13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

IZEL

I’m lounging in the living room, feeling restless and out of place. Luna, the cheery cop with a penchant for oversharing, is seated nearby, chattering away as if we’ve been friends for ages. She’s trying to bond, form some bestie connection, but she couldn’t be more off the mark.

I’ve mentioned more than once how much I despise humans, and if there’s a category I loathe even more, it’s chatty women – especially the ones who are all sunshine and rainbows. Luna’s the poster child for everything I can’t stand.

She’s been telling me endless stories about her dream of becoming a cop, how her father was one, and how it’s been her goal since she was knee-high. As if I give a fuck about her life story.

I’m struggling to maintain my cool, my eyes are stuck on the god-awful floral pattern of the living room curtains. Why she thinks I give a shit about her family history is beyond me.

The flowers on these curtains are so distracting, like a mess of colors, that I can’t escape. But it’s better than thinking about how I got Charles killed. Now, I could have killed him, but why soil my hands when one devil can feast on another?

Charles was the worst kind of scum. He sold me into slavery so many times I lost count. It was always up to him when the touch of other men would stop affecting me. Each time he decided to hand me over, it was like a fresh wound. His death doesn't make it all go away, but at least now he can’t do that to anyone else.

Luna, being the persistent chatterbox she is, decides to probe further. “So, Izel, tell me about your parents. What are they like?”

“Oh, they’re just the life of the party, really. Always so understanding and supportive.”

Luna’s smile wavers a bit, probably sensing the sarcasm but not willing to give up. “That sounds nice. I’m sure they’re proud of you.”

I scoff at that. “Proud? Oh, they’re absolutely ecstatic about my life choices. You could say they’re ‘dead’ proud.”

Luna’s brow furrows in confusion. “Dead proud? What does that mean?”

I offer her a grin that’s anything but cheerful. “They’re dead to me.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback by my cynicism. Luna is the kind of person who expects butterflies and rainbows in every life story, and my bleak outlook is probably throwing her for a loop.

“Well, you certainly have a unique perspective,” she says with an almost patronizing tone. “But I’m sure there’s more to the story. Sometimes, it helps to talk about these things.”

I roll my eyes. Luna’s right about one thing – there’s definitely more to the story, but it’s not something I’m eager to share with a chatty cop who can’t take a hint.

“You know, if you ask Rick politely, he might get you off those cuffs,” she says with a smile that could rival the sun.

A scoff escapes me. Politeness? That’s not my style. I’d rather rot in cuffs than grovel for his favors.

“You don’t know me at all, do you? I won’t be begging anyone for shit.”

She looks taken aback, like she genuinely thought her little tidbit of information would be a game-changer. It’s as if she believes everyone can be won over with a smile and a few pleases and thank-yous.

I can’t stand her blind optimism, her naive belief that everyone can be swayed with politeness.

I’m struggling, trapped in a nightmare that refuses to end. The room feels suffocating, my cries and pleas bouncing off the walls, unheard. Tears stream down my face as my voice trembles with desperation. I beg them to stop, to let me go, but my words are met with cruel laughter.

“Please, please just let me go. I won’t say anything, I promise,” I plead.

One of the men leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear as he taunts me. “Come on, sweetheart. You know you want this. We’re just having some fun.”

“Fuck you!” I scream, trying to muster any courage I have left, but it only seems to amuse them more.

The other man, equally depraved, grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. He slaps me, the sting burning through my skin. “You’re not going anywhere, baby. We’ll do whatever we want.”

“Please, please stop,” I sob, my body shaking uncontrollably.

One of them holds me down while the other forces himself inside me. “You’re so fucking tight, babe. We’re gonna make you scream. You like that, don’t you?”

I thrash and struggle, but they’re too strong. They take turns, violating me with each thrust, their hands groping and degrading me further.

“Please, it hurts,” I cry out, my voice hoarse from screaming.

“Shut up, bitch,” one of them snarls, slapping me again. “You’re ours now. You’ll take it and like it.”

I feel their hands everywhere, grabbing, pinching, and pulling. They laugh at my tears, mocking my helplessness.

“You’re such a good little whore,” one of them sneers, thrusting harder. “Scream for us, baby. We love it when you scream.”

“Please, please stop. I can’t take it anymore,” I whimper.

They don’t listen. They never listen. The assault continues, each thrust pushing me further into despair. Their hands grip me tighter, their laughter ringing in my ears. I feel my spirit breaking, my will shattering under their relentless abuse.

