Chapter 31 Landon
LANDON
Ibalance the cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and the bag of still-warm pastries in the other as I unlock my penthouse door. The smell of fresh croissants and blueberry muffins fills the hallway—Sadie’s favorite, according to my surveillance of her at the café she frequents.
“Little butterfly,” I call out, pushing the door open with my shoulder. “I’ve brought breakfast.”
I set the food on the kitchen counter and move toward the bedroom, expecting to find her still asleep where I left her. The bed is empty, sheets rumpled and stained with evidence of our night together. My initials, which are below her collarbone, must be scabbing over by now.
A small sound draws my attention—a whimper from the corner of the room.
That’s when I see her. Sadie is curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. She’s wearing my shirt, the fabric swimming on her smaller frame. Her eyes are wide and unfocused.
“Sadie?” I move toward her.
She was so responsive last night, so perfectly mine. The moment she sees me approaching, she sits up and presses against the headboard of the bed.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” she hisses.
I freeze, genuinely perplexed. “What’s wrong?”
Her laugh is hollow. “What’s wrong? Are you serious? You drugged me. You carved your initials into my skin. You... you fucked me while I was unconscious. And you’re asking what’s wrong?”
“You loved it,” I state. “You came multiple times. You begged for more.”
“After I woke up!” She pulls the shirt tighter around herself. “Do you even understand what consent means?”
I frown. “You signed the NDA and contract. You surrendered your right to withhold consent for the Hunt. You’re mine for a year.”
“Are you hearing the words coming out of your own mouth? I signed the contracts that covered seventy-two hours of the hunt. Period. That doesn’t make me your property to use when I’m unconscious!” Her voice cracks.
In my mind, everything between us has been a dance of desire, a perfect symbiosis of her desire to be used.
“The contract states that you consent for the year after the hunt, if you are claimed. I claimed you, Sadie. You said you wanted it,” I insist, my voice rising. “You came looking for this. For me.”
“You’re insane!” Her words bounce off me like they're in a foreign language.
I stare at her, confused by the disconnect between what happened last night and her reaction now.
During the Hunt, she wanted consensual non-consent—she even asked me to act it out with her.
In my mind, everything flows together perfectly—the Hunt, the claiming, what I did last night.
“You watched my video,” I remind her, moving closer. “You saw what I'm capable of, what I do to women, and you still let me in. You researched me. You knew.”
Sadie’s eyes flash with anger, but there’s calculation behind the fury.
“I did research on you,” she admits, her voice tight.
“But there's a difference between fantasy and reality, Landon. And the reality is you drugged me and then...” She gestures between us, frustration evident.
“I should have had a safe word. A way to say no if I'd woken up last night and wanted you to stop.”
She's right, of course. The problem is, this kind of dynamic, where I don't simply want to cause fear and suffering, is entirely new to me.
An uncomfortable sensation twists in my chest. I'm not used to this feeling—this doubt, this.
.. feeling of having wronged her. Usually, I'm certain about everything I do.
“Let's set one now, then,” I offer, watching her carefully. “You want a safe word; I'll give you one.”
Sadie pauses, studying me as if searching for deception. Her anger doesn't disappear, but it seems to recede slightly at my concession.
“Fine, how about firewall?” she suggests.
I smirk as it's classic Sadie. Bringing her work into the safe word. "Fine, if you say that at any point, I stop."
A moment of understanding passes between us. She relaxes slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“That's... reasonable,” she admits, glancing up at me. "I didn't expect you to agree so easily."
"I'm not unreasonable," I tell her, moving closer. “This is new territory for me as well.”
She doesn't back away, which I take as a good sign. The silence between us feels less hostile now.
“The coffee smells good,” she says, nodding toward the breakfast tray I brought. Her stomach growls, and a flush spreads across her cheeks.
I reach for a muffin and offer it to her. "Muffin?"
She accepts it, our fingers brushing. For a moment, I think we might be moving past this.
Then she shifts to sit up straighter, and her hand flies to her collarbone as pain flashes across her face. She pulls down the collar of my shirt, examining the marks for the first time in proper light.
“On another note,” she says, her voice hardening though not returning to the full fury from before, “you carved your initials into me while I was drugged. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”
I don't. That's the problem. In my world, this makes perfect sense. You claim what's yours. You mark it. You ensure no one else can have it—not even death itself. I run a hand through my hair, unsure what to say. "I've given you a safe word now. What else do you want from me?"
