Iknewit was her. But now I had proof.Herface,theface. Perfectly matching the woman inked on my body.
It's not a coincidence.
I don't believe in coincidences.
It's fate.
She's mine. She's always been mine. And the tattoos prove it—proof written in ink and pain across every inch of my skin years before I knew she existed in reality.
Immediately, I put cameras in her apartment. I hired a team that specialized in corporate espionage. They had her place wired in under twenty minutes. Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room. Kitchen. Multiple separate feeds streaming directly to encrypted servers I'd set up specifically for this purpose.
Her car came next. GPS tracker installed during an oil change—I sent her a coupon for a free service, used a shell company that looked legitimate enough she didn't question it.
Then her digital life. Keylogger on her laptop that captured every single stroke. Backdoor access to her phone that mirrored every text, every call, every app she opened. Her passwords. Her browsing history. The files she thought she'd deleted.
I became addicted to watching her exist.
Tonight, I become the man inked on my skin. The man in the black ski mask who binds, chokes, fucks, eats, and displays her.
No face. No identity. Just power.
When I'm in my Tom Ford suits, not a single tattoo shows. High collars. Long sleeves. Perfectly tailored to hide everything.
My business associates see wealth and control.
My employees see discipline and competence.
Nobody sees me.
Nobody except the ones who earn it.
And now… Scarletta.
I grab the black ski mask from the table beside the mirror. Pull it over my head. Adjust the eye holes.
The man in the ink stares back at me.
Faceless. Dangerous. Exactly like her darkest fantasy.
Through the window, the helicopter appears in the distance. A black dot silhouetted against the mid-day sun pouring through gray clouds like a delivery from Heaven.
My cock throbs. I press my palm against it through the fabric, applying pressure, controlling the urge to stroke.
Not yet.
Soon.
The helicopter descends toward the illuminated pad. Lands. Rotors still spinning.
The pilot exits first. His movements are crisp, efficient—he's done this before. He circles around to the rear passenger door. Opens it. Reaches inside with one gloved hand extended.
And there she is.
Scarletta.
The external cameras feed to monitors behind me but I stay at the window, watching with my own eyes as she's guided across the heated concrete path toward the cabin's front entrance.
She's naked.
