3. I Can Fix Him!
3
I Can Fix Him!
Chapter Playlist:
“Sweet Dreams” – Eurythmics – Emily Browning Cover
EVERLEIGH
The mask sends a bone-deep shiver through me. It drips with menace, blood-red streaks pouring like fresh wounds down a porcelain-white face, tempting and terrifying.
Okay, Evie, get a hold of yourself. You do not have a death wish.
I don’t watch much porn—because I read it like a lady—but it looks like I’m starring in a surreal, gothic porno now. With my hair in his firm grip, his lips and the texture of the surrounding mask rubbing along the curvature of my neck, and his gloved hand anchored just beneath my breasts, he gives me a taste of his strength. A well-muscled chest at my back. I can feel his hard sinew through his suit. God, is he a body sculptor or something?
He’s had the means and motive to follow me, to stalk me across the country. Oh, God, has he seen my hentai porn? Archive of Their Own? Oh, shit…my Kindle history?
Questions rampage through my mind. Is he a billionaire CEO? A mafia boss? Secret Phantom of the Opera actor? I blame Booktok for those damn thoughts.
The real question: is he morally gray or pitch black?
My heart seizes at his “much” proclamation, and my lungs struggle for air. The darkness closes in like a fist, yanking me from the moment into memories…
Stone walls all around me. The scent of decay filling my nose. The door locked. I can’t get out. Iron bars over the window. After an hour of yelling my throat hoarse, I finally curl up against the cold wall, shivering and wondering if I will die here…and become a piece of the history I’ve spent years studying.
“Everleigh Lennox,” his gravelly voice, commanding and dominant, pulls me back to the present.
“Wh-what?” I blink back more tears, flinching when he says, “You will fucking breathe when I tell you.”
He squeezes my throat again with his gloved hand, and suddenly, I’m thrashing against him.
“I can’t do that if you strangle me, you crazy asshole! Ugh!” I shriek from him pulling my hair so hard, my scalp howls. The next thing I know, he’s gripped my wrists at the small of my back, straining the muscles in my arms.
Another flashback smothers me.
“I’ll flunk you if you leave this room, Miss Lennox!” my professor barks at me, wiping the blood from his lip from where I scratched him.
Panicking, I rush for the door, struggling to unlock it. Bruises on my sides. I think he cracked my ribs. His hand comes down on my wrist, twisting it behind my back. It hurts! Stop! Let go! Take a deep breath. Thrust your head back. A sickening crack. Curses. Blood flowing from his nose.
A mouth crashes against mine, bringing me back. Powerful jaw commanding me. Tongue stabbing inside, exploring, taking. It’s not sloppy and dirty like that time. And it’s not sweet and romantic like my fiance.
My stalker’s kiss is dominant and demanding, determined to master me. He still holds my wrists, but now, he’s flattened them against the door on either side of me.
This guy is Fifty Shades of Trigger Warnings!
Why does he have to smell so mesmerizing? Hypnotizing me. Paralyzing me. More than any drug. An addiction of vetiver, aged leather, and black musk—the botanical kind made of plant resins, laudanum, and essential oils.
His muscles cage me, slabbed chest against mine, and I feel his thundering heartbeat.
I hate how I’m opening for him, losing the fight, and surrendering. His tongue decorates the inside of my mouth, tasting everything. He’s rattling my bones the deeper and stronger he kisses me, burning a firestorm in my veins. When I think of how his finger was inside me, my insides clench. I try to wish away the wetness forming, but my body betrays me. Something cracks inside me, and I…moan.
He pauses. Groans. It reverberates into my chest, and I swear I feel it in my lungs.
“Good girl,” he breathes against my lips.
Fuck. Why did he have to say that?
For the first time, I take him in, this…persona.
He’s a nightmare sculpted in silk and sin. The red suit clings to his broad, powerful frame like it’s in awe of him—tailored so perfectly, it’s obscene. The sharp angles of his double-breasted jacket, the midnight-black shirt beneath, and the subtle shimmer of the fabric scream danger and decadence.
I feel his eyes. Utterly black but for the pinprick of scarlet light in the center of his pupils. Contacts. But they bore into me all the same, stripping away my defenses, and I know—just know—he’s smiling beneath the mask. A dark, wicked smile that promises ruin.
His presence is suffocating in the best way…like being wrapped in the coils of a predator who’s too enthralled by you to strike.
This isn’t real, I think. I’m hallucinating, right? It wouldn’t be the first time. Whatever drug courses through my system makes everything fuzzy and tingles my skin.
He’s a character ripped from one of my darkest fantasies, the kind I shouldn’t admit to having. Tall, dark, and draped in blood-red power, he’s a Gothic erotic villain who’s stepped off the page to ruin my life. Or maybe save it.
The cape flares, framing him like a hellish god. His chest rises and falls slowly, steady despite the storm he’s igniting inside me. My mouth is dry, but my body is anything but.
I shouldn’t feel captivated.