“What do I want?” Sadie climbs off the bed, finding her voice. “I need you to give me space, Landon. Time to process all of this.” Her tone is firm but not final—a request for breathing room rather than permanent distance.
A coldness stabs at my chest. I watch her standing there in my shirt, her body marked by me in a dozen different ways, and while the idea of giving her space is difficult, it's not the same as her walking away completely.
“I’m not sure I know how to give you space.” My voice drops to a dangerous octave. “You’re mine, Sadie. The Hunt wasn’t just a game. The claiming was symbolic.”
“Symbolic, my ass.” She wraps her arms tighter around herself.
“I’ve never claimed to be anything other than a monster.” I step closer. “I made it clear to you during the Hunt. You knew when you watched my videos. You knew when you opened your door to me yesterday.”
“I didn’t know you’d drug me. I didn’t know you’d—”
“What? Give you everything you’ve craved and denied yourself?” I cut her off. “Everything about you belongs to me now. Your body. Your pleasure. Your pain. Even your fear.”
The small flash of terror in her eyes should satisfy me. Usually, I crave that look—the moment when they realize there’s no escape. But with Sadie, it feels... wrong. Like I’ve made a mistake, and I never make mistakes.
“The contract—”
“It’s not just a piece of paper,” I finish for her. “It’s the claiming ceremony. For one year, you belong to me. Running isn’t an option. Neither is leaving.”
I move closer, reaching out to touch her face. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say again, softer this time, as if this small act of consideration might bridge the chasm between us. “Let’s eat. Then we can discuss what happens next.”
The laugh that escapes her is brittle. “As if I have any say in what happens next.”
My jaw clenches as I stare at her. The emotional outburst—her tears, her accusations—it’s too much. I can’t process it. This isn’t how things are supposed to go.
“Kitchen,” I say, turning away before she can respond. I don’t look back to see if she’s following. She will. She has to.
I hear her soft footsteps padding behind me. When I turn, she’s standing in the doorway, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. My shirt hangs off her frame, making her look smaller, more vulnerable.
I point to a chair at the kitchen island. “Sit.”
Her eyes narrow, but she complies, lowering herself to the edge of the seat as if she might bolt at any moment. I place a coffee in front of her—cream, no sugar, just how she likes it—and slide the bag of pastries toward her.
“Now sit down and eat the muffin I bought you.”
Sadie stares at the muffin I pull from the bag, then takes it with trembling fingers. She tears off a microscopic piece, places it on her tongue. Doesn’t chew. Doesn’t swallow. Just sits there, eyes downcast, body rigid.
“Eat,” I command. “You need your strength.”
Her gaze snaps up. “For what? More of your sick games?”
“It’s not a game to me.”
She tears another piece of muffin, smaller than the first. Rolls it between her fingers until it’s nothing but crumbs.
“Sadie.” My voice drops to a dangerous register. “Eat the damn muffin.”
“Or what?” she challenges, dropping the mangled pastry onto the counter. “You’ll force that down my throat, too?”
Her words land like a slap. I straighten, studying her defiant posture. The muffin sits demolished on the counter between us, a physical manifestation of her resistance.
“I didn’t force anything,” I say. “Your body responded to me. It always does.”
Sadie narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t refute my claim. I expected by now that Sadie would understand our connection and recognize that I see her completely, all her broken pieces fitting perfectly with mine.
“You don’t understand what this is,” I tell her, circling the island. She tenses but doesn’t retreat. “What we are. The Hunt was just the beginning.”
“The beginning of what? Your sick fantasy?”
I reach for her, and she remains still as my fingers trace the outline of my initials through the fabric of my shirt. The wound is fresh, tender.
“Do you know how many women would want to be where you are?” I ask. “Claimed by a Blackwood. Protected. Provided for.”
Sadie’s laugh is bitter. “Protected? You’re who I need protection from.”
“No.” I grip her chin. “I’m the only person who truly sees you. The darkness you try to hide. The desires you’re ashamed of. I’ve watched you touch yourself to violent fantasies. I’ve seen the books you read.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating despite her anger. This physical reaction to me—this is what she can’t fake or deny.
