"InRunning from the Rangers, Simone jumped off a bridge holding hands with Justin because he told her the river would save them. You wrote: 'The terror is real, but so is the certainty in his eyes. He'd never let me break.'"
I watch her face as recognition floods through her. She knows these stories. Obviously. She wrote every word.
But hearing me recite them back to her—exact sentences she typed months or years ago in the safety of her apartment—that's different.
That's proof I've consumed every single thing she's ever created.
"InTrust Fall, Elena had to stand on the edge of a rooftop while blindfolded and wait for him to tell her when to step back. You wrote: 'I can'tsee the drop, but I can feel it pulling at me like gravity has intentions. His voice is the only thing tethering me to solid ground.'"
My thumbs are still moving across her cheeks. Wiping away tears that have slowed to a trickle now.
Her mouth opens like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
"And inDepths of Despair, Claire had to walk a makeshift bridge between two buildings to escape her captors while her master encouraged from below. You wrote: 'Every step feels like dying, but I take them anyway because losing him is worse than losing my own life.'"
I stop talking.
The silence between us feels heavier than it should. Like I've revealed something I didn't plan to give her.
Scarletta stares at me. Her eyes are still wet but they're not crying anymore. Just wide and stunned and searching my face for an explanation I'm not sure how to provide.
"You remember all of that?" Her voice comes out hoarse. Barely above a whisper.
"I remember everything you've ever written."
The truth of that statement hits me as I say it out loud. Not just the dark romance scenes I've used to plan our encounters. Not just the sex, or the bondage, or the psychological games.
All of it.
The throwaway lines about her characters drinking coffee black because they can't afford cream. The descriptions of empty apartments that smell like loneliness. The protagonists who apologize too much, and think too hard, and sabotage their own happiness.
Every word she's put on a page, I've absorbed like it was scripture.
Because it wasn't just research.
It washer.
The realization makes my chest tighten in a way that feels uncomfortable. Foreign. Like something shifted that wasn't supposed to move.
"Why?" she asks.
I don't have a good answer. Or maybe I do, but admitting it feels like handing her a weapon I'm not sure she knows how to use yet.
My obsession isn't just about sex. It's not even about control, though that's part of it.
It's about her talent. Her mind. The way she builds worlds, and characters, and psychological depth that most published authors can't touch. The way she understands power dynamics,and fear, and desire better than people who've spent decades studying it.
She's brilliant.
And she has no idea.
"Because you're exceptional," I tell her. The words feel too honest. Too raw. I force my voice back to something neutral. Controlled. "And exceptional things deserve to be appreciated."
Her eyes search mine. Looking for the lie. The manipulation.
She won't find it.
This is the truth, even if I'm wrapping it in language that sounds like dominance instead of devotion.