“Beg for it,” one of them demands with a cruel whisper. “Beg for us to fuck you harder.”

“Please, no more,” I sob. “I can’t… I can’t…”

“Louder!” he yells, slapping me hard across the face. “I said beg for it!”

“Please, please fuck me harder,” I choke out, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Just make it stop.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his grip tightening. “Now, take it like the dirty slut you are.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear, wishing I could be anywhere but here. Their words cut deep, their actions deeper. I feel broken, lost, and utterly defeated.

The minutes stretch into an eternity, each one more torturous than the last. I lose track of time, of everything except the pain and the voices taunting me.

“Look at her,” one of them says, laughing. “She’s fucking loving it.”

“Please,” I whisper one last time, though I know it’s useless. “Please, just let me go.”

Their laughter is the last thing I hear as darkness finally, mercifully, takes me.

“You know,” Luna chirps, “a little ‘please’ can solve all your problems.”

I’m pulled from the memory as Luna’s voice disrupts my thoughts. She’s trying to be helpful, offering some naive piece of advice, and it grates on my already frayed nerves. I can’t help myself; I have to set her straight.

“Please doesn’t make it stop, Luna.”

In my experience, a simple “please” doesn’t stop anything. For two years, I was violated by countless men. Begging, pleading, crying—it never made a difference. It only stopped when I became unresponsive to their abuse, but then, it was replaced by something much worse.

When I look back at Luna, I catch the shift in her expression. Her eyes widen in confusion, and I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I might have shared more with her than I intended.

I need to get out of this fucking conversation. “I need to eat,” I mutter, pushing myself up and heading toward the kitchen. My body moves on autopilot as I distance myself, needing a damn break from this emotional tug-of-war.

Luna’s quick to uncuff me, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her gaze. She’s about to say something—probably another one of her annoying optimistic remarks—but I cut her off by rummaging through the cabinets. I can feel her eyes burning into my back, but I keep myself turned away.

I grab a glass, but my hand slips, and the glass shatters on the counter. Fuck. I reach to clean it up.

Luna reaches for the shards too, and in my rush to move, I accidentally knock her arm into a larger piece of glass.

“Fuck, Luna, you’re bleeding,” I say, playing up my concern,

She looks down at her hand, finally noticing the deep cut. “It’s nothing,” she brushes it off. But blood is already dripping onto the counter.

I grab a dish towel and start wiping up the blood. “I’ve got this handled,” I tell her, gesturing toward the mess on the counter. “You should go clean that up before you drip all over the place.”

She hesitates, but the blood’s pouring faster now, so she finally nods and heads to the bathroom. As soon as I hear the water running, I pull a piece of paper and pen from my back pocket. There's no doubt in my mind now—Luna’s going to be the next victim. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s already marked herself.

With a quick glance toward the bathroom door to make sure she’s still occupied, I dip the pen into the small pool of her blood that’s still on the counter. The dark red ink swirls into the nib.

Halfway through writing, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I ignore it at first, focused on the letter, but I know Martin won’t stop until I pick up. Fucking persistent as always.

I grab the phone, glancing at the bathroom door where the water’s still running, then answer. “What do you want?”

“What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter for Richard.”

There’s a pause, then he sounds shocked, almost pissed. “With whose blood, Izel?”

“Luna’s,” I reply casually.

“You should keep her out of it,” Martin says.

“You know I can’t,” I snap back. “She’s going to be the next target, and you know it.”

“What good is it going to do to send letters? We’ve sent so many already, and none of them were even identified.”

“Richard’s smart,” I insist, finishing the letter and pocketing it. “He’s not like the others.”

I wipe down the counter, erasing any trace of the blood. The water shuts off in the bathroom, and I know Luna’s about to come back. I hang up on Martin without another word, shifting my expression to concern as Luna walks in.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, waving it off, but there’s a slight wince in her voice. “Sorry you had to deal with the mess.”

“Not a problem,” I say, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “Let’s get something to eat.”

The power cuts out just as I’m reaching for the saucepan. Outside, it’s already dimming, but in here, it’s like the night crept in early, swallowing the last traces of daylight.

“Shit,” Luna mutters, a little too loud. She’s already fumbling around the counter, probably thinking she can grab a flashlight or something. But I don’t mind the dark. It’s actually a relief; no one can see me. No prying eyes. No forced expressions. Just… nothing.

“It’s dark as hell,” Luna grumbles moving around the kitchen. “I’ll check the generator. It’s probably some fuse shit.”

