Chapter 5
five
. . .
Priscilla
I wake up sore in places I've never been sore before.
Between my legs throbs with a delicious ache that reminds me exactly what happened last night.
My first time. With a virtual stranger who kidnapped me "for my protection," then fucked me on his kitchen counter while calling himself Daddy.
The same stranger who's currently wrapped around me like a human straightjacket, one massive arm pinning me to his chest, one thick thigh thrown over mine.
His body radiates heat like a furnace, his steady breathing ruffling my hair.
I should be terrified. I should be planning my escape.
Instead, I'm replaying every moment of last night, my body already humming for more.
Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting the bedroom in a soft glow that makes everything seem dreamlike.
But the evidence of what happened is undeniable—the dried blood on my inner thighs, the bruises blooming on my hips where his fingers dug in, the tender spot on my neck where he bit me. Marked me. Claimed me.
I gave my virginity to a man I've known for less than twenty-four hours. A man who admitted to stalking me for weeks. A man who growled about breeding me while he thrust inside me, filling me with his seed. And I loved every second of it.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat between my legs.
Carefully, I extract myself from Woodrow's grip, holding my breath when he stirs.
He mumbles something incoherent, his hand reaching for me before settling on the warm spot I've left behind.
His face in sleep is softer, the hard lines of his jaw and brow relaxed.
The scar across his eyebrow stands out starkly against his tan skin.
I have a sudden urge to trace it with my finger, to learn the story behind it, to know everything about this man who's turned my world upside down.
I resist, slipping from the bed as quietly as possible. My legs wobble beneath me, unfamiliar muscles protesting. I glance down at myself—naked except for the oversized t-shirt I'd put on after our second round of…whatever that was. Sex seems too simple a word for what happened between us.
The floor creaks under my feet as I pad to the bathroom.
In the mirror, a stranger stares back at me.
My hair is a tangled mess, my lips still swollen from his kisses.
The mark on my neck is a deep purple, unmistakable.
A brand. I touch it gently, remembering the moment his teeth sank into my flesh, the sharp pain that somehow heightened everything else I was feeling.
I use the bathroom, wash my face, finger-comb my hair. Normal actions that feel surreal in this situation. My reflection offers no answers to the questions swirling in my mind. Who is Woodrow, really? Why me? What happens now?
The cabin is quiet as I tiptoe down the hallway, giving Woodrow's sleeping form a wide berth. I need to think, need to clear my head without his overwhelming presence clouding my judgment. Without his scent making me dizzy with want.
The living room and kitchen are bathed in morning light, transforming the spaces that seemed so intimidating last night. The kitchen counter where he took my virginity gleams innocently in the sunlight. I blush at the memory, heat flooding my cheeks and other, lower places.
I scan the room, taking in details I was too frightened to notice before. The furniture is expensive but minimal. No photographs, no personal touches beyond a few military awards mounted on one wall. This doesn't feel like a home so much as a fortress. A place designed for security, not comfort.
A door off the main living area catches my attention—not the front door, but another one, partially ajar. I approach it cautiously, pushing it open with one finger.
An office. Dark wood desk, computer with multiple monitors, filing cabinets. And covering one entire wall—me.
My breath catches in my throat. Dozens of photographs.
Me leaving the bookstore. Me getting coffee.
Me walking in the park, reading on a bench, shopping for groceries.
Close-ups of my face, my hands, my body.
Notes scribbled beside some of them, details about my routines, my habits.
A calendar with my work schedule marked out.
This isn't protection. This is obsession.
Fear floods my system, icy cold where there was heat before. I back away from the wall of photos, bumping into something solid. Not the wall. Him.
Woodrow's hands come to rest on my shoulders, gentle but firm. I freeze, caught like a rabbit in a snare.
"You weren't supposed to see this yet," he says, his voice rumbling against my back. Not angry. Almost…embarrassed?
I wrench away from his touch, spinning to face him. He's wearing only sweatpants, his broad chest bare, covered in scars and tattoos I was too overwhelmed to fully notice last night. He's even more imposing in the daylight, muscles shifting under tan skin as he crosses his arms.
