Grace
My stomach is still upset from last night’s murder.
It was hard to fall asleep. I watched the darkness outside through the blinds for hours, listening to the noises in the room and outside.
Whenever trucks drove past, the bed shook.
One of them suddenly blared its horn in the night, scaring me—I almost hid under the blanket.
Dull lights were scattered everywhere outside.
I held my breath as I watched headlights come and go.
I was terrified. My heart raced as I breathed heavily, watching the door with tears in my eyes.
What if that lunatic finds us in the middle of the night?
We’re constantly on the road, but yesterday, in that bar, he still managed to get so close to us. I can’t wrap my head around how.
I’ve seen Lucas. I’ve seen the evil in his eyes, that arrogant smile. I’ve seen the kind of power he has—I’ve felt it on my skin. And he still can’t stop that guy? Who is he—and is he even more dangerous than Lucas?
My head started to hurt because whenever I closed my eyes—images haunted me, swarming my mind like flies over a carcass.
Every time I tried to think of something nice, something reassuring, the images turned into bloody scenes within seconds, as if someone were flipping channels on a TV.
I kept smashing buttons on the remote, but my mind kept snapping back to that toilet.
The sound of breaking bones echoed in my ears.
Still, something didn’t add up. The gifts could be connected to the videos on the dark web, sure.
The sick obsession of our pursuer isn’t unrealistic, either—there are people who are turned on by violence and fear.
But that piece of my past, that piece of my diary…
Why was that the part he took? What does any of this have to do with Billy Ray?
The only people who could’ve found that diary were those who may have gone into my room after I disappeared.
Nikky, Jamie, and Daisy.
As soon as I feel the weight on my waist and the hot breath at the nape of my neck, my throat tightens from the emotions crashing over me.
Chase’s strong, muscular arms are draped over my belly, his suntanned skin in stark contrast to my pale skin and white T-shirt.
It’s a good thing we don’t share the blanket.
Before I went to sleep, I scrubbed the blood and bits of brain off my light-colored jeans with soap and warm water.
I’m wearing white panties under the blanket.
The knot in my throat tightens, and hot, sticky desire coils low in my belly.
His hands slide under my T-shirt and trace small circles just below my navel.
My body tenses, the air catches in my lungs, and my heart starts to race.
Insane passion drives my reason away—desire has this power to override judgment.
My body is in control, not my mind—or my heart.
Sexual desire bubbles through my veins and, eventually, gathers in that one small spot.
“You’re hungry,” he says in a deep, groggy voice. He just woke up, too.
“I think it’s past noon,” I say, judging by the suffocating heat.
There isn’t even a ceiling fan to stir the stale air.
The fern in the corner—which should make the room feel more homey—is drooping.
It hasn’t been watered, and the thick layer of dust suggests the cleaning staff rarely comes in here.
“I’m hungry, too.”
I nod because I don’t know what to say. This whole thing is completely new.
Chase and I have only been together in that underground prison.
I never would’ve dreamed that… Okay, that’s not true.
I once daydreamed about what it would be like for the three of us—Chase, me, and Poppy—to be free.
If we weren’t trapped between those walls, or inside our own emotions.
But my imagination couldn’t match reality—this moment is a thousand times better because it’s real. I’m not daydreaming.
We’re here.
The two of us, free.
“And you know what I’m hungry for?”
I look down at his fingers stroking the edge of my lace panties.
My nipples tighten, go hard. My heart flutters like a trapped animal’s.
But I’m not trapped. I’m not a prisoner.
I do have a choice. I can reject him, I can push him away—I can even slap him if I want to.
I’ve already hit him twice without any kind of punishment.
So, I could do it again. The only question is whether I want to.
Or do I just want him to keep going? Do I want his fingers to slide under my panties, and…
Chase kneels beside me and flips me onto my back, yanks the blanket off, and rakes his gaze—dark with desire—over my body.
The outline of my hard nipples and the dark circles around them shows through my T-shirt.
I blush with shame as heat climbs my neck, and my chest tightens, because it’s not just my nipples giving me away—there’s a wet spot on my panties, too.
He spreads my legs and sinks between my thighs.
I should stop him, but he says one word…
“Honey.”
I shatter into pieces. That one word is like magic—it hypnotizes me.
I close my eyes, the shame gone. Yesterday, I stepped into this chasm by choice.
My back arches with pleasure as Chase’s tongue parts my labia, then finds my most sensitive spot.
I bury my fingers in his dark hair and lift my hips.
He devours me—sucking, biting. The air between us grows thicker, hotter.
His tongue draws long, hungry circles around my sweet, hot, aching clitoris.
A sudden, delicious wave of orgasm shudders through my body.
His lips, glistening with sin and seduction, and his smug, lopsided smile tell me he likes his breakfast.