17. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Harbor
I wake with a silent scream lodged in my throat, my body frozen in unfamiliar sheets. The buttery morning light filtering through the poorly insulated windows feels like a lie—too normal, too peaceful for the chaos spinning inside my skull. Something terrible happens in the woods last night. Something I desperately want to believe is just another fucked-up nightmare born from my writer’s imagination.
But nightmares don’t leave bruises. And I am covered in them.
I lie perfectly still, cataloging the physical inventory of my body without moving a muscle. My thighs ache as if I’ve run for miles. My shoulders burn from being pinned against rough bark. The tender flesh between my legs throbs with a dull, insistent pain that confirms what my mind is trying to deny.
“It wasn’t real,” I whisper, the words hanging in the empty air of the bedroom. “It can’t have been real.”
But even as I say it, my throat constricts around the lie. The sensory memories crash through my defensive walls—the scent of pine needles crushed beneath my body, the cold night air on exposed skin, the weight of him, the sound of fabric tearing, his breath hot against my ear. The mask. That beautiful, terrible mask transforming his face into something other.
I shift slightly, testing my limits, and hiss as pain shoots through my lower body. Fuck. The soreness is unmistakable, the kind that comes from being taken roughly, violently. The worst part is, even though my brain vehemently rejects all this, the rest of me does not.
Including my heart, which, up until now, isn’t an issue—except for the way his mouth crushes mine in an effort to swallow my demons, breathing a new type of life into me. It’s sick, I know… but I want it. He does something to me. Something that feels a whole hell of a lot like freeing me from the shackles of what I should find acceptable.
The sheets beside me are rumpled and cold. His scent lingers there, expensive cologne mixed with sweat and something darker, earthier. The smell of the forest. The smell of the hunt.
Kairo isn’t beside me, but he’s brought me back here—to this cabin. He’s cleaned me, tucked me in, and let me sleep. It’s about as romantic as I’d expect from any normal boyfriend, except for the fact that he’s a monster in sexy skin and plays the perfect part.
Or maybe it’s just the duality of him. Can’t someone be two opposing things simultaneously?
Had I known, somewhere deep down, that this would happen? The thought stops me cold. My new muse. The masked man in the forest. The chase. The violation that’s both terrifying and… No. I cut that thought off before it can fully form. I don’t want this. I can’t have. I can’t have written this into existence. It’s simply not possible.
Yet my body trembles now with a confusion that disgusts me—fear mixed with something else, something I refuse to name.
I force myself to sit up, biting back a whimper as my bruised body protests. Dark marks circle my wrists like bracelets. Fingerprints bloom across my inner thighs. Evidence. Proof that last night was real.
The room spins slightly as I stand, and I grab the edge of the nightstand to steady myself. I’m naked except for my panties, torn along one side but pulled back into place. The rest of my clothes are nowhere to be seen.
Thirst rears its ugly head, and I become desperate for water.
I rip the top blanket from the bed and wrap it around myself like armor, tucking the edges in tightly until I’m cocooned. The soft weight of it against my skin should comfort me, but nothing stops the tremors that run through me in waves.
What now? Run? Scream? Pretend nothing happened? Each option seems equally impossible.
My legs feel like rubber as I cross to the bedroom door. My hand hovers over the knob, trembling. What will I find on the other side—the charming, attentive man who invited me to this remote retreat to help with my writer’s block? Or the predator who chases me through the moonlit forest, his face transformed by that hauntingly beautiful mask?
My heart hammers against my ribs as I open the door and walk out.
Kairo stands with his back to me, the smell of breakfast making my stomach growl. His shoulders move beneath a thin white T-shirt as he arranges something on a plate, each movement precise and deliberate. The same hands that tear my clothes, pin my wrists, claim my body now carefully arrange breakfast. The absurdity of it makes me want to laugh—or scream. I do neither.
I stand frozen in the doorway, blanket clutched to my chest like a shield that can’t possibly protect me. My body can’t decide whether to bolt back to the bedroom or collapse right here. The primal part of my brain—the part that recognizes the predator behind the mask last night—screams at me to run. But where? The cabin is surrounded by miles of wilderness, the same wilderness where he hunts me down like an animal.
The soft scrape of a knife against toast stops. He knows I’m here without turning around. Of course he does.
“Coffee’s ready,” he says, voice smooth and controlled, with no hint of the guttural growls that accompanied his violation of me just hours before.
