A spark flashes in his eyes, and his mouth twists into a hard line. For a moment, I think he’s going to lose his calm, maybe even lash out, but instead he reaches forward, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear in a way that’s almost… affectionate.
“Oh, but I do know you,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a chill down my spine. “I know you better than you know yourself, little bird. And soon enough, you’ll see it too.”
Before I can respond, he stands up, leaving me alone with his words and that unsettling gaze that seems to follow me, even when he’s gone.
I lie back on the bed, the ache of his words sinking in. There’s something dangerous in him, something terrifying—and yet, a part of me is drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. I close my eyes, replaying the past few days in my mind, feeling the anger, the fear, and—most terrifying of all—the strange, inexplicable pull toward the man who’s holding me captive.
I can hear his footsteps echoing down the hall as he leaves, and for the first time since I was dragged into this nightmare, I’m left wondering what terrifies me more—the thought of escaping him, or the thought of being right here, under his watchful, dark eyes, forever.
15
ASHTON
‘Bentley James’ how the fuck did Dove know Bentley James and what had he done that made her fear him.
He didn’t deserve her fear, but it seemed he had it long before I came along, and that thought pissed me off. Her fear belonged to me, her tears, her desire, her soul.
She was fucking mine.
The rage claws through me like hot coals. The more I think of him invading her dreams, the more the anger coils deep inside of me.
I don’t even hesitate to send the email:
To: Hollow Hills Asylum
From: Ashton Riley ceo
Message: I need everything you have on ‘Bentley James’ police reports, psych evaluations, his whole report for the last eight years.
There had to be something in his reports that would tell me how Dove would have crossed paths with the maniac.
I didn’t usually get involved in the Asylum, they knew I was in charge, that I owned that establishment thanks to the great Victor Riley, passed down through the generations, but I preferred to be a silent partner.
I would have stayed silent too. If she hadn’t acted like her world had disintegrated in her sleep, someone else haunted my little bird, and I wanted to know why.
I wait for a response back but it doesn’t come. I can feel the rage seeping into my veins. The darkness claws through me like it’s begging to come out. I look up at the ceiling, the darkness slowly overtaking my body. “I’m coming, little bird.”
I grabthe small black case and walk up the stairs. She’s not sleeping. She looks at me with a smirk on her lips, but as I gaze at her, that smirk slowly slips.
Can she see the darkness that has seeped into my soul? Can she see that I need her to know that she’s fucking mine?
She tries to edge away from me as I make my way towards her, but there was going to be no escape for my little bird.
Another man haunted her dreams, another man was on her mind. I didn’t care that he was the source of her pain. If she wanted pain, I’d give her fucking pain.
I perched on the bed next to her. She tries to move, but the chains she’s shackled to don’t allow her to move very far. I can see the steel cuffs digging into her wrists. They are red and bruised. Another reminder of who she belongs to—me.
I don’t say a word, but I hear her screaming my name. She’s scared. I can see it in her eyes. She should be scared.
I grab her ankles, pulling her down the bed, shackling herankles to chains that are fitted to the bottom of the cast iron bed. Her legs are spread wide, just for me because I owned her fucking body. Every part of her belonged to me and soon enough I’d invade her mind, too.
“Ashton, what are you doing?” She whispers. I ignore her as I unzip the small black case, smiling at the contents within.
The tattoo gun gleams in my hand, a compact, brutal piece of machinery built for precision and pain. Its dark, polished steel catches the dim light, giving it a menacing glint. The handle is cool and heavy, fitting snugly into my grip as I ready the needles with practiced care. Fine coils of wire wrap around the center, tightly wound, humming with a latent energy that promises a sting to the skin.
At the tip, the needles sit poised, a cluster of microscopic points designed to puncture, to embed ink beneath her skin one painful, permanent dot at a time. The gun buzzes to life, a low, ominous sound filling the room, echoing in the silence, rising and falling in rhythm with his heartbeat. Watching her, bound and motionless, as I dip the needle in dark ink, ink meant to etch its mark on her body, my claim—proof she’ll carry forever.
With a steady hand, I bring the tattoo gun closer, inches from her skin, the sound rising, vibrating with anticipation.