“That doesn’t give you the right to—”
“It gives me everything,” I interrupt. “You are only fighting this because you fear the true Sadie being brought out into the light. The sooner you accept that’s exactly what’s going to happen, the easier this will be.”
I pull Sadie roughly from her chair, ignoring her gasp of protest. Her body is warm against me as I sit down in her place, dragging her onto my lap.
“What are you doing?” she demands, struggling as I position her with her back to my chest.
I don’t answer with words. My hands find her hips, lifting my shirt, confirming what I already knew—she’s not wearing anything underneath.
“Landon,” she hisses, squirming as I unfasten my pants. “I’m not doing this.”
I don’t hear her safe word, so I continue. “You don’t make the decisions,” I whisper into her ear, holding her firmly in place. “I do.”
With one swift movement, I lower her onto me, forcing my way inside her. She’s wet as fuck.
She inhales sharply. “Get off me—”
“No.” I grip her hips harder, keeping her firmly impaled on me. “Now, you’re going to sit here, just like this, and you’re going to eat your breakfast.”
I reach for the mangled muffin, reconstructing it as best I can, and place it in her hands.
“I’m not hungry,” she whispers. As she says it, her stomach rumbles again.
“You’re being a naughty little liar.” I shift, causing her to gasp as I press deeper. “Eat the muffin. Drink your coffee.”
I need to reestablish my dominance in this new setting, and if she’s not giving me that stupid fucking safe word, then I’m going to continue to teach her that resistance is futile.
“Don’t move,” I command when she tries to lift herself off me. “Stay perfectly still.”
I push the coffee closer to her.
“Please, Landon,” she begs.
“Eat,” I repeat. “And don’t you dare move.”
Her fingers tremble as she raises the muffin to her lips. I feel a rush of satisfaction as she takes the first reluctant bite, chewing while I remain buried inside her.
“Good girl,” I murmur, pressing my lips against her neck. “See how easy this can be when you just accept what you are?”
“You’re a psychopath,” Sadie hisses, her voice trembling as she forces down another bite of muffin. “I hate you.”
Her words cut deep. I’ve been called worse—monster, sadist, predator—but never felt the sting. Never felt the blade slip between my ribs. It’s the weight in her tone that makes these words strike. That makes them wound.
My fingers dig into her hips, hard enough to bruise. “You hate me?” I growl in a question. “Your mouth says one thing, but your body doesn’t fucking hate me, Sadie.”
I shift my hips, feeling how her tight little cunt gets wetter as a soft whimper escapes her lips. “Feel that? You’re soaking wet now that my dick is where it belongs—inside you.” I slide one hand around to press against her lower abdomen, and she makes a beautiful fucking moaning sound.
“You can lie to yourself,” I continue, “but you can’t lie to me. I know every inch of you. I’ve studied you. I’ve watched you. There’s nothing about you I don’t own.”
But her words—I hate you—keep echoing in my mind, creating an unfamiliar hollow sensation deep within. I’ve been hated before. I’ve been feared, loathed, and despised. It never mattered. If anything, those reactions were often exactly what I wanted.
Why is this different?
She takes another piece of muffin into her mouth, and I’m watching her reluctant compliance with a growing sense of unease. This should feel like victory. This should feel like power. Instead, there’s a strange emptiness spreading through me.
During the Hunt, I recognized a dark need in Sadie that matched my own. A perfect, broken mirror. I thought she understood what was happening between us. I thought she recognized our connection for what it was: inevitable. Two broken pieces fitting together.
“Take another bite,” I command.
Women have cursed my name, threatened me, begged me to let them go. I’ve always found their resistance amusing, arousing even. Their hatred was another form of acknowledgment that I am their superior.
But Sadie’s hatred feels like acid, eating through layers of certainty I’ve built around myself.
Maybe because, for the first time, I want someone to see me—the real me—and not run screaming. I want her beautiful mind to understand mine. I want her to recognize that I’m not just taking; I’m giving her permission to acknowledge and embrace the darkness within herself.
Her hatred isn’t part of the script I’ve written in my head. Her fear, yes. Her reluctant arousal, absolutely. Even her defiance plays a role. But hatred? That wasn’t supposed to be there.
The uncomfortable truth surfaces like a corpse in dark water: I don’t want Sadie to hate me. I want her to need me. To crave me. To recognize that we’re the same.