I flinch at the sound, hating my body for betraying me—not just in fear, but in the unwelcome flutter low in my belly at the familiar timbre of his voice. What the fuck is wrong with me?
He turns slowly. His face is a perfect mask of normalcy: handsome features arranged in a slight smile, strong jawline, stubble across his skin, dark eyes watchful but not threatening. This is the Kairo who charmed me at the bar.
“You’re hurt,” he says, gaze traveling over my face, lingering on the bruise on my cheek. His fingers trace my cheek, lingering on that bruise as his brow furrows ever so slightly.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Am I? I wonder how that happened.”
His expression doesn’t change as he grabs the coffee pot and pours two cups. He places the mugs on the granite island and pulls out a stool. “Sit. You need to eat.”
The command hangs between us, simple and absolute. My legs move before my brain can process the submission. I sink onto the stool, wincing as my battered body protests the hard surface. The blanket gapes slightly, and I cling to it tighter, suddenly aware of my nakedness beneath it, of his eyes on the finger-shaped bruises on my arms.
“Where are my clothes?” My voice sounds smaller than I want, weaker.
“In the dryer. They’re… dirty.” His pause carries the weight of everything that happens in the dark among the pines. “I’ll bring you something else to wear after breakfast.”
I stare at him, searching for some sign of the monster, some acknowledgment of what he did to me. His face remains impassive, impossible to read. Only his eyes betray a flicker of something dangerous—a heat that makes me look away first, down at the plate he slides in front of me: toast, eggs, fruit arranged in a careful pattern.
“Eat,” he says again, taking the seat across from me, close enough that I can smell him—that expensive cologne now mixed with the scent of coffee and butter. Too close.
My stomach clenches, but I pick up a piece of toast mechanically, unable to disobey. Silence stretches as I take a small bite; the food is tasteless in my mouth. I am acutely aware of his gaze on me, assessing, possessive.
“It wasn’t a dream,” I finally say, the words falling like stones into the quiet. “What you did to me.”
His hand pauses, coffee mug halfway to his lips. “No,” he agrees simply. “It wasn’t.”
No denial. No apology. Just acknowledgment.
“You hurt me.” My voice wavers.
“Yes.” He sips his coffee, strong fingers wrapped around the mug with casual strength. “I did.”
My eyes fix on his hands—long-fingered, perfectly manicured, capable of such precision and such violence. I remember them around my throat, not quite squeezing but threatening. Remember them tearing fabric, exploring exposed skin, bringing me to climax. Remember them tangled in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck to his mouth.
“Why?” The question encompasses everything: why me, why the mask, why the chase, why the violence.
Kairo sets down his mug and considers me, head tilted slightly as if I’m an interesting specimen. “Because I want to,” he says finally. “Because you want it too, somewhere deep down. I just give you space to explore those urges, free of judgment.”
“Stop it.” I slam my palm on the counter, pain shooting up my arm from bruised flesh. “Stop trying to make this my fault. You kidnapped me!”
His expression softens into something almost like tenderness, which is somehow worse than cruelty. “I’m not blaming you, Harbor. I’m freeing you. From convention. From the prison of your inhibitions.” He reaches across the island toward my face.
I flinch away, the blanket slipping slightly. “Don’t touch me.”
His hand freezes mid-air, then withdraws. He nods once, accepting the boundary with such casual ease that it throws me off balance. How can he respect this small thing after violating every boundary last night?
“More coffee?” he asks, domestic again, as if we’re just any couple having breakfast in a beautiful cabin.
I stare at him, at the precise way he holds himself, at the calm control that never wavers. There’s no break in his performance, no crack I can exploit—just this eerie, terrifying normalcy layered over the horror of what he’s done, what he is.
And what terrifies me most, as I automatically push my mug toward him for a refill, is the thought that I might be more like him than I want to admit.
I lift the coffee mug to my lips, my hand trembling so badly that dark liquid sloshes over the rim onto my blanket-covered lap. Fuck. I set the mug down too hard, porcelain clacking against granite. Across from me, Kairo watches with those unreadable eyes, tracking every movement like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. And the sick thing is, I just sit here eating the food he prepares, drinking his coffee, following his lead like a well-trained animal. The recognition of my own compliance crawls over my skin like a thousand insects, but I can’t seem to stop it.
“You should eat more,” he says, nodding toward my barely touched plate. “You need your strength.”
