Chapter 14
Laurette Devereux
I’ve prosecuted serial killers with less intensity than this man.
The call ends, but his voice doesn’t leave me. It echoes, vibrating against the bones of my skull. I’m still holding the burner phone in a grip tight enough to bruise, as if it might still whisper more.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. My pulse doesn’t get the memo. It races, wild and frantic, driven by something unseen chasing me down.
“I’ve lost my damn mind,” I whisper.
The words are too small for what’s happening inside me. My skin feels too tight, stretched thin over nerves that misfire with every breath.
I can still feel him and hear that voice—smooth and filthy.
He said he was watching. That he’d never harm me. But he would break me—and I’d love it.
That I could fight him, if that’s what turned me on. Every fracture would be for my pleasure.
And God help me, he might be right.
My heart slams against my ribs. My stomach knots with fear—and something else. Something worse.
Something better.
Ache. Need. Want.
They coil low and wickedly. It’s a throb I don’t understand. My body is answering a question I didn’t realize had been asked.
He spoke in riddles and sin. And I said yes.
I said yes.
Why? Who the fuck agrees to that?
Me.
Imagine it. Me, Laurette Devereux—prosecutor, rational thinker, defender of order—saying yes to a man I’ve never seen. A man who wants to haunt me. Chase me. Hunt me.
And I want this.
Oh, how I want him.
I press my hands to my face and cover my eyes as I exhale. “Jesus Christ. I’m fucked in the head.”
I should smash the phone. Or call the police.
But I won’t. Because part of me—a dark, hungry, dangerous part—wants to find out what he’ll do next.
And worse, I don’t want to wait for it.
I stare at the burner phone, my only link to him. My only form of communication. Now that the line is dead, I hate how quiet the room is.
Air. I need air.
I push off the couch, wineglass in hand, and pace the length of the room. My nerves are shot, but the buzz is real. Heat curls in the pit of my stomach and rises with every shaky breath.
I grab my regular phone and scroll. My finger hovers for a second before tapping Brielle’s name. She picks up on the second ring.
“Well, hello, my wicked little vixen. Been misbehaving?”
“I need you to come over. Now. Please.”
She’s silent for half a second. “You okay, babe?”
“I just… I need to talk… I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I need you.”
“Okay, girl, I’m on my way.”
I sink into the couch. My head tips back against the cushion, eyes scanning the ceiling as if the answers might be carved into the plaster. The quiet hum of my house carries an unfamiliar weight as if he’s already here. Watching. Waiting.
Maybe he is.
How the fuck do I explain this? Rationalize it? Admit I just consented to being hunted like some kind of fucked-up fairytale?
I gulp down a mouthful of wine and grip the glass with shaking fingers.
How do I tell Brielle that I enjoyed it? That I liked the way he said I’d scream his name? That the thought of being spied on doesn’t scare me—it thrills me. That something dark and molten came alive in me when he whispered obsession like it was a love language.
Our love language.
I take another gulp and start pacing again.
By the time Brielle arrives, my heartbeat is a drum, and I’m not sure if I want her to calm me down or tell me I’m not crazy for wanting this.
She doesn’t knock, just walks straight in. There’s no hesitation. No need for permission.
She’s in sweats and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped into a messy bun, eyes wide with concern.
“I brought chocolate truffles. All of your favorites,” she says, holding up a bag. “And I’m prepared to burn someone’s house down if you need me to.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “Chocolate truffles and wine. Perfect.”
We’re curled up on the couch. The burner phone rests on the coffee table within reach, waiting for me to show it to her.
Brielle eyes it. “You gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”
I nod, throat dry. “But first, swear you won’t tell Eden or Marissa.”
Her brows lift. “That serious, huh?”
I shake my head. “Those two wouldn’t understand.”
She takes a slow sip of wine, grinning behind the glass. “Okay. Swear it.”
My chest loosens by a fraction, then I tell her everything. Every filthy word whispered in my ear on that dance floor. Every breathless threat disguised as a promise. Every word he said to me during our phone call.
