Chapter 38 #2
“The bastard won’t stop,” he says at last.
Not angry. Not triumphant. Just certain.
I don’t answer right away because I don’t need to. The truth is already there, undeniable.
Evan Lemaire didn’t stop after Emily. Hell, he didn’t even stop during the trial. And his newest victim nearly died.
He won’t correct course. He’ll test boundaries. He’ll push until something pushes back harder.
“He’ll only stop when he’s forced to stop,” I say.
Bastien nods once. No convincing needed. Just confirmation that we both see the pattern.
I set my glass down and say the words before I can change my mind. “How would you do it? Stop him, I mean.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on mine—steady and intent—as he measures the exact moment curiosity tips into something more.
“You don’t get that answer unless you’re ready to cross a line. And once you do, there’s no coming back.”
I don’t blink or hesitate.
“I’ve crossed that line already. Last night. This morning. Sitting in that courtroom, knowing exactly what they did. Seeing them laugh as they walked away.”
The words surprise me with how steady they sound.
“I can’t unknow what I know about them, Bastien.”
Something shifts in him. He reaches for my hand, and his fingers close firmly around mine. “Then we’re in this together.”
And as his grip tightens, I understand what that really means—not just for Evan Lemaire, but for me.
My curiosity isn’t harmless. It’s a door, and I’ve just asked him to open it.
Bastien tugs on my hand. “Come with me.”
He leads me down the hall, and I follow without asking where we’re going.
He stops in front of a bookcase, but not the decorative kind with knickknacks and sentimental clutter. The shelves are filled with books I’m not sure he’s read.
He glances back at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Positive.”
He reaches past the shelf and presses something I wouldn’t have thought to look at. There’s a low mechanical click, and the bookcase shifts to reveal a narrow opening beyond it.
Cool air spills out.
The stairs descend, and the further down we go, the more the house above becomes a cover story.
A bunker waits at the bottom. There’s no attempt to soften it with rugs or art. No effort to pretend this room is anything other than what it is.
Metal shelves line one wall, stacked with equipment I recognize and things I don’t. Weapons. Gloves sealed in plastic. Cases labeled in his neat, methodical handwriting. Not chaos. Control.
Opposite them, screens. A collection of monitors glow in the low light, feeds cycling silently. Streets. Alleys. Doorways. Camera angles chosen with intention. My breath stills as recognition hits before I’m ready for it.
My house.
The front walk. The side gate. The alley behind it I never considered a threat. The living room where I unwind. The kitchen where I am most like myself. The bedroom where I let my guard down completely.
I stop short.
Bastien doesn’t reach for me or try to explain. He just watches my face as the truth finishes assembling itself.
“I told you I was watching.” No apology. Just fact.
I should feel exposed. Violated. And the sick part, the dangerous part, is how much I like it.
Not the idea of being stalked. The reality of being seen and known this fully.
“Since when?”
He steps closer, still not touching. Just a gravitational pull that makes me forget what I was even asking.
“Since right after the second note.”
My pulse stutters. “You’ve been watching me since the start.”
He lets the weight of it hang between us—what it means to stalk a woman that long without her knowing. To track her footsteps. Memorize her rituals. Learn the shape of her silence and the frequency of her fear. To become fluent in a life not yours to touch.
He saw everything. And I’m not recoiling.
I’m throbbing.
I turn to face him, tilting my chin up, meeting his eyes without blinking. “You watched me sleep.”
“Yes.”
“You saw me undress.”
“I’m well acquainted with every inch of your body.”
A sharp breath escapes me.
“You watched me masturbate when I was alone. And you got off on it.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods once. “I did. Often. Do you like knowing that?”
I want to deny it and keep some shred of moral high ground, but the heat in my belly betrays me. The ache between my legs won’t let me lie.
There was a part of me that sensed his eyes on my skin some nights. A part of me that moved slower, bent farther, and undressed with more deliberation. I was performing for an audience I couldn’t see but could sense.
Of course I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected. And I think some part of me hoped.
Now, looking into his eyes—hunger coiled beneath restraint—I realize I was never the one holding the reins here.
“You like having my eyes on you, don’t you?”
The words scrape my throat raw. “I do.”
He pulls me against him—not painfully. Just enough to say mine.
“Mmm… that’s my good girl.”
I tremble as he leans in, his mouth brushing mine.
