I push myself up, wobbling like a newborn colt, frantic to get away from the wall where he pinned me. Where I let him claim me.
Wanted him to.
The room blurs as I pace, my arms hugging my middle as if I could physically hold myself together despite everything inside threatening to split wide open.One-two-three turn, one-two-three turn…I mark out the borders of my cell with frantic steps.
My breath comes fast and shallow. I’m hyperventilating. The edges of my vision darken, but I can’t slow down.
“Breathe in abundance. Breathe out fear.” The mantra slips from my lips, habitual but hollow.
There’s no abundance here. Just the shark I’m locked away with, who touched me with such violent tenderness, I dissolved.
That’s what terrifies me most.
Not him. Not what he could do to me.
But what I did. How I responded by arching into his touch and moaning his name like a prayer. I clutched at him with needy hands when I should have fought and bolted.
I should hate him. Fear him.
After the alley, after the blood and the bodies, after the threats to Ashley. He should repulse me. And he did. He does.
But that’s not all.
I stop and dig my fingers into the edge of the desk. The truth rises like bile, impossible to gulp back down.
The first time he kissed me, I conjured excuses.
A shock response. Chemical misfiring. My body, touch-starved and neglected for so long, would probably react to any contact at all.
But this time was different.
I knew exactly what he was. What he’s capable of.
Despite what he’s shown me, the frozen, hurting boy beneath the killer’s mask lured me in.
Despite the blood on his hands. The casual violence. The cold calculation.
I wanted him anyway.
I wanted him to consume me. I wanted to fall into that beautiful, terrifying void I’d glimpsed in his eyes. I wanted him to fill me with his fire and intensity. His danger.
This isn’t just attraction. It isn’t just misplaced Stockholm syndrome or adrenaline or fear twisted into lust. This is darker and more profound.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid this.
The kind of passion my father chased right into his grave.
The intensity my mother fled from in favor of burying herself in sterile wealth and rigid control.
The messy chaos I attempted to bypass by finding truth in ancient practices, hiding behind crystals and manifestation journals, and recalibrating the world through spiritual platitudes.
Kirill threatens every carefully constructed barrier I’ve built. He contains more raw energy in his little finger than I’ve managed to manifest with years of effort. He’s a menacing criminal capable of terrible things. And so intensely magnetic.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Jordan
I watch, listen, and learn the rhythm of Kirill. Reconcile what I’ve seen over the past few days.
