Chapter 6
Scarletta
Ican't stop replaying it.
The masked man's mouth on mine. The way he kissed me between steps while I was terrified of falling. The way his hands felt on my waist, steadying me.
You're exceptional.
No one's ever said that to me. Not in person. Not looking at my face while they said it.
Online, sure. Anonymous praise from faceless usernames. But that's different. That's not real. That's people reacting to words on a screen, not to me.
He called my writing brilliant. Said I could do literary fiction. Dark literary fiction that would make critics uncomfortable.
I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
And his face. Jesus Christ, his face.
I wasn't expecting that either. I thought the mask was hiding something. Scars maybe. Or average features. Something that would make the mystery make sense.
But he's just... handsome. Actually handsome. Sharp jawline, intense eyes, the kind of bone structure that makes you want to keep looking.
It makes me want to please him more. Makes me want to earn his approval. Makes the ache between my thighs even worse because now I can picture his face while I imagine all the things he might do to me.
Pathetic. I'm so fucking pathetic.
But I don't care.
I step fully onto the platform and realize how narrow it is. Just a ring of wood surrounding the massive tree trunk. Barely wide enough for one person to stand on, definitely not wide enough for two.
I turn around to ask him what I'm supposed to do now… and find him walking back across the plank. Away from me. Heading toward the opposite tree where the rope ladder waits.
"Wait—where are you going?"
He glances back over his shoulder with this devastating smile. The kind that promises trouble. "This isn't a pre-school, my good little slut. It's a master class. You don't get your hand held twice. You want my cock, little whore? You gotta earn it."
His words land like a slap.
"You've already taken more from me than you've earned.
You're in debt, my horny little trollop.
So my last bit of advice to you—" He reaches down between his legs and grabs himself.
"—if you want this big, hard cock inside your dripping wet pussy—is to exceed my expectations.
Otherwise…" he shrugs. "I'll edge you forever.
Deny you forever. Leave you alone… forever. "
Before I can pick my fucking jaw back up off the ground, he reaches up into the canopy and pulls something. A handle. Hidden in the leaves.
Then he jumps.
"What the—"
He disappears on a zip line that materializes from nowhere, his body swinging down through the trees with perfect control.
Gone.
Just... gone.
I stare at the empty space where he was standing three seconds ago.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I yell into the jungle.
No answer.
Of course no answer.
And that threat? What the fuck? Did we not just have a moment? Because to me, it felt like a moment. He kissed me, talked sweet to me, helped me.
And he abandoned you, Scarletta. Just like all the rest.
I press my back against the tree trunk and try to breathe. What is happening.
It's a challenge, obviously. I didn't fail the first one, the punishment—which was good, and hard, and still stings but in the most delicious way—was a set up from the preparation room.
I was meant to fail.
But this is different.
He doesn't want me to fail this challenge because if he did, he would've left me up here before walking the plank, not after helping me across.
Which means…
Still pressing my back against the tree, I lean over a little, trying to see the other side of the tree.
Sure enough, there's a platform. And nailed to the platform is an envelope.
Challenge two.
I need to move. It's literally like eighteen inches to the other side of the tree, but it's a really long way down.
I look. I can't help it. I think I see a net.
In fact, I'm pretty sure I do see a net, which makes sense because this place seems to be set up like a corporate retreat challenge exercise.
If those came with naked women and gyno-tubs.
This is a professional set up. A real place that does business. Probably not corporate team-building, but something for billionaires. Like the auction.
Fake enough to keep you from dying, real enough to scare the fuck out of you.
The point of the hunt—which doesn't quite fit so far.
He's not hunting me, so I don't get it. But anyway, the point of this is to trust him.
He made that perfectly clear. He got me across the plank.
Now I need to step up and show him that I do trust him.
That every single thing he asks me to do here is safe.
Because he set it up, because he's watching.
It's a good story. Slightly twisted. Maybe too twisted for my readers. They like a good subplot, but only if it's attached to spice.
And this subplot certainly is.
God, the way he licked me.
Last time I missed most of that. I get that it happened—intellectually, I know his mouth was on me, his tongue working me over—but I don't remember feeling it. Not really. The whole experience exists in fragments, disjointed snapshots that don't quite connect into a coherent memory.
