Chapter 11 Mara #3
Mine, he’d whisper, wrapping a hand around my throat. Mine, as his cock sinks into me to the hilt, claiming me, taking me in long, hard strokes as I rub my clit, pushing myself to the edge, hovering there as I wait for his permission, for his cum to fill me so I can have my own orgasm.
He wouldn’t pull out, not even if I begged. He’d slam his cock into me, holding me down with it, pinning me, spurting hot and thick into my pussy like I’ve never allowed anyone else to, while he commanded me to come, come on his cock, come for him—
I cry out as the orgasm hits me, nearly sobbing with the intensity of it, wishing I knew his name so I could moan it as I come for him.
My pussy clenches hard around the toy, milking it of the nonexistent cum that I wish he was filling me with, my clit throbbing as wave after wave of pleasure wracks my body.
I lie there afterward, almost stunned in the wake of the fantasy, knowing something is wrong with me.
No woman has a man stalk her, break into her apartment, leave her a human hand, and then still comes this hard imagining him in her bed.
But I just did.
—
My phone buzzes at two in the morning.
I barely managed to clean up before I nearly passed out in bed, weeks of hardly any sleep catching up to me all at once in the wake of the most powerful orgasm I can remember having.
I blink blearily into the dark, fumbling for my phone.
It’s probably Claire, and I almost set it back down before I look at the screen, still half asleep.
It's not from Claire. My eyes widen as I see unknown number on the screen, jolting me more fully awake.
I should delete it without looking. I should put it down and make a decision in the morning. I should do anything except what I'm about to do.
I open it.
The photo loads slowly, and at first, I don't understand what I'm seeing. It's dark, the image grainy and shadowed. Then my brain starts to process the details.
It’s a face… a man’s face, or at least, the aftermath of one.
It’s swollen beyond recognition, the eyes nearly puffed shut, now purple and black. The man’s nose is clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle, his lips split and bleeding. There’s blood everywhere—on the man’s face, on his shirt, pooling on what looks like concrete.
Confusion muddles my mind, until I stare at it for a moment later and realize that I recognize the shirt. It’s a blue button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and the man is wearing a leather necklace with a shark’s tooth. We joked about that at the bar, a remnant from his old surfer days.
It’s Daniel.
I sit bolt upright, suddenly stark awake and shaking so hard I can barely hold the phone. I can't look away from the image—from what used to be Daniel's handsome, charming, normal face.
The text comes through a second later:
You're mine. Stop pretending otherwise. – I.S.
I know immediately I'm going to be sick.
I run to the bathroom and vomit, my body heaving, my mind refusing to fully process what I just saw. When there's nothing left, I slump back on the cold tile floor, my phone still clutched in my hand, and I stare at the photo again.
He did this. I.S. did this to Daniel because I brought him home. Because I kissed him. Because I tried to be normal and have a normal night with a normal man.
And now Daniel is—
Is he dead? Is that a photo of a corpse?
He’s not dead. But the next one will be. Remember, you’re mine.
I feel a scream building in the back of my throat, but I don’t have the air to let it out. I can’t think straight. I should call the police. Should report this. Should—
But what would I tell them? That I got a photo of a man who was badly beaten because of me? That someone with the initials I.S. is stalking me? They already closed the case about the hand. They already made it clear they're not going to help me.
And if I call them, if I report this, I'll be dragging Daniel further into this nightmare. If he's alive, if he's in a hospital somewhere, the last thing he needs is to be connected to whatever this is.
I did this to him. I brought him into this. This is my fault.
If I don’t let it go, I.S. might finish the job.
I look at the photo again, forcing myself to really see it. The brutality of it. The violence.
You're mine.
It wasn’t a request or a suggestion. It was a statement of fact.
Stop pretending otherwise.
He was watching. At the bar, or outside my building, or—
My stomach drops.
Inside my apartment. The only way he could see me kiss Daniel is if he had a way to see inside my apartment.
I scramble off of the bed, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Is there a camera? Is he watching me right now? Did he see everything that happened with Daniel on my couch?
I start searching, tearing apart my bedroom and making my way out to the living room to do the same.
I search frantically, desperately, pulling books off shelves, checking behind picture frames, running my hands along the edges of furniture.
I don't know what I'm looking for—I've seen spy movies, I know cameras can be tiny, hidden anywhere.
I find nothing. But that doesn't mean they're not there.
Was he watching me earlier? Did he see me touching myself? Did he see me come for him?
The thrill I felt earlier makes me feel nauseous now. I sink onto my couch, still holding my phone, still staring at that photo. At what I did to Daniel by inviting him into my life.
The guilt is crushing. And worse, underneath it, I’m reminded of what brought me pleasure just a few days ago, when a severed hand showed up on my doorstep.
Someone is so possessive, so consumed by the need to claim me, that they'll hurt anyone who touches me.
And sometimes… when it’s a man like Richard Maxwell… I don’t hate it. I don’t wish it hadn’t happened.
I just wish he hadn’t hurt Daniel. I wish he hadn’t harmed someone I thought I wanted the same way he hurt someone I didn’t.
I'm horrified by the thought, disgusted with myself for even having it.
But I can't deny it's there.
I don’t sleep for the rest of the night. I sit on my couch as the sky lightens outside my window, and I force myself to think, really consider if I.S. is the same man who introduced himself to me as Alexander Volkov.
The gifts started after I came home from Boston. I never asked for his number or gave him mine, but he wanted to take me out before I left.
I remember the way he looked at me. He looked as if he felt the same way I did, like I was electrified by his gaze alone. He called it a connection. A fleeting moment.
Could someone really become this obsessed from one encounter? From three? A meeting of eyes on a sidewalk, a conversation in a museum, a cup of coffee?
It feels impossible, like the kind of thing that doesn’t happen in real life.
But the more I think about it, the more it fits.
The possessiveness. The way the gifts show such intimate knowledge of my preferences, my desires.
He paid attention to me in just that brief amount of time. He understood me.
The thought is oddly intoxicating. All my life I’ve craved someone wanting me, someone desiring me and only me, becoming wholly invested in knowing me for who I am. Alexander Volkov, or I.S., has done exactly that. He’s taken it to an extreme, but…
But what? that voice in my head demands. Sending me the hand was beyond extreme. Hurting a man who did nothing but come home with me at my request and politely kiss me is inexcusable.
This man is violent. Dangerous. Possibly a criminal… at the very least, he’s already committed two criminal acts. This is unconscionable.
I can’t want this.
But what do I do? The police made it clear I should move on and forget the incident with the hand ever happened. If I.S. made them bury it, a photo of Daniel’s bloody face isn’t going to change anything.
And even though I despise what he’s done tonight, a part of me that I know must be sick wants to be claimed by someone who feels that intensely, who wants me that desperately, who'll destroy anyone who tries to come between us.
That realization, more than anything else that's happened, tells me exactly how far I've fallen.
I'm not the person I thought I was. I'm not the rational, independent woman who makes smart choices and maintains healthy boundaries.
I'm someone who burns evidence to protect a stalker.
Someone who feels a dark thrill when men are punished for touching her.
Someone who is clearly drawn to danger and darkness and the promise of being consumed by someone else's obsession.
I'm becoming exactly what he wants me to be.
And the worst part is, I'm not sure I want this to stop.