"What the hell is this?" I gesture wildly at the wall of photos. "This isn't protection. This is stalking! You're—you're obsessed with me!"
His expression doesn't change. Calm. Controlled. "Yes."
The simple admission knocks the wind from my lungs. I expected denial, justification, not…acceptance.
"Yes?" I repeat, incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"
"What would you like me to say, Priscilla?" He steps toward me, and I step back, bumping against the desk. "That I saw you one day and couldn't look away? That something about you called to everything in me? That I knew, from that first moment, you were meant to be mine?"
Each question brings him closer, until he's looming over me, his heat and scent enveloping me again, making it hard to think straight.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
“Oh, I know you very well, little girl.” My thigh clench together at the endearment, and his eyes flick down to them as if he knows what he’s done to me.
My cheeks flame. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
Despite everything, I shiver at the contact.
"I know you're lonely. I know you keep people at arm's length.
I know you read romance novels when no one's watching, dreaming of a connection you've never let yourself have. "
My eyes widen. How could he possibly know that? Have I been that transparent? That pathetic?
"Don't look so scared, little girl." His voice drops lower, soothing, the same tone he used last night when he called himself Daddy. "I've only ever wanted to protect you. To keep you safe."
"By stalking me?" My voice catches, trapped between outrage and something else. Something I'm afraid to name.
"By watching over you." His other hand slides around my waist, drawing me closer despite my half-hearted resistance. "Those men would have taken you if I hadn't been there. Would have hurt you in ways you can't imagine."
He's right, and that's the most infuriating part. If he hadn't been following me, hadn't been obsessed with me, I might be in the hands of those kidnappers right now. The devil I know versus the devils I don't.
"This isn't normal," I say, but my body betrays me, leaning into his touch. "This isn't healthy."
"Nothing about what I feel for you is normal." His lips brush my forehead, feather-light. "From the moment I saw you, I knew I'd kill, maim, or burn the world to keep you safe. To make you mine."
The words should terrify me. Instead, they send a thrill down my spine, a pulse of heat between my legs. What kind of woman gets turned on by this? By a man so obsessed he's covered a wall with her photos? By promises of violence in her name?
Me, apparently. This new, unfamiliar version of me that emerged the moment Woodrow entered my life.
"I don't understand this," I admit, my hands coming up to rest against his chest. Not pushing him away. Just feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palms. "I don't understand you. I don't understand me, how I can be so…affected by you."
"You don't have to understand it." His lips trace a path down my temple, my cheek, hovering just above mine. "Just feel it. Trust it. Trust me."
He kisses me then, softer than last night but no less possessive. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming it as thoroughly as he claimed the rest of me. And God help me, I kiss him back. My fingers curl against his chest, nails digging into hard muscle as heat explodes through my body.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach through his sweatpants.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, one hand sliding under my t-shirt to palm my bare ass, squeezing possessively. "Tell me you don't want this—don't want me—and I'll back off. I'll still protect you, still keep you safe, but I won't touch you again."
It's a lifeline, a way out of whatever madness this is.
All I have to do is say the words. But they won't come.
Because despite the fear, despite the shock of seeing those photos, despite knowing this is probably the textbook definition of Stockholm Syndrome—I want him.
Want his hands on me, his body over mine, inside mine.
Want to be his little girl again, praised and protected and possessed.
"I can't," I whisper, the truth spilling out before I can stop it. "I can't tell you to stop."
The smile that spreads across his face is triumphant, wolfish. He lifts me easily, setting me on the edge of the desk, stepping between my thighs.
"Then get ready,” he growls, and something inside me melts, “because I’m going to worship every inch of you.”
His mouth claims mine again, harder this time, one hand tangling in my hair to hold me in place while the other pushes my shirt up, exposing me to his hungry gaze.
I should be fighting this. Fighting him. Fighting the twisted attraction that's taking root inside me. Instead, I'm spreading my legs wider, welcoming the monster into my embrace, craving the dominance that should repel me.
What have I become in the space of one night?
And why does it feel so right?