No woman has a man stalk her, break into her apartment, leave her ahuman hand, and then still comes this hard imagining him in her bed.
But I just did.
—
My phone buzzesat two in the morning.
I barely managed to clean up before I nearly passed out in bed, weeks of hardly any sleep catching up to me all at once in the wake of the most powerful orgasm I can remember having. I blink blearily into the dark, fumbling for my phone. It’s probably Claire, and I almost set it back down before I look at the screen, still half asleep.
It's not from Claire. My eyes widen as I seeunknown numberon the screen, jolting me more fully awake.
I should delete it without looking. I should put it down and make a decision in the morning. I should do anything except what I'm about to do.
I open it.
The photo loads slowly, and at first, I don't understand what I'm seeing. It's dark, the image grainy and shadowed. Then my brain starts to process the details.
It’s a face… a man’s face, or at least, the aftermath of one.
It’s swollen beyond recognition, the eyes nearly puffed shut, now purple and black. The man’s nose is clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle, his lips split and bleeding. There’s blood everywhere—on the man’s face, on his shirt, pooling on what looks like concrete.
Confusion muddles my mind, until I stare at it for a moment later and realize that I recognize the shirt. It’s a blue button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and the man is wearing a leather necklace with a shark’s tooth. We joked about that at the bar, a remnant from his old surfer days.
It’s Daniel.
I sit bolt upright, suddenly stark awake and shaking so hard I can barely hold the phone. I can't look away from the image—from what used to be Daniel's handsome, charming, normal face.
The text comes through a second later:
You're mine.Stop pretending otherwise. – I.S.
I know immediatelyI'm going to be sick.
I run to the bathroom and vomit, my body heaving, my mind refusing to fully process what I just saw. When there's nothingleft, I slump back on the cold tile floor, my phone still clutched in my hand, and I stare at the photo again.
Hedid this. I.S. did this to Daniel because I brought him home. Because I kissed him. Because I tried to be normal and have a normal night with a normal man.
And now Daniel is?—
Is he dead? Is that a photo of a corpse?
He’s not dead.But the next one will be. Remember, you’re mine.
I feela scream building in the back of my throat, but I don’t have the air to let it out. I can’t think straight. I should call the police. Should report this. Should?—
But what would I tell them? That I got a photo of a man who was badly beaten because of me? That someone with the initials I.S. is stalking me? They already closed the case about the hand. They already made it clear they're not going to help me.
And if I call them, if I report this, I'll be dragging Daniel further into this nightmare. If he's alive, if he's in a hospital somewhere, the last thing he needs is to be connected to whatever this is.
I did this to him. I brought him into this. This is my fault.
If I don’t let it go, I.S. might finish the job.
I look at the photo again, forcing myself to really see it. The brutality of it. The violence.
You're mine.
It wasn’t a request or a suggestion. It was a statement of fact.