I stay put, just listening to her shuffle and curse. It’s strangely calming—hearing someone else mutter instead of the usual silence in my head. A minute passes, then another, and the light’s still out. But Luna comes back, snapping her fingers like that’ll make the lights come back on.

“Damn generator’s busted.” She’s squinting in my direction, though I can barely make her out in the dark. “I’ll get some candles.”

“Forget it.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “I don’t like candles.”

She freezes, the outline of her face tense. “Why not? It’s just a candle.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I shrug. “I don’t need one.”

She huffs and makes her way to where Richard probably keeps the candles anyway, knocking stuff around until she finds them. I hear her flicking a lighter.

“For fuck’s sake, let it go, Luna.”

She clicks the lighter shut, slowly lowering the candle. “You’re acting weird. What’s with the candle thing? You afraid of ‘em or something?”

“It’s not fear.” I roll my shoulders back, trying to relax, to act like this isn’t clawing at me. “Just don’t like ‘em.”

“So, you’d rather sit here in the dark like a creep?”

“Yes,” I say bluntly. “I’d rather sit here in the dark than stare at some fake light that doesn’t do anything.”

Ahh shit, here we go again.

I swear, I need a fucking filter. This is the second time today I’ve slipped my tongue more than necessary.

Luckily the front door opens, and Richard walks in, saving me from Luna’s prying.

Thank fuck.

It’s been a week since he started insinuating about my involvement in Charles’s murder, though he’s never directly accused me. He can’t really do that because I’ve been stuck in his house for over a week now, and he knows it’s not the easiest place to come and go from.

“Why’s it so dark in here?”

“There’s a power cut,” Luna replies, snapping out of her endless scrutiny of me. “And, surprise, surprise, your generator’s dead.”

Richard lets out a low sigh. “I’ll get the candles.”

“Don’t bother.” Luna shoots me a pointed look. “Izel doesn’t want to light them up.”

Silence.

I know he’s staring at me. Maybe I can’t see him, but I can feel him—right down to the way his eyes seem to drill into me. I shiver, hoping he doesn’t notice.

I want to look away, ignore him, pretend he’s not in my space. But the darkness makes it worse; every little sound, every movement feels amplified. It’s like he’s right there, an inch from me, his breath brushing against my skin, even though I know he’s still by the doorway.

Finally, he shifts—toward Luna, I think. I can’t be sure. My mind’s playing tricks on me, and it’s making me want to punch something just to clear my head. God, this fucking darkness is getting to me.

The power hums back to life, filling the room with that sharp, white glow. I blink, squinting as my eyes adjust to the brightness.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, Luna. I appreciate your help.”

Luna offers a warm smile, her kindness contrasting sharply with the darkness that often surrounds me. “No problem at all, Rick.”

Her words should have no impact on me. But as I watch them exchange pleasantries, a strange feeling washes over me. Jealousy? I didn’t think I was capable of such a pesky emotion.

It’s absurd, really. Richard has never been this polite to me, and there’s no reason to believe his interactions with Luna mean anything more. Yet, the irrational thought takes root, and I find myself wondering if he likes her, if he’s kinder to her than he is to me.

After Luna walks away, leaving us alone. Richard turns to me. “How about a walk outside?”

A walk? I hadn’t expected him to be so...considerate. He’s been nice this past week, sure. And by nice, I mean he’s not trying to piss me off. We’ve had our dinners in almost complete silence, with the occasional small talk about the news or something insignificant, but that’s about it.

“I don’t want a repeat of what happened last week. I figured you did that because you wanted some fresh air,” he offers an explanation.

His words stun me. He figured that I might’ve gone outside for some fresh air? No one’s ever paid that much attention to my actions, my needs, before. I nod in agreement, too surprised to offer more than a slight nod.

But then, with his typical bluntness, he adds, “One condition, though. Please wear pants.”

“What’s the big deal? Pants are overrated, you know.”

His eyes lock with mine, and a sudden wave of self-consciousness washes over me. It’s not that I have a problem with walking around without pants; I’ve spent enough time in far more compromising situations. But the way Richard is eyeing me, the way he’s making it a point, has me feeling oddly shy.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m well aware of your opinions on pants but humor me this time.”

My usual bravado falters for a moment, and I find myself complying with his request, quickly slipping into a pair of pants. As I dress, I'm stuck wondering why I’m even entertaining this.

But it’s just a walk, right? So, I brush off the discomfort and join him. We step outside, and I instantly feel a sense of relief. The confinement of walls has always made me uneasy, and the opportunity to be out in the open, even with Richard, feels like a rare gift.

