Chapter 5, Mira
I return home, barely conscious of my surroundings as I make my way to bed. I am not really sure how I got here, but I am so thankful Zoey was with me. Without bothering to change, I collapse into the sheets, exhaustion taking over, and I fall into a deep sleep almost instantly.
I wake up with the heavy feeling of a hangover, even though I did not drink a single drop last night. My head is pounding, my limbs weighty. As far as I know, I wasn’t the one throwing down like some shirtless wrestling deity yesterday.
The atmosphere in my room is invading and stifling, as if time itself hesitates to intrude. For a moment, I stay still, staring at the ceiling, my mind tangled in the haze of sleep. But then—flashes.
The club. The fight. The stranger.
My pulse rises and I feel the panic attack taking control of my body once again. I can still sense the ghost of hands touching my arms, the press of unfamiliar bodies, flesh meeting flesh—the sound of his knuckles colliding with that guy’s jaw.
It was not just a dream; it was a horrifying nightmare.
I really need to get out, to focus my mind on something else.
Julian is away again on another business trip, as usual. The idea of heading to the library to sketch crosses my mind, a way to escape solitude and bad thoughts. I do not let myself think this through while I jump out of bed to get dressed, grab a chocolate chip cookie, and head straight outside.
The bustle of the city fades behind me as I walk, the pressure of the world easing slightly, replaced by the calm that awaits in the quiet of the library.
When I finally arrive, I take a second to soak in the silence that surrounds me. It feels cooler inside, and the soft light filters through the rows. There is a particular scent in the air—dusty pages, the presence of pure knowledge.
I wander further into the aisles, letting my fingers brush the spines of the books, seeking the peace my head so desperately craves.
As I slip deeper into the labyrinth of bookshelves, my phone buzzes in my pocket, the sudden sound fulling a direct jolt to my system. I pull it out, relaxing as I know it is Zoey asking about last night.
My eyes widen, going as round as marbles. I freeze. My heart stutters. There is no mistaking that message this time.
Last night? How the hell could that person possibly know that? Unless…
A loud bang sounds in the distance, too close for comfort. I press my hands to my mouth to stifle the startled gasp that slips out, its echo fading in time with the reverberations of the earlier noise.
I quickly shove my phone back into my pocket, my legs moving of their own accord, urging me to get lost. I don’t know why I’m running—I am not even sure what I’m escaping. I slide between the shelves, keeping it to the shadows, my breath shallow as I press my back against the cool books and sit down to hide.
Every small sound around me feels amplified, my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears. I try to keep quiet, but a voice in my head tells me it is futile.
He is coming.
Another buzz.
That’s when I hear it—the unmistakable footsteps resonating through the aisles. Slow. Methodical. I can feel him drawing closer like the predator he is. I get up hurriedly and round a corner, and all of a sudden, I am not alone anymore.
He’s there.
Standing in the narrow passage between the shelves, his presence overwhelming. He doesn’t say a word, just steps forward, and before I can react, his hand closes around my wrist, yanking me toward him.
“You thought you could run,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. His hold intensifies, and I feel the heat of his body against mine.
My heart skips a beat. Fear, excitement, and something darker swirl inside as I try to understand what is going on.
I attempt to pull away, but he does not let go. His other hand presses hard against my neck, just enough to make me gasp for air, still not enough to choke me. The adrenaline has my blood pumping faster, every nerve in my body is on high alert.
“Do not think you can ever escape me, little fox. Because I will always hunt you.”
My chest heaves loudly beneath the weight of his touch. I lift my head abruptly, our stares lock in a silent battle. Mine shimmer with unshed tears, while his, behind his mask—hazel, pale, and eerily piercing—keep me captive. So light, yet impossibly dark—the perfect contradiction.
He yanks my wrist toward him, the bruising pressure of his fingers still burning against my skin. He pulls up just a bit his mask, his lips parting slowly, filled with both hunger and intent, before his tongue meets my flesh.
Heat and moisture trail up my arm as he licks, his mouth closing around my fingers. Just as abruptly, he lets go—a faint pop echoing as my hand slips free from his grasp.
“Looks like only one of your hands had the privilege of being properly marked by that box the other day. How about we fix that, hmm?”
Terror floods my body and seizes my heart. I steal a quick look at my other hand, still wrapped in the bandage Zoey had carefully applied the other day. It had taken all my effort to convince her I had simply cut myself while chopping carrots. What lie would I have to come up with this time? That I had been practicing for a Five Finger Fillet tournament? Because nothing says "well-adjusted adult" like willingly stabbing the table between your fingers for fun…
“Don’t you dare…”
My sentence is abruptly cut short as my breath is stolen from me.
“Tut tut, silence my sweet little foxling or I will fucking break your pretty neck.” He stops and pulls closer. “Not only will you lose your ability to breathe, but you won’t be able to live at all.”
I bite back the rest of my words, wisely choosing not to finish my sentence. My legs tremble as the color drains from my face, leaving it a deep shade of purple. My vision blurs as I can feel myself slipping away. He loosens his grip for just a split second before I lose consciousness, letting out a small, malevolent smirk.
“I want you wide awake as I bestow upon you the gift of being branded.”
The words hit me like a slap.
‘The gift of being branded’, like I was some damn livestock.
“You belong to me now, and we need to make sure everyone knows it.”
What the fuck that freak is talking about?
He lets go of my neck and pulls out a lighter, along with another small object from his pocket, one that I cannot quite make out.
