Not hypothetically. Not metaphorically. He runs an organization called The Scales that hunts down wealthy predators who escape justice and makes them suffer.
I should be horrified.
I should be calculating the distance to the nearest exit, mapping escape routes in my head, wondering if I can outrun him through the jungle and signal for help.
That's what a normal person would do.
That's what the protagonist in any rational thriller would be doing right now—cataloging weapons, assessing threats, preparing to fight for her survival.
But I'm not thinking about any of that.
I'm thinking about how… I'veneverhad a Valentine's Day date.
The absurdity of this hits me like a slap, and I almost laugh out loud at myself. Here I am, sitting in the lap of a confessed professional killer, naked, and exhausted, and still slightly trembling from the aftershocks of multiple forced orgasms, andmy brain has decided to fixate on the romantic implications of his invitation.
Eight more stations. A jungle maze. Seafood lunch and a massage. Ocean-view dinner. Sleeping in his room—not for sex, he said. For companionship.
This is, objectively, the most elaborate Valentine's Day date anyone has ever planned for me.
This is theonlyValentine's Day date anyone has ever planned for me.
I think about what this would look like on social media. The aesthetic perfection of it all—the tropical island, the candlelit aftercare room, the handsome man with his careful touches and his knowledge of exactly what I need. I could film reels that would make women around the world spiral with jealousy.Look at my Valentine's Day date! He built an entire scavenger hunt just for me! He knows all my fantasies and makes them come true!
The torture confession.
The corporate-funded executions.
The methodical way he explained Derek's death like discussing dinner plans.
All minor details.
I almost do laugh then, a small sound that escapes before I can stop it. The unmasked man looks at me with concern, probably wondering if I'm having some kind of psychological break.
Maybe I am.
Or maybe I'm just finally accepting that nothing is what it seems. That the most romantic gesture anyone has ever made for me comes wrapped in darkness, and blood, and the kind of moral complexity that would give philosophers nightmares.
That the person who sees me most clearly, who understands my writing, and my shame, and my desperate need to be known, is someone the world would call a monster.
I wonder if that makes me insane too.
I picture what tonight would look like. This tall, handsome, muscular, competent man—and he is all of those things, objectively beautiful in ways I still haven't fully processed—sitting beside me on a couch. We might watch movies. Something mindless and easy, the kind of film I've seen a hundred times because I needed the comfort of knowing how it ends.
Or we might play board games. Yahtzee or Scrabble or something ridiculous that would make me laugh.
We might take a walk on the beach in the moonlight, and he might point out constellations, and I might pretend I know anything about astronomy beyond what I've researched for stories.
And then, once the evening was over, I'd be in his bed.
Not for sex. He was clear about that.
For companionship.
He might hold me.
The thought sends something through my chest that I don't have a name for. Something that aches in the best possible way, sharp and sweet and terrifying all at once.
When was the last time someoneheldme?