The silence between us is broken by Richard, who begins to share a bit about his childhood. It’s a side of him I’ve rarely seen, and for some reason, I find myself wanting to engage in this conversation. He’s recounting tales of his early years, his family, and the adventures he had as a child.

He looks at me with genuine interest. “Have you ever done something like that?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Fishing with my father is not a memory I can recall, and even if it were, it’s not a story I’d be eager to share. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much of my life has been about survival, about escaping the shadows that have haunted me.

I lean back against a tree. “So, why did you end up in law enforcement?”

Richard lets out a small chuckle, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but my story’s not a sob story. I don’t have a troubled past or some grand calling to justice. It’s actually pretty simple. I was just an average student in academics, nothing to write home about. But when it came to athletics, I was pretty damn good.”

I raise an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk forming on my lips. “So, you’re saying you become a cop because you can outrun the bad guys?”

Richard laughs, a hearty, genuine laugh that makes my heart flutter. “You could put it that way, I guess. I knew I wanted to do something good, make a difference in the world. And when I thought about it, it seemed like a solid choice.”

His honesty takes me by surprise, and the simplicity of his answer actually makes me smile. It’s a rare occurrence, and I can’t remember the last time I genuinely felt a hint of happiness.

Richard’s laughter fades, but the warmth in his eyes lingers. His hand reaches out, and before I can react, his fingers brush against my arm. I start to flinch—it’s an automatic response—but he surprises me. Instead of pulling away, he hooks his finger under the fallen strap of my camisole and gently slides it back into place.

I hold my breath, expecting him to step back, to give me space. Instead, his knuckles trail down the skin of my shoulder, gliding over the intricate tattoo inked there. He follows the lines, tracing the scars that mar the design underneath. I brace myself for the usual disgust that comes with unwanted touch. But it never comes.

It’s the opposite. His touch feels colder, like it’s dousing a flame I hadn’t realized was burning me alive.

His fingers ghost over one of the deeper scars. “Abusive relationship?”

I slowly open my eyes to meet his gaze, searching for any trace of pity. Instead, I find a quiet understanding.

“Abuse doesn’t wear fangs; it knows how to soothe before it stings. It gets under your skin, twists itself around your bones until it becomes the only thing that feels familiar.”

“Why a candle?” he asks, his thumb brushing against the fading lines near the base of my tattoo.

For a moment, I consider dodging the question. It’s what I do best—give half-truths, deflect. But I’m too drained to lie right now. And maybe, for once, I don’t want to.

“It was my way of taking control,” I admit. “I thought maybe if I engraved the very thing that hurt me, it would hurt less. Like if I burned the pain into my skin, it wouldn’t feel like it owned me anymore.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” I whisper, the word barely escaping my lips before I turn on my heel and start to walk away.

He’s right behind me, catching up in just two strides. His fingers wrap gently around my wrist. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pry into things I’m not ready to share.

It’s an odd relief, and before I can second-guess myself, I mutter, “Thanks,” and continue walking alongside.

We keep walking, and the neighborhood streets are far from friendly. The people here have a way of reminding you that you’re not exactly welcome. A guy nearby can’t resist making a crude comment as we pass.

“Hey, little doll, why don’t you come over and give us a taste of what you’re selling?” He says leering at me.

I swear, my skin crawls at his sleazy words, but before I can even muster a response, Richard goes full-on Hulk mode.

In a flash, he lunges at the offender. His fists start moving with the speed and fury of a tornado. It’s like a gritty action movie scene. The dude’s nose spurts crimson, teeth shatter, and he crumples to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Blood’s everywhere; it’s like a messy Jackson Pollock painting.

The stranger’s face goes from arrogance to panic in point two seconds, and he’s suddenly singing a different tune, stumbling over apologies like he’s auditioning for a part in a sorry musical.

With a final punch, Richard silences the man, leaning in close with a menacing glare. “Cross paths with her again, and you won’t be so lucky.”

Then, without another word, he turns and strides in my direction. He looks at me with genuine concern in his eyes and asks, “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, because honestly, I’m far from okay. No one’s ever stood up for me like that, let alone looked at me with concern, and it’s hitting me right where it feels.

I start walking in the direction of Richard’s home. Tears are doing that whole threatening-to-spill-over thing, but I’m not about to let him see that. He’s fast, but so am I, and I’m kind of pissed at him for making me feel at all.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Richard asks but I’m not in the mood for a chit-chat. I don’t say a damn word, just keep on walking. Screw it, my emotions are all over the place, and I’m not sure what to do with them, especially when Richard’s turned out to be an unexpected knight in shining armor.

