21. Lydia
TWENTY-ONE
LYDIA
I wake up sore.
Not the kind of sore that makes you regret it.
The kind that lingers like a secret, low, deep, bruised in all the right places. My thighs ache. My back is scraped. My lips feel swollen from kissing leather and moss and pain.
And my chest still burns where the blade kissed me.
A thin line just under my breast. Pink and healing already. But it’s there. Real. Permanent.
A mark.
A memory.
A signature.
His.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute, I was sobbing his name, shaking from another orgasm, begging him to stop.
The next, I was curled into his chest, the damp floor beneath me, his masked breath warming the top of my head.
He hasn’t said anything.
He just held onto me.
His fingers ghost over my spine. Gentle. Reverent. So at odds with what he'd done just minutes before.
That duality messes with my head. He can fuck me like a monster, but holds me like a prayer.
Now, in the quiet gray light of morning, I sit up slowly, wincing as my muscles protest.
Paint still clings to my skin in streaks, bright orange and blue splatters across my ribs and thighs. Dirt in my hair. My tank top has been tossed somewhere during the chaos, and all I have is his jacket draped over me.
Black. Heavy. Tactical.
Still smells like him.
I pull it tight around my body and look for him.
But he’s gone.
Of course he is.
The truck is still parked where we left it. The passenger door open, and a single bottle of water sits on the seat like a peace offering.
Inside is a folded note on the dashboard.
I stare at it like it might explode before grabbing it with trembling fingers and unfolding the paper.
You’re safe.
That’s it.
Two words.
No name. No heart. No threat.
Just… truth.
The drive home is silent.
He lets me ride alone. Trusts me to find my way back on the narrow trail we came in through. It feels good not being treated like a damsel in distress. But I have a feeling he’s close by.
Watching me
My phone has service again by the time I reach the edge of the woods, but I don’t turn it on.
I don’t want the real world yet.
I don’t want Patrick’s name in my mentions.
Don’t want another text from my mom about parenting.
Don’t want another follower asking when my next stream is.
I want him.
The monster.
The mask.
The man who ruined me in the dirt and kissed my wounds after.
Back in my house, I collapse into the shower and let the water scald my skin. It runs pink for a few seconds, paint, maybe blood, and then clear.
I stare down at my chest, at the tiny healing cut beneath my breast.
My fingers hover over it.
I should be disturbed.
I should cry.
But I touch it gently and smile.
By the time I slip into bed, my body is clean, but my thoughts are a storm.
What is this?
An obsession? A trauma bond?
Some twisted fantasy bleeding into reality?
I don’t even know his last name. But I’ve never felt safer. Never felt more… wanted. He hasn’t just taken my body.
He’s taken control.
Of my mind. My fear. My heart.
And the scariest part is, I don’t want it back.
I curl into his jacket. Close my eyes. And whisper into the silence.
“Please come back.”