For what? The question hangs unspoken, but my fork moves to spear a piece of fruit anyway. My body obeys his suggestion before my mind can protest. What the fuck is happening to me?
I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, avoiding his gaze while being hyper-aware of his every movement—the way his fingers curve around his mug, the slight shift of his weight on the stool, the controlled rhythm of his breathing. How his broad shoulders fill his shirt and his biceps strain to escape the sleeves. I haven’t really looked at him like this, unashamed. I’m half-shocked to see the start of a tattoo at his collarbone, disappearing under his shirt. My attention to him is both involuntary and absolute, as if some primal part of my brain needs to see him—to understand him.
“Your heart is racing,” he observes, voice gentle. “I can see your pulse in your throat.”
My free hand moves instinctively to cover my neck, fingers pressing against the flutter of blood under skin. I hate that he can read my body so easily, that he can see it and… something else… coursing through me.
“Stop watching me,” I whisper, but there’s no force behind the words.
“I can’t.” The simple honesty in his response makes my stomach drop. “You’re too beautiful.”
His fork scrapes against his plate, and I flinch at the sound. Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert, sensitized to his presence like a compass needle locked on magnetic north. When he shifts in his seat, I tense. When he reaches for the coffee pot, I track the movement with wary eyes. When he stands to retrieve something from a cupboard, my entire body coils in preparation for… what? Flight? Fight?
Neither—because the most horrifying revelation isn’t the bruises on my body or his calm acknowledgment of causing them; it’s the ugly truth that some broken part of me is waiting for his next command, anticipating the release of surrendering control. Just like I write in my manuscript.
The realization hits me with sickening clarity. Page after page of my stalled novel flashes through my mind: the masked figure stalking my protagonist through moonlit woods, the violent taking that isn’t entirely unwelcome, the Stockholm syndrome that follows. I write it all before I meet Kairo, before I come to this cabin, before last night.
My protagonist, Emma, even describes her attacker’s hands in detail— “elegant but strong, the kind of hands that could either create art or destroy a life with equal precision.” Kairo’s hands, down to the small scar across his right knuckle, catch my eye now as he pours more coffee.
The masked man in my story whispers, “I’ve been watching you for so long,” just as Kairo whispers to me last night as I fall asleep.
My stomach churns as connections snap into place: the forest chase, the mask, the cabin, the aftermath breakfast where the captor acts as if nothing happens. I write all of it, draw from some dark well inside me that I convince myself is just fiction, just imagination.
Do I manifest this somehow? Attract it? Want it on some unconscious level?
“You’re very quiet,” Kairo observes, breaking my spiral of horrified self-reflection. “What are you thinking about?”
“My book,” I admit before I can stop myself. “My manuscript.”
Something flashes in his eyes. “Tell me what you see in it now.”
“That I write this,” I whisper, gesturing vaguely between us—at the cabin, at my bruised body. “All of it. Before it happens. Like I somehow… predict it. Or want it.”
He smiles then, and it transforms his face into something almost kind. Almost human. “Maybe you do. Maybe that’s why we find each other. Fate has a way of bringing like minds together.”
“We’re nothing alike,” I snap, sudden anger cutting through my confusion. “I would never hurt someone like you hurt me.”
“But you imagine it in exquisite detail,” he counters, rising from his seat. “Create it word by word, scene by scene.”
I shake my head, denying the accusation even as doubt creeps through my certainty. I write the words, yes. It’s dark fiction—a twisted, sometimes violent story that explores the shadows of human desire. But that is fiction. Just fiction.
Isn’t it?
My thoughts scatter like startled birds when Kairo suddenly moves around the island. My muscles tense, anticipating violence, but he merely circles behind my chair with deliberate slowness. I sit frozen, staring straight ahead, afraid to turn and track him, afraid to remain still and vulnerable.
His hands rest lightly on the back of my chair, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body against my back. I stop breathing, suspended in the moment between his presence and his touch.
“You should be scared, Harbor,” he whispers, breath warm against my ear, stirring loose strands of hair. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
A shiver travels down my spine at his words, and heat pools between my legs. I should jerk away, should scream or fight or do anything other than sit here, my breath catching as his fingers finally make contact, brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck.
The touch is feather-light, just fingertips tracing the column of my throat, but it sends electricity coursing through my veins. My body betrays me with a small, involuntary arch toward his hand, like a cat seeking more contact.
