Chapter 12
Scarletta
He just told me he kills people.
Not hypothetically. Not metaphorically. He runs an organization called The Scales that hunts down wealthy predators who escape justice and makes them suffer.
I should be horrified.
I should be calculating the distance to the nearest exit, mapping escape routes in my head, wondering if I can outrun him through the jungle and signal for help.
That's what a normal person would do.
That's what the protagonist in any rational thriller would be doing right now—cataloging weapons, assessing threats, preparing to fight for her survival.
But I'm not thinking about any of that.
I'm thinking about how… I've never had a Valentine's Day date.
The absurdity of this hits me like a slap, and I almost laugh out loud at myself.
Here I am, sitting in the lap of a confessed professional killer, naked, and exhausted, and still slightly trembling from the aftershocks of multiple forced orgasms, and my brain has decided to fixate on the romantic implications of his invitation.
Eight more stations. A jungle maze. Seafood lunch and a massage. Ocean-view dinner. Sleeping in his room—not for sex, he said. For companionship.
This is, objectively, the most elaborate Valentine's Day date anyone has ever planned for me.
This is the only Valentine's Day date anyone has ever planned for me.
I think about what this would look like on social media.
The aesthetic perfection of it all—the tropical island, the candlelit aftercare room, the handsome man with his careful touches and his knowledge of exactly what I need.
I could film reels that would make women around the world spiral with jealousy.
Look at my Valentine's Day date! He built an entire scavenger hunt just for me!
He knows all my fantasies and makes them come true!
The torture confession.
The corporate-funded executions.
The methodical way he explained Derek's death like discussing dinner plans.
All minor details.
I almost do laugh then, a small sound that escapes before I can stop it. The unmasked man looks at me with concern, probably wondering if I'm having some kind of psychological break.
Maybe I am.
Or maybe I'm just finally accepting that nothing is what it seems. That the most romantic gesture anyone has ever made for me comes wrapped in darkness, and blood, and the kind of moral complexity that would give philosophers nightmares.
That the person who sees me most clearly, who understands my writing, and my shame, and my desperate need to be known, is someone the world would call a monster.
I wonder if that makes me insane too.
I picture what tonight would look like. This tall, handsome, muscular, competent man—and he is all of those things, objectively beautiful in ways I still haven't fully processed—sitting beside me on a couch.
We might watch movies. Something mindless and easy, the kind of film I've seen a hundred times because I needed the comfort of knowing how it ends.
Or we might play board games. Yahtzee or Scrabble or something ridiculous that would make me laugh.
We might take a walk on the beach in the moonlight, and he might point out constellations, and I might pretend I know anything about astronomy beyond what I've researched for stories.
And then, once the evening was over, I'd be in his bed.
Not for sex. He was clear about that.
For companionship.
He might hold me.
The thought sends something through my chest that I don't have a name for. Something that aches in the best possible way, sharp and sweet and terrifying all at once.
When was the last time someone held me?
Not touched me, not fucked me, not used my body for their pleasure—but actually held me?
Just the simple act of arms around me, warmth against my back, another heartbeat close enough to feel?
I can't remember.
I look up at him, at the face I'm still not used to seeing without the mask. The strong jaw and the careful eyes and the way he watches me like I'm the most important thing in his universe.
"Tell me about Station Three," I say.
Something shifts in his expression. Interest, maybe. Enthusiasm. He straightens slightly, and I recognize the posture of someone who's about to sell me on something they believe in.
"It's a maze," he says. "In the jungle. Your attendants will be inside—the same men from the bathing station, though you won't recognize them with their masks. You'll have to navigate through, and they'll be hunting you. If they get you, Scarletta, they'll make you come. Then…"
I laugh a little. "Then you'll have to punish me."
"I'll have to punish you, my dirty little slut. And it will be a punishment you'll recognize." He actually waggles his eyebrows at me.
I nearly come undone with laughter. But the promise he just made—a punishment I will recognize—means it's something I've written.