“I watched because I couldn’t not watch.”
He kisses me, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, then releases it.
“I stalked you because I’m obsessed.”
My knees weaken, and my breath stutters, my body pressing into his. I’ve been starving for this.
“I watched because you’re the most dangerous, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I wanted you before I was sure of how far I’d go to have you.”
My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear the rest of the world. And then I ask the question I can’t keep inside. “Did you watch us?”
His gaze sharpens.
“When we were together… fucking,” I clarify. “Did you play it back?”
He doesn’t blink or hesitate. “I’ve watched us fuck many times.”
The words should shame me. They don’t. Instead, my pussy clenches tight, aching. The heat pulses between my legs, stronger now, hotter.
“I want to see us. Show me.”
Bastien’s mouth curves slowly. He moves to the monitors as if he already knows where the files live. No fumbling. No second-guessing. He clicks through folders with precise, fluid efficiency, opening one labeled only with a date I remember all too well.
The night everything changed.
The screen flickers, and there we are.
The footage is dark—grainy with low light—but everything is visible. Every angle. Every detail.
Me—kneeling on my bed, blindfolded, ass high in the air. Vulnerable. Offered to him like a gift he already owns.
He’s behind me, knees spread wide for leverage, one hand on the base of my spine keeping me arched. The other slides between my legs—fingers parting me with reverent precision before he presses his thumb inside my asshole.
I watch myself shudder. Watch my mouth fall open in a gasp no one hears. My hips rock back, chasing the pressure, the fullness, the claiming. Bastien curls his finger inside me on the screen, and I moan, recalling the way it felt.
I wanted more, another finger, but I was too afraid to ask for it.
My thighs tremble just seeing it.
He knew what I needed before I did. Knew how to open me slowly—patiently—so when he finally fucked me, I’d already be shaking. And when he broke me, I’d beg for it.
I watch myself reach for him. Watch his hand slide between my legs. I remember every breath and every promise he kept with his mouth and his hands and his cock.
That night was chaos and clarity, danger and surrender. I’d wanted him so badly. Hated myself for it. Lied to myself about how far I’d go. But the moment he touched me, it was over.
I remember how scared I was. Not of him, but of myself. Of what it meant to want something so raw, so wrong, so fucking right.
The fear didn’t ruin it. It heightened it. Even now, I ache seeing us. My pussy throbs as I see him sink into me, claiming what was always his.
Bastien steps up behind me, and his arms snake around my waist. His chest presses flush against my back, his chin lowering until his mouth hovers by my ear.
“Do you remember how wet you were? How tight?”
His hips grind forward. Hard. Thick. Unapologetic. The bulge of his cock pushes against the curve of my ass, and I go still. Not out of fear, but because my body remembers.
Every angle. Every thrust. Every command.
On the screen, he drives into me from behind. On instinct, I arch, matching the image, the memory, the pressure now building behind me.
He bites my shoulder, not too hard. A warning, a promise, and I whimper. Because I’m not watching anymore. I’m reliving it.
And then I say it, the thing that changes everything. “I want you to show me.”
He pulls back, studying me, a wolf deciding whether to feast or wait.
“Show you what?”
“What it looks like when you finally start acting like you own me.”
His eyes flare. The restraint vanishes, and I realize I’ve given him a flame in a gasoline-soaked room. He’ll burn us down without blinking.
And I want nothing more.
He doesn’t touch me right away. Doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t move. He just watches, shoulders still, jaw tight, control fraying at the edges as he holds back something feral.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Yes, I do.” I mean it.
He steps in close again, body heat licking over my skin. His hand comes up, slides into my hair, fisting it just enough to tip my head back.
“I own this house and the forty acres surrounding it.”
My breath catches.
“No neighbors. No cameras. No one to see us.”
His voice drops—primal, dangerous, absolutely certain. “I’m giving you a one-minute head start. You’ll walk through that back door… and run. Be clever. Make it hard. Try your best not to get caught.”
His hand clamps around my jaw, turning my face until his breath skims my lips.
“I’m the hunter. The wolf.” His mouth curves into a slow, cruel smile. “And you’re my prey.”
My heart takes off in a gallop. Adrenaline floods me, sharp and intoxicating. My nipples tighten, and my thighs clench.
“What are you going to do to me if you catch me?”
“Not if.” His gaze cuts through me. “When.”