I storm inside the house, thinking I can escape from his looming presence. But I can still hear his voice in the distance, like a pesky echo that won’t go away. It’s making me jittery, and I need some space to breathe.

But just as I’m about to put some much-needed distance between us, Richard grabs my arm with a grip that could crush my bones and turns me around to face him. I crash right into his chest, and he looks like he’s about to explode with anger.

“What happened?”

“You didn’t have to stand up for me. I can take care of myself,” I spit out, not holding back. It’s like I need him to know that I’m no damsel in distress.

He’s still got that intense look in his eyes, and he’s not letting me go. “Well, I know you can take care of yourself. I didn’t stand up for you because I think you’re weak. I stood up because I can’t take disrespect.”

“Disrespect? Seriously?” I scoff, shaking my head. “That guy’s just an idiot. I can handle a few nasty words. I don’t need a knight in shining armor to save me from creeps on the street.”

“I get it. You’re tough, but that doesn’t mean you should have to put up with garbage like that.”

I look away, avoiding his intense gaze. “Well, I’ve been doing just fine on my own, so thanks but no thanks.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I bristle. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump into a storm. “What’s wrong with me?” I shoot back. “People are not nice, Richard. So stop acting like you’re not just like the rest of them.”

It’s one of those moments where I wish I could just grab my words and shove them back in my mouth, but they’re already out there, hanging in the air like a dirty secret. I can see the storm clouds gathering in his eyes, and I wonder what kind of mess I’ve just stirred up.

His response surprises me. He doesn’t react with more anger or defensiveness. Instead, he brushes his knuckles gently against my cheek and asks softly, “Who hurt you?”

The anger’s still bubbling inside me, but something about the way he’s peering into my soul makes me want to tell him everything. And I want to tell him. God, I really do, I want to tell him everything, let him in on all the messy details, and hope he’ll understand. But I can’t. The words are too heavy, too tangled in my throat.

So, I do something impulsive, something that’s like throwing a match into a barrel of gasoline. I close the gap between us, ignoring all the uncertainty that’s been floating around, and I kiss him. It’s not a timid peck; it’s a full-on, let’s-set-the-world-on-fire kind of kiss.

Richard’s taken aback for a moment, but then he responds by tangling his fingers in my hair, kissing me back with an intensity that leaves me breathless. It’s like we’re two stars colliding, sparking and igniting the dark sky.

But it’s more than that. It’s a tornado meeting a volcano. I’m the tornado, spinning, reckless, tearing through everything in my path. He’s the volcano, quiet on the surface, but beneath, there’s molten destruction waiting to explode. And when we come together, it’s cataclysmic. The storm feeds the fire, and the fire fuels the storm, creating something unstoppable, untamable.

We’re caught in each other’s gravity, spiraling out of control. His lips are demanding, claiming, and I give as good as I get, pouring all my anger, my fear, and my lust into him. The world around us could burn, and we wouldn’t care.

Before I know it, Richard’s pushing me against the wall. His lips trail down, and he starts biting and sucking on my neck. It’s a sweet torture, that’s driving me to the edge of reason. It’s like he’s untangling me, pulling me apart and putting me back together in a completely different way.

And in return, all I want is to do is break him. Watch the purity in his eyes shatter as I mold him into a reflection of the monster I’ve become.

My hands clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer. The wall at my back is my only support as my knees threaten to give way.

With a nudge, Richard separates my legs with his knee. My legs spread apart almost on instinct, as if my body’s a traitor to my brain.

His fingers move lower, and he grabs my hips, pushing my pants down. I hesitate, not because I don’t want him to see me, to touch me, but because I’m not exactly the same as I used to be. The horrors I’ve been through have left their mark, and it’s like a scar on my soul.

“What’s the matter, Izel?” he commands. “Spread your legs for me.”

“I’ll spread them when I’m good and ready,” I fire back.

“Oh baby, you’re way past good and ready.”

His fingers inch towards my pussy, and my instinct is to close my legs, to protect the part of me that’s become so fragile over the years.

He knows he’s getting to me, and he revels in it. “I can fucking feel you,” he continues. “You’re dripping wet.”

And to make his point crystal clear, his fingers graze my pussy, and I gasp. I can’t deny it. He’s right. I’m wet, in a way I’ve never been before.

“Just because I’m wet doesn’t mean I’m ready,” I snap.