The idea is both delicious and terrifying. Because I've come up with some pretty challenging punishments for my leading ladies.
Punishments that sound erotic on the page—but in real life would be… intense.
I should be alarmed by this. The idea of being chased through a jungle maze by masked men should trigger every survival instinct I possess.
Instead, my pulse picks up in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"You like mazes," he continues, and there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I've read your stories. The chase scenes are always the most vivid, the most detailed. You write them with a kind of joy that's different from your other work."
He's right. I do like mazes. I've always liked them—the puzzle of them, the way they require you to think and adapt and find your way through.
And the chase scenes in my stories have always been my favorites to write.
The fear, and the adrenaline, and the desperate hope of escape or capture, depending on what the protagonist wants.
"It's the most demanding of the stations," he says. "Four and five are more straightforward after that. More purely kinky, less psychologically complex. But Station Three is meant to be a trust-builder."
He pauses, and his eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"You'll emerge feeling exhilarated," he says. "Proud of yourself. You'll know that you can face something that scares you and come out the other side stronger for it."
I think about all the times I've written heroines who faced impossible challenges and discovered reserves of courage they didn't know they possessed.
I think about how I've always admired them from a distance, wishing I could be that brave, that resilient, that capable of rising to meet whatever the world threw at them.
Maybe this is my chance to find out if I can.
"OK," I say. "I'll finish the day."
The relief that flickers across his face is subtle, but I catch it. He wanted me to stay. The realization warms something inside me that I didn't know was cold.
"I'm really hungry," I admit, because now that the decision is made, my body is reminding me of all its other needs. "And I need to pee. Badly."
The shift in his demeanor is almost comical. He goes from intense and earnest to practical and accommodating in the space of a heartbeat, standing up with me in his arms, then setting me down carefully. Like I'm something precious that might break.
Ironic for a man who whipped me with a cane thirty minutes ago. The evidence of which is still burned across the front of my thighs in bright red welts.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, directing me toward a door on the far side of the room. "Take all the time you need. There's water in the fridge, and I left food for you—cheese, fruit, some other things. Eat as much as you want. Station Three will wait."
I nod and take a step, my legs still slightly unsteady as I cross the room. The bathroom is as carefully designed as everything else on this island—clean lines, soft lighting, expensive fixtures. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, just breathing.
I'm going to finish the day.
I'm going to navigate a jungle maze while masked men hunt me. As they try to make me come while I try and resist.
I'm going to sleep in his bed tonight, and he might hold me.
I'm spending Valentine's Day with a serial killer who knows my darkest secrets and thinks I'm exceptional.
I start laughing. Quietly at first, then harder, until tears are streaming down my face and I'm not sure if I'm laughing or crying or both. The sound echoes off the tile walls, and I let it happen, let the hysteria work its way through my system until I'm empty and calm again.
Then I pee, wash my hands, splash water on my face, and look at myself in the mirror.
I look different. Something in my eyes has changed. I look like someone who's been through something and survived it. I look like someone who might actually be brave.
I look like one of my heroines.
When I emerge from the bathroom, he's gone.
The aftercare room is empty except for the lingering warmth of his presence and the quiet hum of the climate control system. I stand there for a moment, absorbing the silence, then make my way to the refrigerator he mentioned.
Inside, I find water bottles, a selection of cheeses arranged on a wooden board, fresh fruit cut into bite-sized pieces, crackers, and some kind of cured meat.
It's the kind of thoughtful, curated spread that someone puts together when they want to make sure you have options without overwhelming you with choices.
He thought about this. About what I might need in the middle of the experience.
This isn't a lunch or a dinner, but a break.
He planned for my break. For my safe word.
I don't even know how to process this so… I just eat slowly, savoring each bite. The cheese is sharp and creamy, the fruit perfectly ripe, the water cold and clean. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I started eating, and now my body demands more with an urgency that surprises me.