Chapter 5
five
. . .
Beck
Gray's in the shower. I hear the water running, giving me maybe ten minutes to explore the parts of the cabin he's kept off-limits.
Three days I've been here, three days of being claimed in every room except the one with the heavy padlock.
His office, he says. Private, he says. But I need answers more than I need to respect his privacy.
After what he did to me on the mountain trail yesterday—bent me over a boulder in broad daylight and fucked me until I screamed—I deserve to know exactly who I'm spreading my legs for.
The locked door stands at the end of the short hallway. Heavy wood, serious padlock. Not the kind of security you need unless you're hiding something important.
Or dangerous.
My heart pounds as I pull a bobby pin from my hair.
Years of locking myself out of cheap apartments taught me this particular skill.
I bend the pin, insert it into the lock, and start feeling for the pins.
Gray's shower still runs in the background, the rush of water covering the soft clicks as I work.
One pin. Two. Three.
The padlock springs open.
I glance over my shoulder—still clear—and slip inside, easing the door closed behind me.
The office is sparse and military-neat. A desk with a closed laptop. File cabinets along one wall. A corkboard covered with papers. A gun safe in the corner that makes my stomach clench.
I move to the desk first, trying drawers. Locked. Of course.
The corkboard draws my attention next, and what I see there freezes the blood in my veins.
Photos. Dozens of them. All of me.
Me leaving the diner, exhaustion written in the slump of my shoulders. Me unlocking my cabin door, keys clutched between my fingers like a weapon. Me reading on my tiny porch. Me through my bedroom window, changing shirts, my back to the camera but clearly undressed.
Each photo is dated and annotated in precise handwriting.
Subject works 6hr shift. Defensive posture, checking surroundings frequently.
Subject returns to cabin at 23:17. Security remains inadequate.
Subject appears to have nightmares. Lights on at 03:22.
My hands shake as I examine a map pinned beside the photos, marked with red dots—everywhere I've lived in the past six months. Beside it, a file folder labeled "MONROE, B.M."
I open it with trembling fingers. Inside are printouts of the bounty notice, court documents showing the clerical error, and—most disturbing—detailed notes on my daily routines from towns I left months ago.
This isn't protection. This is obsession.
A stack of papers on the desk catches my eye. I rifle through them—court filings, emails to law enforcement officials, all dated within the past three days. He wasn't lying about trying to clear my name. But the extent of this surveillance...
The shower shuts off.
I should put everything back. Leave. Pretend I never saw this. But my feet won't move, shock rooting me to the spot.
The door swings open.
Gray stands there, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders. His expression darkens when he sees me, eyes flicking to the open file in my hands, the exposed photos on his board.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" His voice is dangerously soft.
I hold up one of the photos—me, asleep on my porch chair, completely vulnerable. "What the fuck is this?"
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. I back up until my ass hits the desk.
"I told you I was watching you."
"Watching? This is stalking!" I throw the photo at him. It flutters uselessly to the floor between us. "You've been documenting my every move like—like I'm an animal you're hunting!"
"I was protecting you."
"By photographing me through my bedroom window?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I never took photos of you undressed. Check the dates and times if you don't believe me."
I scan the photos again. It's true—despite the extensive surveillance, there's nothing truly compromising. Nothing sexual.
"You're still a creep," I hiss, but the accusation doesn't have the bite I intended.
Gray moves closer, his massive frame blocking any escape route. "I'm a hunter, baby girl. It's what I do. I track. I observe. I protect."
"I'm not your prey."
"No." His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "You're my responsibility."
I should push him away. Should be disgusted by the evidence of his obsession plastered all over the walls. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, craving the security he represents despite the violation.
What's wrong with me?
"I'm fixing this for you," he says, gesturing to the papers on the desk. "Making calls. Filing paperwork. Calling in favors. Putting pressure on people who can clear your name."
"Why?" My voice cracks on the word.
His eyes darken. "You know why."
Because I'm his. Because he decided I belonged to him the moment he saw my picture. Because in his twisted mind, that gives him the right to document my life, to follow me, to control me.
And God help me, some part of me likes it.
"You're insane," I whisper, but I don't move away when he steps closer, caging me against the desk with his arms.
"I'm thorough," he corrects. "I protect what's mine."
"I'm not yours!"
His smile is predatory. "Your mouth keeps saying that." One large hand slides up my thigh, bunching my dress at the hip. "But your body tells a different story."
I should slap him. Should scream. Should run. Instead, I melt when his fingers find the damp heat between my legs.
"So wet," he murmurs, circling my entrance. "So ready for me. For Daddy."
That word. That fucking word that destroys my resistance every time.
"I hate you," I lie, my hands already reaching for the knot in his towel.
"No, you don't." He lifts me onto the desk with insulting ease, shoving papers aside. "You hate how much you need this. Need me."
His towel falls away, his cock jutting thick and hard between us. I spread my legs without being told, my body betraying any sense of self-preservation.
"Such a naughty baby girl," he growls, positioning himself at my entrance. "Snooping around Daddy's private things."
"Gray—"
"Daddy," he corrects, pushing into me with one smooth stroke that steals my breath. "Say it."
"Daddy," I whisper, shameful heat flooding me at the word. "Please."
He sets a punishing pace, hips snapping against mine, the desk shuddering beneath us. One of his hands grips my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his teeth.
"Daddy's gonna fill you up as punishment," he snarls against my skin, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge. "Feel me stretching you for my baby?"
I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't crave the filthy things he says. Shouldn't arch into every brutal thrust. But I do. God help me, I do.
"Yes," I gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "Yes, Daddy."
His rhythm falters at my surrender, his eyes locking onto mine with frightening intensity. "Mine," he growls. "Say it. Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," I whimper, and it doesn't even feel like a lie anymore.
He rewards me with a deep, grinding thrust that has me seeing stars. "Again."
"I'm yours, Daddy." The words tumble out, shameless now. "All yours."
His hand finds my clit, circling roughly. "Come for me, baby girl. Let me feel this tight pussy milk my cock."
My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing around him as I cry out. He follows immediately, his release hot and pulsing deep inside me, his groans of pleasure rumbling through his chest and into mine.
We stay like that for long moments, joined and panting, his forehead pressed to mine. The photos on his wall stare down at us—evidence of his obsession, his possessiveness, his need to control.
"I'm still mad about the photos," I murmur against his lips.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me where we're still connected. "No, you're not."
The worst part is, he's right. I should be terrified by the proof of his stalking. Instead, as he slowly withdraws from my body, I feel strangely…cherished. Protected. Wanted in a way I've never experienced before.
I straighten my dress as he retrieves his towel, watching him move with predatory grace around the small office.
"I'll take them down if they bother you," he offers, surprising me.
"They bother me," I say automatically, but I'm not sure if it's true anymore.
He nods, unpinning one of the photos—me, reading on my cabin porch, completely absorbed in the story. The expression he captured is peaceful. Unguarded. When was the last time I felt that way before coming here?
"You were reading Jane Eyre," he says quietly, handing me the photo. "You smiled three times and frowned twice. It was the first time I saw you relaxed."
The intimacy of the observation catches me off guard.
Has anyone ever truly noticed me the way he does?