Chapter 8
BLAIR
Iwake with my heart already racing, and the first thing I notice is the note I left on the nightstand is gone.
For a long moment I just stare at the empty space where it had been, my stomach twisting with a strange mix of dread and excitement.
He took it. That means he read it. That means he was here again last night, standing over me while I slept, close enough to reach out and touch the paper I’d left for him like some reckless offering.
I sit up slowly, pushing my hair out of my face. The ache between my thighs is still there, it’s duller now, but still persistent, like a secret my body refuses to let me forget. I press my legs together and breathe through it, trying to steady myself.
I dreamed again, the same out of reach fantasy that’s tortured me night after night. But today I’ll know for sure. If there’s a whiskey glass on the counter, I’ll know I’m not crazy. And if there isn’t…well, maybe I really am losing my mind.
I pull on a soft hoodie over my pajamas and head downstairs, moving silently on the steps. The house feels different this morning, heavier and more watchful.
When I reach the kitchen, I stop in the doorway. There’s no glass. The counter is empty, clean and clear, exactly as I left it last night.
My stomach drops as disappointment and fear tangle so tightly together I can’t tell which is stronger. I walk over anyway, running my hand across the cool surface as if the glass might magically appear.
And then I see it.
A single sheet of paper, folded once, placed exactly in the center of the kitchen island. It’s the note I left for him. I pick it up with trembling fingers, unfold it, and beneath my handwriting, in bold, masculine script, is a new message.
You don’t get to give me instructions.
The words hit sharply, like a slap.
You’re the trespasser here, not me. This is my house. My rules. If you want proof I’m real, you’ll get it when I decide. Not when you demand it. And next time you leave me a note, little girl, make sure you’re prepared for what I’ll do with it.
My breath catches, and heat immediately floods my face. It’s embarrassment, anger, and something far more dangerous that pools low in my belly. He called me ‘little girl.’ The condescension should infuriate me. Instead, it sends a dark thrill racing down my spine.
I read the note again, slower this time, letting every word sink in.
He’s angry. Or maybe not angry, exactly, but more in control.
Reminding me exactly who holds the power here.
I’m the one squatting in his house. I’m the one who’s been sleeping in his bed, leaving doors open, practically begging for his attention.
And now he’s making it very clear: he is in charge.
I set the note down and lay my palms flat on the counter.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Part of me wants to be furious. He’s toying with me.
Watching me unravel while he stays hidden somewhere in the bowels of this house.
But another part, the part that’s been throbbing since I woke up, is shamefully and undeniably aroused.
He was here, and he read my note. He actually answered me. And instead of leaving a glass like I asked, he left a warning.
I wander through the house for the next hour, restless and unsettled. I check every room again, even the ones I’ve already searched a dozen times. Nothing. No hidden doors I missed. No cameras I can find. No trace of him except that note burning a hole in my mind.
By midday my brain is fried trying to work it out, so I make myself a sandwich, then curl up on the couch with a book. But the words blur, and all I can think about is his handwriting. The confident slant of it and the quiet dominance in every line.
When night finally falls, I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, my heart pounding hard against my ribs.
Part of me wants to lock every door, pull on the thickest pajamas I own, and hide beneath the covers like a child afraid of the dark.
But a much louder, much more dangerous part of me wants something else entirely.
Logic tells me to leave, to move on and find a new location to hide because I certainly can’t go home. Not when my father wants to sell me off to his old crony friend. I will never be free if I go back there.
There is every likelihood that this man…whoever he is, knows my father very well. And instinct tells me, pulling deep in my gut, that no good can ever come from that.
I shower slowly, letting the hot water beat against my skin and ease the lingering tension in my muscles.
When I step out, I dry off and dress in a soft cotton tank top and fresh panties, which are far from modest and deliberately provocative.
Still, before I climb into bed, I pick up the notebook again.
My hand is steadier this time as I write.
Then show me. Because I’m still here.
I fold the note once and place it on the nightstand, exactly where the first one had been, in a clear and deliberate offering. Then I switch off the lamp and lie back against the pillows, my heart racing and skin warm with a confusing blend of fear and anticipation.
I leave the door wider than usual in a silent invitation. One I know he will see and hope he will understand. And as sleep begins to pull me under, I wonder how long it will take before he answers.