All of it had me soaking through my panties and ready to bolt out of my skin.
“He’s only an initial to me. Just B. I don’t know what he looks like, or his name, or if he’s sane or some kind of criminal.”
I expect her to laugh. Or flinch. Or stare at me, eyes wide, as if I’ve lost my fucking mind.
But Brielle, just being Brielle, sits back and crosses her legs, wine in hand. “Okay. Keep talking, girl.”
And God help me, I do.
She shifts, tucking one leg under her, eyeing me. “Okay. I have to ask… have you ever been with a Dom?”
I blink at her. “No. Why?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because I have. And some things you’re describing—the control, the threats, the mind games—it sounds a lot like D/s dynamics.”
I stare at her. “I didn’t know you were into Dom and sub stuff.”
She shrugs, a little sheepishly. “I’m toying with it for the first time, so I’m no expert. But still… this sounds familiar.”
“This isn’t that kind of thing.”
Her voice softens. “How do you know?”
“It’s not about rules. Or contracts. Or safewords. This is—” I hesitate. “Better.”
She watches me, one brow arched, waiting.
“His game is different. Carnal. Feral. He wants to strip me bare and crawl inside my head.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl.”
“And Brielle, I’m not scared. I should be, but I’m not. I’m—” I shake my head, breath catching. “So damn turned on by all of it.”
Wet. I’m fucking drenched.
It’s not careful. Or safe. Or structured.
“I’m messed up, right?”
Brielle grins. “No more than I am.”
I groan and take a long sip of wine. “He said he’d never harm me, but he’d break me. And I’d love it. That I could fight him, if that’s what turns me on. Every fracture would be for my pleasure.”
Brielle arches a brow. “Sounds a little Dom-ish to me.”
“He spelled it out, told me my privacy ends here, and he’ll be watching whether I notice or not.”
I swallow.
“He said that every move I make belongs to him.”
Brielle doesn’t interrupt, so I keep going.
“He said I invited it. The obsession. The worship.” I close my eyes, recalling his words. “He told me never to forget that.”
“You said yes.”
I stare into my wine.
“I did,” I whisper.
Another sip—deep red, smooth, with a bite of dark cherry. Warmth spreads through my chest.
“You’re glowing.” Brielle lifts a brow. “You’re turned on just thinking about it, aren’t you?”
I should be embarrassed to admit it. And I would be with anyone else. But Brielle understands.
My cheeks burn, but I nod. “I’m so turned on, Bri.”
Wet with anticipation. With confusion. And something else—something wild and thrilling.
Brielle’s grin turns wicked. She leans forward, eyes bright. “Welcome to my world, darling.”
I swallow, heat pooling low and thick. “Is it weird that he gets off on it? The chase. Me running. Fighting. Struggling. He wants to break me down and take control. Make it so I don’t know where fear ends and pleasure begins.”
My breath trembles. The thought alone nearly undoes me.
“Is it weird that I’m craving it? The hunt. The moment he catches me. That edge between danger and surrender. I want to find out what he’ll do when I fight—and he takes me anyway.”
She laughs. “Damn, Laurette. You’ve always flirted with danger. Now danger’s flirting back.”
I let out a breath—half-laugh, half-confession. “Tell me that doesn’t make me insane.”
Brielle waves it off. “Not crazy. Alive. Honest. And fuck, I’m a little jealous.”
Brielle—jealous of me?
She’s always been the wild one. The first to chase a thrill, the last to regret it.
I’ve heard her stories and seen the marks. I never once imagined her envying anyone else’s sex life. Especially not mine.
My relationship with Jon David was nothing to envy.
She leans in, eyes wide. “Sounds like you’ve met someone who speaks your language. Dark. Dangerous. Decadent.”
Dark. Dangerous. Decadent.
I like that.
“You spend your life dismantling people in court. Now someone’s dismantling you.”
I meet her eyes, steady. “He told me he’d never harm me. That he’d break me in all the ways I secretly want. And I’d love it.”
