Chapter Two
B ack at home, I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing through the too-quiet space. My mind was in turmoil. If I didn’t show up, would he really come looking for me?
How does he know where I live? The few people I’d stayed in touch with from high school would never give me away, and I wasn’t on social media.
But he’d tracked me down before.
The letters had followed me to college, showing up in my dorm mailbox, haunting me like a shadow I couldn’t escape. Adrian’s tone had grown sharper with every passing year—more dangerous threats, darker promises.
But then, one day, they stopped. Like sunlight breaking through a storm.
I’d always linked the letters’ sudden end to when he went to jail. But it struck me as strange. Weren’t prisoners allowed to send mail? Had something–or someone–stopped him?
Maybe he’d outgrown his fantasy. Maybe he’d been ashamed, weighed down by his incarceration, the loss of control. I didn’t know, and at the time, I told myself I didn’t care enough to dwell on it.
The relief I’d felt when the letters stopped was overwhelming. But… a small, insistent ache lingered. The attention, the thrill of opening a new letter, not knowing what he’d say this time. That was gone.
Still, not having those letters haunt my every move had given me something I hadn’t realized I needed. Space to breathe.
For the first time, I started to feel normal—or at least what I imagined normal might be. I threw myself into college, painting and studying late into the night. I came out of my shell, went to parties, and even dated.
After graduation, I moved back to my hometown, into my gran’s old house, and got a job at a small gallery downtown. For the first time, everything seemed to be falling into place.
And yet, sometimes, when things were quiet, I’d catch myself glancing at the mailbox or flinching at the sight of a folded note. But eventually, those habits faded, too. Adrian became a memory, a story I could almost convince myself had happened to someone else.
But today—I knew. He wasn’t a ghost. He was never really gone. He was as real as the places in my life—the gym, the streets I walked on. As solid as the punching bag he’d pounded into over and over again, each strike a reminder of his relentless presence.
Standing before him, feeling the heat in his gaze, the unmistakable electricity between us—I knew the truth.
He hadn’t gotten over me. Even if life had pulled him away, even if prison had forced him to stop… I’d never left his mind.
A darker thought came to me. Was it even a coincidence, running into him today?
I told myself it had to be. And there was no way he knew where I lived now—he had to be bluffing.
But… did I want to risk it?
The idea of making him angry sent a ripple of unease through me.
It’s just a workout, I told myself. One time.
As disturbing as his letters had been, he’d never actually laid a hand on me—not even that time we were alone together.
My breath quickened as the memory surfaced. The fluorescent lights had flickered slightly overhead, their hum a faint buzz in the otherwise silent studio. My hands moved instinctively, molding and manipulating the cool clay under my fingers. I’d been so lost in the rhythm of creation, so absorbed in my craft, that his voice sliced through the quiet like my own scalpel.
“Amazing.”
I’d jumped, spinning to find him leaning against the doorframe, his steely blue eyes fixed on me. Watching my hands as they worked the clay. His gaze traced their movement, lingering on the curves of my fingers.
Heat surged in my chest, anger pricking my skin like needles. Of course, he wasn’t complimenting my art. He was talking about me.
I didn’t say a word, but my glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
He smirked, pushing off the doorframe and closing the distance between us. “You should say thank you when someone gives you a compliment.”
“Thank you,” I spat, the words dripping with venom.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped closer, the heat radiating from his body, making me weak even as my veins pulsed with fury.
“You act like you hate me,” he teased, circling, his eyes roaming over my body like I was on display. “But I know you fantasize about me. I bet you touch yourself when you read those letters.”
I froze, my hands halting mid-sculpt. My breath quickened, but I forced myself to stay composed.
How could he possibly know that?
I willed my expression to remain neutral, ignoring the furious thrum of my heartbeat. My lips parted as if to respond, but no words came.
I ignored him, letting my irritation bleed into every movement as I resumed working the clay despite his prying eyes. If he’d noticed the hesitation, he didn’t let on. Instead, he only tsked, shaking his head like I was the one who was out of line.
“One day, Scarlett,” he murmured, his voice lowering as he leaned in close. “One day, you’ll be mine. And when that day comes, you’ll be begging me…”
Even now, the memory left a bitter taste in my mouth.
What a creep.
I couldn’t believe that he’d touched me today—brushed his fingers along my collarbone, lower even, grazing the swell of my breasts like it was nothing. Like he owned me.
My cheeks flushed at the thought. But he wouldn’t try anything more. He knew how I felt about him—how much I despised him. He wouldn’t push me.
Right?
I glanced at the clock, torn. It was getting close. I thought about calling my best friend, Emma. She knew all about Adrian. We went way back, long before high school. She’d been there through it all—the letters, how I’d memorized his schedule just to avoid running into him.
But she didn’t know my secret. That I’d kept every single letter.
Only one person knew that.
My gran.
