Chapter 38 Sadie
SADIE
The sunlight streams through the windows.
I stretch my limbs, feeling a pleasant soreness in muscles I rarely use.
The events of last night flood back—Landon allowing me to lead, watching me with those intense eyes as I moved above him, then the way he reclaimed me afterward when I admitted what I truly wanted.
This morning feels different. Lighter. As if admitting my darkest desires out loud has somehow freed me from their weight.
The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest—has he left?—until my senses register an unfamiliar aroma wafting through the penthouse. Bacon. Someone’s cooking bacon.
I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. Landon’s cooking? That can’t be right. The man who drugged me, carved his initials into my skin, and treats me like his possession is... making breakfast?
I slide from the bed, my bare feet silent against the plush carpet. Landon’s dress shirt lies discarded on a chair. I pull it on, doing up just enough buttons to maintain a minimal level of decency. The fabric smells like him—undertones of musk, darker and more primitive.
Following the scent of food, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. I pause at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the sight before me.
Landon stands at the stove, his back to me. He’s wearing only pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips, revealing the muscled plane of his back. One hand expertly flips bacon while the other stirs the contents of a pan.
It’s disconcertingly... normal. Domestic, even. This dangerous man, who threatens and dominates and claims ownership of me, is making breakfast like we’re some ordinary couple after a night together.
I lean against the doorframe, unsure whether to announce my presence or retreat back to the bedroom.
This version of Landon—the one making bacon on a sunny morning—seems more dangerous somehow than the one who pins me down and takes what he wants.
It makes him human. Real. Not just the monster I’ve been telling myself he is.
Landon turns suddenly, his gaze finding mine in the doorway. His eyes narrow slightly, that carnal intensity I’ve come to know so well settling on me like a physical touch. The spatula pauses mid-flip.
“Why are you just lingering there?” His voice is morning-rough but lacks the cold edge I’ve grown accustomed to. “Come here.”
It’s not a request. Despite our moment of role reversal last night, Landon will always command rather than ask for things. His free hand extends toward me, beckoning.
My feet move before my brain catches up, drawn forward by some invisible pull I can’t explain or resist. I’m scared—of him, of myself, of whatever this is becoming—but simultaneously eager to touch him again. The contradictory feelings tangle inside me like crossed wires.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I approach.
When I reach him, he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me against his bare chest. His skin is warm, and I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek. It’s steady—like everything about him except when he’s inside me.
It’s weird. I’ve never felt so drawn to someone like this before, not with Melvin, not with anyone. This pull toward Landon defies logic, safety, and self-preservation. He’s dangerous, possibly psychopathic, definitely controlling—and yet I crave his touch, his approval, his attention.
My hand rises before I can stop it, fingers spreading across his inked chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle.
The intimacy of the gesture startles me—it feels too natural.
This isn’t about sex, or the Hunt, or the push and pull of power.
It’s something else—something more unsettling than his threats.
“What’s going through that brilliant mind of yours, little butterfly?” Landon asks, his thumb brushing my jaw tenderly.
I swallow hard, uncertain how to answer. How do I admit that what frightens me most isn’t his dominance or the pain, not even the surveillance? It’s how easy moments like this make me forget who he really is.
“Just wondering when you learned to cook,” I deflect, nodding toward the stove where eggs sizzle beside the bacon.
His lips curve into that familiar half-smile that never reaches his eyes. “I’ve lived alone most of my adult life. Contrary to what you think, I don’t keep servants to handle everything for me.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I murmur, and immediately tense, expecting his mood to darken at my sarcasm.
Instead, he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest against my palm. “Careful, Sadie. I might start to think you’re getting comfortable with me.”
The truth in his words sends a chill down my spine. I am getting comfortable. And that terrifies me more than his threats ever could.
Landon turns back to the stove, keeping one arm around me. “The eggs are almost done. Make yourself useful and pour the coffee.”
I slide from his grasp, relieved to have a task that puts a few feet between us. As I reach for the mugs in the cabinet, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of his refrigerator—hair tousled, wearing nothing but his shirt, moving through his kitchen like I belong here.
Two weeks ago, I was a normal woman with a boring job and an even more boring ex-boyfriend. Now I’m the willing captive of a man who’s carved his initials into my skin.
What scares me isn’t that I hate it. What scares me is that some part of me is starting to love it.
I pour the coffee, my hands trembling slightly as I set a mug on the counter beside him.
Landon gestures toward the dining table with a tilt of his head. “Sit.”
I follow him to the table, where he sets two plates loaded with eggs, bacon, and toast. It’s surreally normal, like we’re playing house instead of whatever twisted game this actually is.
“You need to clear your schedule for tomorrow night,” Landon says between bites of toast. His tone is casual but leaves no room for discussion. “The Blackwood Foundation is hosting its annual charity ball, and you’ll be attending with me.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “A charity ball? With you?”
“Is that so surprising?” He raises an eyebrow. “The Blackwood Group has legitimate business interests, too. This particular event raises millions for children’s hospitals.”
“No, I just...” I set my fork down. “I hadn’t thought about going out in public. With you. As your...”
“As my what, Sadie?” His eyes lock onto mine, challenging.
I don’t have an answer. What am I to him? His victim? His possession? His partner in whatever this is becoming?
“People will see us together,” I say instead. “They’ll wonder who I am.”
“They’ll know exactly who you are.” His voice drops lower. “You’re mine.”
The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver down my spine.
“I have nothing to wear to an event like that,” I try.
“Already taken care of.” He smiles coolly. “A stylist will be here this afternoon with options.”
Of course. Landon Blackwood leaves nothing to chance.
We finish eating in silence, the weight of tomorrow night hanging between us.
When he’s done, Landon rises and cups my face with one hand, tilting it upward.
His thumb traces my bottom lip before he bends down and kisses me – not roughly or demandingly, but with a gentleness that somehow unnerves me more.
“I’m going to shower,” he says against my lips. “Feel free to join me if you’d like.”
As he walks away, I exhale shakily. My phone buzzes on the counter where I left it last night. Probably Jolene checking in after her confrontation with Landon.
I open the text and freeze.
It’s from a withheld number. The image shows Jolene tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror, mouth gagged with a cloth. Blood trickles from a cut on her forehead.
The message below the photo is simple,
Don’t tell anyone about this, or she dies.