Richard’s eyes flash with something dark as his pupils dilate, swallowing the soft blue of his irises until there’s almost nothing left but a thin ring of color. “I vividly recall you like being forced.”

Instantly, fear grips me. I haven’t been forced in a while, and I would like to keep it that way. I quickly overturn my expression and laugh, trying hard not to sound nervous, but I’m failing at it.

“Your shiny badge won’t allow you to force me, Agent Reynolds,” I berate, hoping to steer the conversation away from this perilous path.

His grin widens, and he whips his gun from his back pocket. He moves the gun from my waist to my chin, and my eyes follow its path until my chin is lifted by the cold steel.

“I like to consider myself a decorated criminal.”

He forces the gun inside my mouth, shutting me up. The taste of metal fills my senses, and I try to pull away. He starts pushing the gun in and out of my mouth.

“Silence suits you,” he murmurs, the gun moving rhythmically, making me gag. “Makes you so much more manageable.”

I glare at him, tears stinging my eyes as I try to breathe around the invasive barrel. I’m powerless, trapped by the combination of fear and unwanted arousal. He eases the gun out slightly, allowing me a moment to gulp in a desperate breath of air before plunging it back in. Each time it presses against the back of my throat, I fight the urge to gag.

“I’m not scared,” I garble around the gun.

“You don’t have to be scared.”

I want to believe him, to trust that he won’t hurt me, but the weight of the gun against my throat is a constant reminder that he is capable of hurting me.

“Unless, of course, you’re hiding something,” he continues as he presses the gun harder, forcing it deeper into my mouth, and I can feel the sharp edges digging into the tender flesh of my throat.

“Are you, Izel? Are you hiding something from me?”

Yes, I’m hiding a lot of things, but he can’t know that. The gun remains wedged between my teeth as he shifts slightly, and I feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against my hips. The heat of his body, the roughness of his jeans—it’s all too much.

Finally, he removes the gun, and I gulp air like a baby bird eagerly swallowing its first taste of freedom. The relief is overwhelming, but my respite is brief. I pant heavily and manage to choke out, “I’ll report your ass, asshole.”

My words are punctuated by harsh coughs, each one a struggle against the lingering sensation of the gun in my throat. He doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, he holds my chin with the gun again, forcing me to look into his eyes.

“Report what?”

“This,” I point between us. “You... forcing me.”

The accusation in my voice wavers, but I hold his gaze, refusing to show fear.

He trails the gun lower, and my body tenses as he brings it dangerously close to my pussy. He traces the outline of my panties with the barrel.

“Who do you think is going to believe you, baby?” he murmurs almost tenderly. “Who’s going to believe the girl who was moaning my name with her fingers deep inside her sweet little pussy?”

The words cut deep, and I can feel the shame burning in my cheeks.

“You think anyone’s going to take your word over mine?” he continues. “You think they’ll believe you weren’t begging for it, that you weren’t desperate for me after you came with my name on your lips?”

I shake my head, dispeling the doubts he’s planting in my mind. But it’s hard to think clearly with the gun so close, with the memory of its cold, hard presence still fresh in my throat. Regret floods through me, bitter and choking. Yes, I had lost myself the first night I got here after I saw his physique. Yes, I had been desperate. But that was a mistake. A lapse. Not an invitation for this. Not an excuse for what he’s doing now.

I try to focus, to push past the fear and the shame. But wait—How does he know? How does he know what I did in the privacy of my own room? Well, his room, but temporarily my room.

“How did you—?” I start. “Are you stalking me?”

He smirks, a cruel, knowing smile that makes my blood run cold.

“I’m investigating you.”

Confusion clouds my mind. Investigating me? It’s hard to hide the bewilderment on my face.

He hooks the gun in the waistband of my panties, the cold metal brushing against my skin, making me shiver involuntarily. “You’re living in my house,” he explains. “I need to know everything about you.”

His words feel like a coverup, a flimsy excuse to justify his violation. My mind races, trying to piece together his motives, but when the gun brushes against the folds of my pussy, all coherent thoughts flee.

“Ask me to stop,” he tells me.

I know how this game goes. Asking to stop doesn’t make it stop, and the thought of Richard disappointing me is the last thing I want, considering how much I sort of like the guy—or did before I found out about his stalking abilities. So, I don’t say a word, and I don’t want it to stop.

“Ask me to stop,” he repeats his command by brushing the tip of the gun against my clit, and I arch my back in a silent invitation for him to continue. I grab his hair and pull him closer.

“Enjoy your pretty privilege,” I whisper in his ear.