“You know, when a farmer receives a new shipment of cattle, he marks them to identify his belongings properly.” I hear the lighter clicking. “Personally, I think it is more about claiming his territory, ensuring no one ever steals what is in his possession.” He sighs in satisfaction. “And that’s exactly what I intend to do with you.”
The pain is instant and searing as he burns a clean ‘X’ across my forearm with some kind of seal. I gasp, the sting making my whole body tense, yet sending an unexplained exciting shiver through me all at once.
“Can you feel it, Mira? Do you feel the shockwave of pain coursing from your arm to your pussy?” His hand delicately caresses my shoulder. “The pure agony that consumes you like nothing has ever shaken you before,” his fingers sliding on my breast and falling to my waist, right through my pants.
“You are completely deranged,” I breathe, trembling from head to toe.
He pulls his face closer, eyes burning beneath the mask. “Then tell me to stop.”
It’s not a request. It’s a dare.
I swallow hard. “You wouldn’t listen anyway.”
His laugh is low, dangerous. “Exactly.”
“That’s fucking insane,” I snap, trying to stay steady.
He tilts his head, voice dark with heat.
“And yet, you are soaking through those panties.”
Suddenly, it hits me—that scent. I could recognize it among a thousand. It had wrapped around me like a whisper just days ago, embedding itself deep in my memory. A blend of warm spices and whiskey, laced with the faintest trace of smoke.
Oh my God…
It is him, it has been him from the beginning.
His hand hovers over the glistening slitted junction between my thighs and I can tell by the look in his eyes through the leather mask that he’s smiling right now—proud and satisfied.
“Do you realize how fucking wet you are, Mira?”, he says with his deep and hushed voice. “Even more than when you fucked yourself with the blood I provided for you, just like the perfect deviated girl you are.”
I cannot deny it. I honestly had never been this turned on in months and I cannot figure out how or why.
“Please stop,” I plead. “I have someone in my life, as you clearly know by now…”
He glares at me, his anger palpable.
“I am scorching your arm as if you were some kind of lowlife slave, and the thing you really fear is that boyfriend of yours?”
Without thinking, I retort.
“It is not fear, it is call love. Something I’m guessing your mother never bothered to teach you!”
I instantly regret my answer as I feel a biting, swift slap across my face, so sudden that it leaves me momentarily dazed. The searing pain electrifies my skin, nearly knocking me off balance. I grit my teeth, my eyes squeezing shut feeling the tears well up, threatening to spill over.
His fingers close around my jaw, forcing my head back with a hand that feels like steel. The strain of his arm is suffocating, and I can’t move, can’t escape. A wave of helplessness washes over me as I am trapped under his unyielding brutality.
“Let me teach you real love then.”
He swiftly snatches a magazine from the table beside me and rolls it up tightly. I am choking in an ocean of terror, trying to figure out a way to get out of here and realizing there is no possibility of evading whatsoever.
In a fury, he tugs my pants down, stripping me away with a single, ruthless pull. The masked man throws me one last feral look before thrusting, without any warning, the rolled-up magazine sharply into my pussy, the impactful force causing it to split open with an excruciating suffering. The tears I had fought so hard to restrain begin to spill down my flushed cheeks.
I cry silently, too stunned by the situation to make a sound. I can feel the firm pressure of his cock against my belly.
He pulls my legs up, positioning them on each side of his waist. My back slams against the wall with such power that the shelves shudder and books crash to the floor in a chaotic clatter. The pages crumble, tearing lightly into my flesh, leaving behind a trail of severe pain.
Simultaneously, the tip drives farther, pushing me to the edge of the unbearable, fueling a surge of wild euphoria. A war rages within me. Every rational part of my mind screams that this is wrong, that I should be disgusted, terrified—anything but this. And yet, my body betrays me for a darkness temptation.
I want to blame him. I want to convince myself that this is manipulation, that he has twisted my desires into something I would have never wanted on my own.
But the truth is far worse.
Because I do want this. Not just the act itself, but the way it makes me feel—powerless, yet exhilarated, humiliated, yet seen. There is something intoxicating about the way he controls me, the way he strips away my walls without permission.
Am I sick? Broken? Or is this just a part of me I have refused to acknowledge until now? The thought should repulse me, but it only ignites the fire he has already set within me.
With a sharp tug, he grabs my ponytail, yanking my head back. His hot breath grazes my face as he leans in, his lips dangerously close to my ear.
“Tell me, little fox, that you are not feeling loved right this second, and I will call you the worst fucking liar to have ever existed.”, he murmurs, his low, haunting voice slipping under my skin like an uncontrollable shiver.
“How… How can you even talk about love?”, I shoot at him crying uncontrollably. “You act like a total savage and yet, you dare talk about love?”
He lets out a small sarcastic laugh.
“If I were not a gentleman and actually a savage like you say, you would have screamed so violently that the very walls of the library would have shaken, resonating your complete agony. Your mind would have fled, and you would have cried out to God, pleading with every fucking ounce of your being for Him to end this insufferable torment until the moment I would have shut you up forever myself.”
I laugh hysterically. “You REALLY think you’re a gentleman? How can you be so delusional?”
I sense his hand sliding out the magazine cautiously and press it against my chest.
“If I can make you drench a newsmag in so much cum, I allow myself, without shame, to take the title of gentleman.”
He lets the wet object drop, its soft, damp thud against the cold black-and-white floor sounding louder than it should. He walks away, but after a few steps, he stops, glancing back with a vicious smile.
“And that,” he says with mockery, “would make you the brat, little fox.”