Her lips are glistening with her own taste. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. Her thighs are shaking so hard she can barely keep them open. I crouch in front of her, my hand still buried in her hair, my thumb dragging across her swollen bottom lip.
“You’ll remember this,” I whisper. “You’ll taste me when you swallow. You’ll feel me when you walk. You’ll ache every time you breathe.”
Her eyes are begging now. Not for release. For more. I tilt her head. I want her to beg for something else. “Say it.”
Her breath is so shallow now. Her lips part. The words fall like she’s giving up something holy. “Please cage me.”
I smile. Because that’s what she’s really begging for. Not to be fucked. Not to be free. To be caged. Owned. Kept. I slide my hand over her throat. My grip tightens. Her pulse kicks hard against my palm. “Good girl.”
The buzzer crackles from the surveillance room. My blood chills. I pull her with me as I move, dragging her to her feet, making her stumble to keep up. I’m not letting her go. Not now. Not when she’s dripping and desperate and raw.
The front monitor blinks. Static again. The same fucking glitch. I switch to the backup feed. It cuts in just in time to catch it. Another package. Left at the door. Smaller this time. Tighter. The second stalker is still here. He’s still watching. He’s still playing.
I grab Raven’s chin, force her eyes to the screen. “You see that?” I whisper. She nods, her breath catching. “He’s not taking you.” I press my lips to her temple, my voice a razor edge. “You’re already taken.”
Her knees buckle. I drag her closer. And I open the door.
The hallway is silent. Not just quiet—dead. Like the air forgot how to carry sound. The package sits on the doormat like it belongs there. Like it’s been waiting for me. Like he knew I’d open the door first. I don’t touch it yet. I watch it. The way Raven watches me. The way she’s gripping my shirt now like I might disappear if she lets go.
“Stay behind me,” I say, without turning. I hear her breath catch. I feel her nod against my back.
Good girl.
I crouch, check the seams, the corners, the tape. No wires. No mechanical pressure points. Just a simple, perfect box, wrapped in the same white cloth, the same red ribbon. Deliberate. Designed for me. Not her. Me. I lift it slowly. Bring it inside. Bolt the door. Twice.
I set the box on the table. Raven stays pressed to me like she’s not sure if I’ll let her stand on her own. I don’t. I curl my arm around her waist. Keep her tight against me as I untie the ribbon.
Inside the box, there’s no note this time. Just a smaller object, wrapped in black silk. I pull it free. Unwrap it slow. The silk falls away like it’s never belonged there.
It’s a Polaroid. A fresh one. Glossy. Undisturbed. And it’s of me. Sleeping. The angle’s close. The frame is tight. The detail is sharp enough to see the faint scar on my jaw. Raven’s breath rattles against my ribs. “When was that?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know. The timestamp’s been scratched out. The surface of the photo gouged with deliberate, sharp strokes. The number’s gone. I flip the photo over. There’swriting. Not a full sentence this time. Just a string of words, scrawled fast, pressed hard enough to dent the paper.
Do you taste her when you sleep?
My stomach sinks. My grip on Raven tightens. I run my thumb over the words like I might burn them off the page. This isn’t just a threat. It’s a message. It’s a promise. It’s a reminder that I’m not the only one leaving marks. That I’m not the only one who’s tasted her.
I feel Raven’s heartbeat thudding against me. Fast. Wild. Frightened. I tilt her head down, my lips grazing the curve of her ear. “Say it,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous.
Her throat bobs. “Say who you belong to.”
Her voice is a cracked whisper. “You.”
“Louder.”
“You.”
I grip her chin, pull her head back, make her meet my eyes. “Say it properly.”
“I belong to you.”
Her body’s still trembling. Not from the cold. From the knowing. The knowing that someone else has been here.
Someone else has been watching. Someone else has been close enough to touch.
Close enough to taste. But he didn’t take her. He left her. For me. And that’s the mistake he’s going to fucking choke on.
I pull her closer, press my mouth to hers, hard, brutal, claiming. “You’re mine,” I growl against her lips. “And I don’t fucking share.”