A blush fills my cheeks, sweat sheens on my skin, and…oh, no, heat floods my center. When I try to turn to the side, something dark and rumbling leaves his throat. Like a growl. Oh, god, he better not be a vampire.
His polished black hair gleams, swept back with a few thick strands falling across his masked brow. Beneath the mask, his deeply hooded eyes pierce through me—so devastatingly intense, I swear they’re sending fire and ice into my heart.
“Look at me, Everleigh Lennox.”
He locks me in his gaze, but half of me sees through him, and the other half…
Stopitstopitstopit, Evie. Tall, dark, and stalker-y is not here to burn the world for you. He’s a poison.
Oooh, I’ll drink it every time, my inner smut reader coos.
STFU! He’s a parasite.
Suck on me, sexy.
Shit, I’m doing that thing in my head where I talk to myself. Except, instead of an angel on my shoulder and a devil, it’s more like a rational researcher vs a smutty psycho. She manifests whenever I’m triggered. But only her. She’s not a split personality—just a purposeful figment of my imagination. Apparently, I picture her like a curvy fairy with silky, pink hair, red wings, and black curling horns.
She goes by Cherry Bomb.
What if he’s a serial killer? I ask.
I CAN FIX HIM!
You’re insane . My soul needs a colonoscopy!
The hot, masked guy—hopefully not a serial killer—takes my jaw in his strong hand, almost to the bruising point. “Wherever did you just go, Little Quill?”
“I-I…” I stammer and try to retreat into the wall, wanting to teleport more than ever.
His hot breath coasts along my lips. “Do not try my patience. I will give you one chance to tell me, and if you lie, I will know.” His hand cups my throat, thumb trained on my pulse.
I swallow hard and confess, “I dissociate sometimes.”
He tilts his head, the mask expressionless apart from the weeping blood. “We’ll work on that.”
What? What does he mean by that?
Oooh, maybe he’ll keep us as a pet. I’ll gladly crawl to masked daddy. Cherry flutters, her wings vibrating with eager energy.
Shut up, you crazy bitch.
Gloved knuckles brush my inflamed cheek, deepening the blush. “Now, before we get down to business, I require your answer.”
“Can I have the question first?” Ugh, Evie.
Brat mode activated!
“Do not interrupt me,” he snarls, pulling my hair again.
Cherry swoons. Marry me!
Lobotomize me.
Spoilsport, she huffs, tossing her hair back.
“I’m going to take a step back.” He traces a finger around my lips, and it takes all my willpower not to lick them. “And you are going to stay right here while I ask you a question. I will give you ample time to run soon, but if you move now, I will punish you. Is that clear?”
Psycho slut twirls. Punishment funishment!
Is that the question? I almost say, but rationality prevails. “Yes, I understand.”
“That’s a good girl.”
He releases me, taking one step back, then another, and one more…as if testing me. I keep my hands against the wall behind me, fingers curved, ready to run whenever “ample time” comes.
He holds out his arms, exhibiting himself like Gerard fucking Butler in The Phantom of the Opera’s “Why So Silent” scene. “Tell me, for science purposes naturally, your first impressions.”
Oooh, can I say, can I say?
No.
Cherry pouts.
“Um…”
He drops his arms, and I can nearly feel his frustration needling my spine as he stabs a finger at me. “Um is not an appropriate response. I expect so much more from a historian, Little Quill. Do you know what separates the master villains from the villains?”
I heave a sigh, knowing this one. “Presentation.”
He’s grinning behind the mask, isn’t he?
“Clever girl.”
Oh, we totally have a praise kink!
“This is not simply for show, I assure you, Everleigh.” He sweeps his cape to the side and paces like a predator, keeping his side profile to me. “It is a part of my psyche just as your passion as a historian is for you. So, tell me, for the history books, your impressions.” He taps his chin. “Describe me as you would when recording in your pretty, leather logbook.”
I’m in love… Cherry melts.
I take a deep breath, ignoring her and forming words, picturing them like the letters I scrawl with my quill. “Well, for posterity’s sake, then,” I begin, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. “Your entrance is theatrical, perfectly executed with confidence and control. You command the room with an irresistible allure. Your presence is maniacal but purposeful like bloody ink on paper. It’s the kind of drama only the most unforgettable figures in history can pull off—imposing, charismatic, and…undeniably captivating.”
I don’t take my eyes off him. Damn that tilting head.
My words are firm, but inside, Cherry stirs, her little voice echoing, He’s everything you’ve dreamed of and more.
“Ahh, Little Quill,” he deepens his voice and closes the distance between us again, spinning my pulse. “You are perfect. I will immortalize you in my work, every flaw and perfection preserved. My deepest and darkest dream.” He traces the contours of my face.
Oh, honey, she’s the daydream. I’m the nightmare. Cherry blows a kiss.
“What now?” I whisper, meeting the scarlet-tipped darkness of his eyes.
“Now…” He urges my chin toward him, forcing my neck into an arch. “We play.”