I hate myself in that moment—hate the disconnect between my mind, which screams danger, violation, escape, and my treacherous body responding to his touch despite everything he’s done.
“See?” His voice is low and rumbly, a murmur in my ear. “You can lie to yourself, Harbor, but your body knows what it wants.”
“No,” I manage.
His fingers continue their gentle exploration, traveling up to trace my jawline, then threading into my hair. “You write us into existence. Call me from your darkest fantasies. And now you want to deny the connection?”
“This isn’t a fantasy,” I whisper, even as my head tilts slightly into his touch. “This is a nightmare.”
“Is it?” He tightens his grip just enough to control my head, turning my face toward his. His eyes burn with intensity as they search mine. “Then why aren’t you fighting harder to wake up?”
The question lands like a physical blow. Why am I not fighting? Why am I sitting here, letting him touch me, feed me, control me after what he does? The answer lurks in the darkest corners of my mind, in the manuscript pages that predict this moment with such terrible accuracy.
My body knows Kairo long before I meet him. My mind creates him, summons him from whatever hell spawns men who hunt women through midnight forests.
I pull away from his touch, drawing the blanket tighter around my shoulders like armor, though we both know it’s useless against him. My mind races through options, each more impossible than the last. The cabin is isolated, my clothes are gone, my phone… My phone.
My eyes meet his, and I try to keep my expression neutral, unreadable. “Can I—” My voice cracks and I swallow hard before trying again. “Can I at least check in with my best friend? She’ll worry if she doesn’t hear from me. I promise to call her yesterday.” I force the next words past the revulsion they cause. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
Kairo’s eyes narrow slightly, assessing me. The calculating look sends ice through my veins—he weighs risks, considers angles, determines if this request is a threat to his control.
“Please,” I add, hating how pathetic I sound. “Lila will send someone looking for me if I disappear. She knows I come here with you.”
That isn’t entirely true. Lila knows I’m meeting someone at Pine Ridge Retreat, but I’ve been deliberately vague about Kairo. Just another in a series of stupid decisions that lead me here.
“Hmm.” He steps back, giving me breathing room. His body language shifts subtly: relaxed shoulders, open stance, performing the role of reasonable man rather than predator. “I suppose that would be sensible. We don’t want anyone interrupting our time together, do we?”
I nod, playing along. “Exactly. Just a quick call so she doesn’t worry.”
He studies me for another moment, then nods once. “Your phone is in the office. Wait here.”
As he leaves the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. This is my chance, my only chance, to send some signal to the outside world. But how? Kairo will be listening to every word. Any obvious cry for help will end with him cutting off the call and eliminating this small freedom. I need to be subtle, to plant seeds of concern without alerting him.
He returns less than a minute later, holding my phone in one hand and his in the other. “Before you call,” he says, tapping something on his screen, “let me just enable the Wi-Fi connection.”
My breath catches. The fucker has a Wi-Fi blocker. Of course he does. This cabin is a trap designed with meticulous attention to detail.
“There,” he says, sliding my phone across the counter. “Signal should be fine now.”
I pick up the phone with trembling fingers, hyper-aware of his eyes tracking my every movement. My lock screen shows several missed calls from Lila, the last one from late last night. Guilt and hope tangle in my chest—she’s already worried.
“Speaker phone,” Kairo instructs, tone casual but brooking no argument. “I’d like to say hello to your friend too.”
Of course. I’m not getting a private conversation. I swallow hard and nod, hitting Lila’s contact and putting the phone on speaker. The dial tone seems unnaturally loud in the kitchen’s tense silence.
“Harbor! Jesus fucking Christ, where have you been?” Lila’s voice explodes from the speaker after just one ring. “I’ve been calling you all night!”
I glance at Kairo, who gives me an encouraging nod, as if we’re just a normal couple fielding a call from a worried friend.
“Hey, Li. Sorry about that,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “The reception up here is really spotty. I just got your messages.”
“Well thank fuck you’re alive. I was about to call the retreat and demand they send a search party into the woods for you.” Her voice carries the familiar mix of annoyance and relief that defines our decade-long friendship. “So? How’s the writing going? Is the cabin everything the mysterious guy promised?”
“The cabin is… beautiful, truly. Remote as hell, though.” I emphasize the last part, hoping she catches the hint.
