I glance around her room and decide to snoop while she chats—however long I let her. The rest of her bedroom is typical: standing dresser, nightstand, corner chair, a couple of lamps. It’s so impersonal that I wonder if she’s ever bought anything for herself.
Maybe in her drawers…
I step to the standing dresser and open the top drawer, assuming it, like mine, will be used to keep her underwear.
Except my stomach twists the moment the contents are revealed.
There’smy missing underwear.
The two colorful thongs and lace cheekies stare at me from the corner. I pick one up, trying to remember if the last time I wore them they were clean, or if she’s been collecting my dirty underwear and sniffing them like a creep.
I twistedly hope it’s the latter.
Visions of her rubbing her face and smelling them as she fucks a pillow fills me. I’m heated as I think about it, as I beginto imagine her obsession, the way she wants me, the way she protects me…
No one has ever come close to that.
Beneath the underwear is a variety of sex toys, each one placed in its box’s casing on display—nothing like the way I have mine just thrown in the drawer by the bed. I pick one of them up, the box skewing, and as I try to straighten it back in line, a picture beneath it catches my eye.
I shove the boxes over, brows narrowed.
Oh.
It isn’t just photos of me. There are clipped pictures and articles from every magazine article Young Decay has ever done, cut-out social media posts, even a stack of ticket stubs. It’s like a Bonnie Miller shrine.
There’s something sick within me that has my insides growing all warm and fuzzy at the sight.
I should be creeped out. Any normal person would see this and freak. I should be scared, run out of here while she’s distracted on the phone, and tell the band that we have to find someone new because my fucking stalker is the one watching our asses.
And yet…
I. Fucking.Love. It.
I blow out an uneven breath as I turn to look at her again—totrulylook at her this time.
I don’t know how I missed it. Each time she held me in the bodysuit, it was Gemma’s body cradling mine. Her hands on me. Her voice taunting me so goddamn deliciously. Chills rise on my arms as I think about the time she held me in front of that mirror and called me a slut, when she tied my wrists to the bed and rode my pussy. I can feel her breath on my ear without the mask, telling me to tell her stalker to fuck off while she drove her fingers in and out of me. I remember the fantasies I’ve drownedmyself beneath since she walked into my real life and each time, I imagined it was her beneath the mask—
And it always was.
Heat pools between my thighs as her gaze lifts. I don’t know what she’s saying. I haven’t caught a single sentence between them. Still, as I look at her now, I see her face in the darkness.
I see Gemma standing by my bed at night watching me sleep. Gemma carrying me out of the clubs. Gemma fucking me in the suit, at the masked party at DeathFest. It was her texting me to ask if I was okay after the phone call. Her telling me she had me.
It was Gemma protecting me every time someone drugged me. Gemma who made sure I was safe despite how fucking wasted and cruel I was to everyone around me. She knows my flaws—even the ones I’ve tried to hide from everyone else.
Even before this, she had me memorized. She could pick me out in a body bag.
And now, after being Gemma with me these last few weeks, she knows all of me—she’sclaimedall of me, and she isn’t running in spite of all of that.
I’m not going to abandon you.
My Bedlam… I’d know you in complete darkness.
I’m already hurting you.
You’re mine, rockstar.
You’re mine now, Bonnie Miller.
