Unstoppable.
"Drogo," I whisper to the empty room. To the man who isn't here. To the ghost I thought I'd finally touched. "What did you do?"
No answer. Just silence.
The shadows in the corner shift. Not menacing. Not attacking. They move closer—slowly, deliberately, like they're reaching for me. Comforting in their own twisted way. Like they're saying we've got you… and so does he.
The real prison isn't the guards or the locked doors. It's the love that won't let go. The claim that won't release. The possession that followed me through death and breakdown and two years of trying to forget.
And the note on the coffee table I can still see from here. I missed you. You're mine now.
"Fuck you," I whisper.
But my hand slides between my legs again. Feels the proof. The wetness. The stretch. He was here. He's still here. Somewhere. Watching. Always watching.
And I don't know if I want to kill him or fuck him or both.
But I know I can't do either without him.
Because that's the real cage.
Not the guards. Not the locks. Not the destroyed router or the prison of this house.
It's him.
It's always been him.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.