“That’s the point, isn’t it? To get away from distractions?” Lila laughs. “So tell me about Mr. Mysterious. Is he as hot in person as you say? Must be since you take off with him like a bat outta hell. I still can’t believe you go off to a remote cabin with a guy you barely know, but I guess writers have to take risks for their art, right?”
Kairo smiles at that—a stretch of lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest, watching me with the focused attention of someone enjoying a private show.
“He’s…” I hesitate, searching for words that satisfy both Lila’s curiosity and Kairo’s scrutiny. “Intense. Not what I expect.”
“Ooh, intense how? Good intense or bad intense? Like, intense in bed or intense like he might have bodies buried in the yard?” She laughs again, the sound painfully normal against the surreal horror of my situation.
Kairo’s smile widens at her joke, a silent acknowledgment that makes my skin crawl.
“Lila, Jesus,” I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to my ears. “It’s not like that. We’ve been focused on my manuscript.”
“Uh-huh. You disappear into the woods with a random guy who offers to help with your writer’s block, and you expect me to believe you’re just working? Harbor Elliot, you’re the worst liar in the world.”
I close my eyes briefly. If only she knew how accurate and yet how wrong she is. “The manuscript is… coming along,” I say carefully. “Kairo’s been helping me explore some of the darker themes. The ones I’m afraid to really dive into before.”
I watch his reaction as I speak. His eyes glitter with approval, his head tilting slightly at my careful choice of words. A wave of nausea sweeps through me at how quickly I learn to please him.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” Lila continues, oblivious to the subtext. “Your agent’s been breathing down your neck for months. So this Kairo guy is good for you then, huh?”
Kairo straightens, moving closer to me, his presence shadowing over me. His finger traces a slow, deliberate line along my collarbone, visible above the blanket. I focus on the call, not on how those fingers could make my legs tremble.
“Harbor?” Lila prompts when I don’t immediately answer. “You still there? How’s it going with Mr. Mysterious?”
I stare up at Kairo, trapped in his gaze as his fingers continue their exploration, dipping beneath the edge of the blanket to trace the bruises he left on my skin.
“I’m here,” I finally manage. “And it’s… I think I might be developing some kind of feelings for him.” The words come out stilted, strange, carrying multiple truths and lies layered together.
Am I playing along to survive? Experiencing some twisted form of PTSD? Or am I acknowledging that darkest possibility—that something in me recognizes and responds to the monster in him?
Lila squeals, the sound making me flinch. “I knew it! Details, Harbor, I need details. Is he as good in bed as he looks? Does he—”
“Lila, stop,” I interrupt. “It’s complicated. I can’t really explain it right now.”
“Oh my god, he’s right there listening, isn’t he?” Lila stage-whispers, audible to both of us. “Kairo, you better be treating my girl right! She needs someone to help her get out of her head once in a while.”
Kairo’s hand settles on the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “I’m taking very good care of her, Lila,” he answers, voice warm and personable—the voice of the man I met at the bar, not the monster in the woods. “Harbor is extraordinary. I’m making sure she explores all her potential.”
His double meaning makes my heart race, but Lila just laughs delightedly. “Well, you two enjoy your ‘writing retreat.’ Harbor, call me in a couple days, okay? I want updates.”
“I will,” I promise, the words feeling like a lifeline to a world that suddenly seems impossibly distant. “Love you, Li.”
“Love you too, weirdo.”
The call ends, and silence falls over the kitchen. Kairo’s hand remains on my neck, a gentle pressure laden with unspoken threat.
“That went well,” he says softly. “You’re learning already.”
I say nothing, staring at the dark screen of my phone, at my own reflection distorted in its surface. Behind me, Kairo’s blurred figure looms like a shadow.
“Feelings, huh,” he echoes, fingers tightening fractionally on my neck. “What kind of feelings, Harbor?”
I look up, meeting his gaze in the phone’s reflection. “Fear,” I whisper. “Disgust. Hate.”
His smile widens. “And?”
The word hangs between us, demanding completion—demanding honesty I don’t want to give.
“Fascination,” I finally admit, the confession burning my throat like acid. “God help me.”
“God has nothing to do with this,” Kairo murmurs, bending to press his lips against my hair. “This is between you and me. The writer and her creation. Or am I your creation? I’m still not sure which of us summons the other.”
As he takes my phone and slides it into his pocket, I wonder the same thing. And which answer will be worse.