She arches a brow. “The man’s not subtle. He’s savage.”
I shake my head. “Subtle never got me wet. But this has me aching in places I didn’t know could throb.”
She laughs. “Face it. You’re already his.”
I lean back and exhale. The wine hums in my blood, and the warmth clings to my skin. Somewhere between fear and arousal, something cracks open.
Brielle reaches over and touches my arm. “You’re ready. Don’t fear it.”
Danger is whispering my name.
And I want to answer.
Brielle drains the last of her wine and sets the glass aside with a sigh. “I get it. More than you think. This, him, the pull. The way your whole body responds as if it’s been waiting for something this fucked up and feral.”
My breath catches.
She hesitates, then smirks. “I’m seeing someone. Not officially or publicly. But it’s been a few months.”
I sit up straighter. “And?”
She shrugs, too casual to be innocent. “He’s dark. Intense. Possessive. A man who always knows where I am and always ready to take control.”
I stare. “Bri… elle.”
She raises a hand. “I’m safe. He never crosses a line. He listens. But he plays dark, Laurette. Very dark.”
“Like?”
“Breath control,” she says, lips quirking. “He restrains me. Makes me beg for release. There’s pain, yes, but it’s controlled. Intentional. I love the marks and the ache after. The way my body craves more with him.”
“Sounds hardcore.”
“He scares me a little,” she adds. “But he also wants to worship me. It’s not normal... but I don’t want normal.”
Her words wrap around me.
“You’re not crazy for wanting this, Laurette. You’re wired for something more. Something raw. And this guy—B? Maybe he’s your… more.”
I swallow hard. “Wanting it doesn’t mean I’m not scared. What if I can’t handle it?”
She grins. “Try it. Let him take you somewhere you’ve never gone before. If you don’t like where it goes, end it.”
The thought of ending it twists low in my chest.
Brielle reaches for the wine bottle and tops off both our glasses. She lifts hers and raises it toward me. “To unhinged women and the men who ruin us in the most beautiful way.”
I clink my glass against hers.
“To more,” I whisper.
We finish the bottle. Laughter tangles with quiet confessions and a comfort that comes from being seen without judgment. The more I give it voice, the less it seems like madness. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip and stretches into something I can carry.
By the time Brielle leaves—cheeks flushed and eyes bright—I feel lighter.
The house is quiet after she’s gone. I lock the door behind her and pause, hands on the frame, breathing in the silence.
Things are different now.
I’m not broken. Just wired for something more.
I move through the house, turning off lights. My head buzzes from the wine, from the adrenaline, from her words.
I peel off my clothes and slide into bed. The sheets are cool, but my body isn’t.
The burner phone lies on the pillow beside me. Black screen. No new messages, but it hums with presence. His presence.
My fingers brush the edge, then curl around it tightly.
He said he’ll be watching, and he’ll make his move when I least expect it. When the game begins in earnest.
My heart beats loudly in the quiet. I should be terrified. I should call the police and hand this phone over as evidence.
But instead—I smile.
The dark doesn’t scare me. It’s exciting. Because somewhere out there, he’s awake. Planning.
And I want to be hunted.
The thought of him lurking in shadows and tracking every breath snakes through me, tense and impossible to ignore.
I slide a hand between my thighs, already slick. My fingers find the heat without hesitation, as if my body has been aching for this moment.
I close my eyes and picture him here, watching me. Every stroke drags me closer. Not soft. Not sweet. I fuck myself the way I think he would—rough, slow, relentless. I imagine his hand at my throat, his mouth at my ear, his voice low and cruel.
You wanted this.
You begged for it.
Now take it.
Pleasure builds sharp and wicked, curling tight in my core. I bite back a moan, but it doesn’t take long. My body clenches, back arching, hips grinding into my palm as I come with a gasp.
I whisper into the stillness, “Come get me, B, whoever you are.”
Then I turn off the lamp, sink into the dark, and wait.