"I've been watching you for six months, Scarletta. Reading everything you write. Learning who you are. And when I found out what Derek did to you?—"
His hand touches my hair. Strokes it.
"I couldn't let him keep breathing. Not when he'd touched something that belongs to me."
Belongs to me.
"I don't belong to you." My voice shakes. "You don't even know me."
"Don't I?"
The question is almost gentle.
"I know you eat Lucky Charms for dinner standing at your kitchen counter because sitting at a table alone makes you feel pathetic. I know you wear your father's hoodie when you write because it makes you feel safe. I know you haven't done laundry in two weeks and you've been rewearing your leggings because you can't seem to care about anything but your sex fantasies."
Stop.
"I know you write your darkest fantasies at three AM when you can't sleep because the silence in your apartment gets too loud. I know you touch yourself while you write but sometimes you deny yourself orgasms because somewhere in your broken brain, you think you don't deserve pleasure unless someone gives you permission."
How—
"I know Derek fucked up your relationship with your own desire. Made you think wanting to submit made you damaged. Made you think your fantasies were proof of your brokenness."
His fingers tilt my chin up. Forcing me to face where I think he's standing even though I can't see.
"And I know that right now—even as terrified as you are—part of you is wet because I killed the man who hurt you. Part of you is aroused because someone finally saw what he did and decided he needed to pay for it."
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?"
His thumb presses against my lower lip.
"Your body doesn't lie, Scarletta. Your pussy doesn't lie. You can tell yourself you're horrified. You can convince yourself this is wrong. But your body knows the truth."
I'm shaking harder now.
Uncontrollable convulsions.
"You write about this. Over and over. Men who kill for their women. Men who destroy anyone who threatens what's theirs. You write about it because you crave it. Because somewhere deep in your psyche, you want to be valuable enough that someone would burn the world down to protect you."
No.
That's fiction. That's fantasy. That's not?—
"And now you have it. A man who killed for you. A man who'll do worse if anyone ever hurts you again."
His voice drops lower.
"So tell me, Scarletta. Do you really want to leave? Do you really want to go back to your empty apartment, and your blanket fort, and your stories about men who don't exist?"
Silence.
I can't speak.
Can't think.
Can't—
"Or do you want to stay here with the monster you've been writing about your entire adult life?"