I smiled as I glanced at the large framed poster hanging on my bedroom wall. In her glory days, Ginger had been a pin-up girl, her image plastered on billboards, welcoming soldiers home from the war. Wild, unhinged, and unapologetically herself. Gran was a woman who said whatever came to mind without a second thought.
In the poster, she was breathtaking. Her hourglass figure, the deep V of her cleavage. Dark red hair styled into perfect victory curls.
I caught my reflection in the mirror as I sat at my dressing table. I was lucky to have inherited her looks, though in a different color palette. My hair was a softer, light coppery auburn, and where she had warm brown doe eyes, mine were a piercing Caribbean blue—bright and striking, framed by dark lashes and strong eyebrows.
Her eyes, though. Those wide, sweet eyes, feigning innocence with every coy flutter of her lashes. It always made me laugh. It was an act she perfected when it suited her.
Gran had been my confidant, the only adult I trusted with anything, even the darker parts of my life—like Adrian’s letters.
I’d shown her one once, nervous and unsure of what she’d think. Her eyes widened as she read, but the smirk on her lips told me everything. She wasn’t disgusted. If anything, she looked… impressed.
“This kid’s in high school?” She asked, her tone laced with humor. “What a wonderful imagination he has.”
I’d laughed coldly. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“The important thing is… what does he look like?”
I shook my head, but a reluctant smile tugged at my lips.
“He’s kinda…well, he’s smoking hot, okay?”
“So what’s the problem then?!” she hollered, lounging in her floral armchair, a martini in hand. “Don’t be such a prude. It sounds like he’d give you a wild ride.”
“Gran!” I’d sputtered. “He’s saying he wants to use my body! How is that romantic?”
Ginger waved me off with a laugh.
“Oh, honey, it’s more than that. This one’s obsessed with you. He’s not some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type who rolls over and says, ‘There’s the door; let yourself out.’ He’d do anything for you.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
“You should be having experiences while you’re young!” she went on, undeterred. “Save up some memories for your wank bank when you’re old and gray.”
“Gran!”
I buried my face in my hands, mortified.
But she only cackled.
“Don’t pretend I’m wrong, sweetheart. Life’s too short not to take chances. You kept those letters for a reason, didn’t you?”
She winked at me like she’d cracked some unspoken truth.
I laughed softly at her memory. But she didn’t understand how his words made me feel. How his very presence unnerved me. That my heart pounded in my ribs whenever I thought about him, while a cold, paralyzing fear coiled around me like a chain.
Still, I reached for the box despite myself. His handwritten notes waited for me inside, each one folded with care. I pulled one out randomly, the ruled paper rough beneath my fingertips, dragging me back to high school.
It was a later one, sent after he’d gone to college.
Scarlett,
You’re 18 now. Happy birthday. Do you know what this means? There’s nothing holding me back. You’re mine, and I’ll be claiming you soon.
I’ve been keeping tabs on you. No boy has touched you yet, have they? I knew you wouldn’t let anyone else have what belongs to me. You’re such a good girl.
I can’t stop thinking about you. About your body. How soft your skin will feel under my hands. Your tits. That perfect ass. You’ll look so fucking beautiful spread out for me, trembling while you wait for what’s coming.
You’ll gasp when you see it. My cock. It’s big, Scarlett. But I already know you’ll take it for me. You want to, even if you won’t admit it yet.
At first, it’s going to hurt, and I can’t promise I’ll go easy. You’ll scream. You won’t know whether it’s from pain or pleasure. Don’t bother fighting it. You’ve always known I’d come for you. You’ve always known you’re mine.
Happy birthday, princess.
I’ll see you soon.
—Adrian
I shuddered, folding the letter and slipping it back into the box. That same storm churned inside me—the one that always did when I thought of him. Terror, icy and paralyzing, gripped me like a hand at my throat, tightening, threatening to steal the air from my lungs. But beneath it lurked something far more treacherous.
Desire. A dark, unrelenting heat that coursed through me, leaving me breathless and burning. My body betrayed me, as it always did. I was absolutely throbbing with need.
I sighed, resigning myself.
Fine, I’ll go to his place.
This time, I’d be brave. I’d show him he didn’t have the same effect on me anymore.
With that thought, I headed to the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away my nerves. When I stepped out, I added a hint of makeup and slipped into my sexiest workout gear—leggings that highlighted every curve and a cropped tank top that left just enough to the imagination.
If he wants to see me, fine. Let him look. Let him want.
And when— if —he made his move, I’d make sure it hurt when I turned him down.
I dried my hair, the image of his face flickering in my mind as I laced up my sneakers. This time, I’d be in control. I’d tease him, leave him with a raging hard-on, and walk away without looking back.
I shot a quick text to Emma, letting her know where I’d be, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed.
“If I don’t check in with you later tonight, call the police!” I half-joked.
Her reply came instantly.
“Be careful! He’s bad news, and you know it.”
I brushed off her warning, my resolve hardening.
I knew what I was doing.
At least, I hoped I did.