This time, though… this time I definitely felt it. Every single second of it.
I bet he puts his whole mouth across my pussy. Not just his tongue—his entire mouth. Seals it over me and sucks, pulling at my clit while his tongue flicks and presses and explores.
And that beard stubble of his… holy shit. I can still feel the ghost of it scratching the inside of my thighs, rubbing them raw in the best possible way. The slight burn mixing with the wet heat of his mouth, the contrast making everything sharper, more intense.
I let out a long, shaky breath, my pussy throbbing hard just picturing his mouth between my legs again. His grey eyes looking up at me while he devours me, watching my face while he tears me apart with that skilled, relentless tongue.
"All right, Scarletta," I mutter to myself, trying to shake off the heat building between my legs. "If you want his big, hard cock in your sopping wet pussy again—exceed his expectations."
I snicker at my own ridiculous internal pep talk.
But yeah. I'll do it.
Whatever it takes.
I inch my way around the tree trunk, keeping my back pressed against the rough bark. The platform is exactly what I thought it would be—a small wooden ledge that feels stable enough under my bare feet.
I exhale hard, my heart still racing, but slowing down now that I'm not actively terrified of plummeting to my death.
"See? You did it," I whisper to myself.
And I actually did. Without him holding my hand this time. Without his mouth distracting me or his voice guiding me.
I kind of want him to acknowledge that. To tell me I did good.
But he's not here, so I bend down and pick up the envelope that's nailed to the platform.
The paper feels expensive between my fingers. Heavy card stock, the kind you'd use for wedding invitations. I break the wax seal—because of course there's a wax seal—and pull out the card.
My filthy little Valentine wants to earn my cock,
Square your shoulders, set your jaw, and prepare yourself for shock.
Zip down the line to station 2, trust gravity and steel—
At the end you'll get your chance to be fucked with something real.
Spread wide upon the cross you'll wait, exposed for all to see,
Then maybe if you're very good, I'll let you come for me.
I read it twice.
Then a third time because my brain is struggling to process the words "exposed for all to see."
Who's all? Who the fuck is watching this besides him?
I glance up at the harness suspended from the zip line. It's professional grade—thick nylon straps, metal carabiners, the kind of equipment rock climbers use. Not some sketchy DIY project that's going to snap halfway through.
He wouldn't let me fall. I know that now.
The plank proved it. He walked me across. Kissed me between steps. Made it feel like the most natural thing in the world to trust him sixty feet in the air.
And the way he touched my face after. Gentle. Almost reverent.
That wasn't part of the plan. I don't think it was, anyway. The kiss felt spontaneous. Like he wanted to do it and just… did.
Like maybe he actually likes me.
Not just my body, or my stories, or the way I submit to him. But me.
Which is insane. I know it's insane. He's a literal murderer who's been stalking me for six months and orchestrated an entire fake auction just to own me.
But he also killed Derek. For me. Because Derek hurt me.
And he memorized my stories. Not just read them—memorized them. Quoted them back to me word for word.
He thinks I'm exceptional.
I look at the harness again, studying how it's designed. Two leg loops, a waist belt, and a chest strap. The attachment point connects to a pulley system on the zip line cable.
This is just like the corporate team-building courses I've seen in movies. Except those people wear clothes and don't have "spread wide upon the cross" waiting for them at the end.
My pussy clenches at the thought.
A cross. He's going to strap me to a cross and fuck me.
And people will see.
The cameras. Of course there are cameras. There were cameras at the auction, cameras in my apartment, cameras everywhere he wants them.
He gets off on watching me. On knowing other people are watching me too.
I should be horrified.
Instead, I'm so wet I can feel it on my inner thighs.
"This is fucked up, Scarletta," I mutter, but my hands are already reaching for the harness.
I step into the leg loops first, pulling them up around my thighs. The nylon feels secure against my bare skin. I fasten the waist belt, checking that it's snug but not cutting off circulation. Then I clip the chest strap and double-check every connection point.
My fingers are shaking but not from fear this time.
From anticipation.