Chapter 1

"Loser."

"Total Chad."

"Probably married."

"Forty years old and still bragging about your high school football wins, buddy?"

"Oh, nice goatee—Tell me you're a sociopath without telling me you're a sociopath."

I scrolled listlessly through the dating app on my phone, narrating my first impressions of each candidate for my feline audience, while I lay on my stomach in bed. At this point, I was barely bothering to read the profiles of my wonderful options.

One might think that in such a big city, there would be at least a handful of diamonds peeking out through the shit piles. One might even think that dating at thirty-five would come with more mature and stable men than it had in my twenties.

And one would be so very, very wrong.

Instead, it seemed that all the men my age who were still in the dating pool were either:

A) Narcissists looking for fresh victims.

B) Deadbeats wielding weaponized incompetence like it were a gas-powered chainsaw in a room full of zombies.

C) Shit stains who were married and looking for an affair to feel "young again."

Or D) Forty year olds who still hadn't figured out that they're not in their twenties anymore.

But I was here too, so I probably wasn't any better than anyone else. In the dating-loser pool, I could probably be summed up as the "lonely workaholic who doesn't need a man, and has the patience to assure she never gets one." It's not like I was down to waste two years on another commitment-phobic man-child in the hopes that they would grow up and be a good partner one day.

I perused some more profiles to my disdain, not sure if I was more attracted to the train wreck of it all or if I was just that desperate. I'd been so hopeful when I started out with online dating, thinking these programs were for lonely, busy professionals looking for companionship amidst impossible work schedules. I was hoping to meet someone without having to spend time at a bar. Maybe skip the ‘I can fix him' phase for once with someone halfway well-adjusted. But fuck—was I even well-adjusted?

Obviously not, considering I was more lonely and depressed than ever, despite kicking ass at my job, shattering every glass ceiling, reaching new heights, and coming up with one of the most popular IPs in gaming history. I'd thought achieving success and finally getting the respect I deserved would fill every void in my life, and yet there was always something missing. Why I thought the middle aged dating pool would solve that deficit, I didn't know. Even the most promising and puppy dog men didn't excite me, while the ones that did get my stomach butterflies fluttering left me feeling dirty and disgusted with myself. My whole relationship experience was that of a na?ve child in a brightly colored lawn chair, cheering on a parade of lies and crushed dreams.

Yet, while I knew all this, here I was on a Friday night, staring at my phone like everyone else, as if any one of these men were worth more than an unsatisfying ten seconds in bed after an hour of smiling and nodding through another manifesto of questionable politics and disturbing relationship history, all recited while chewing with his mouth open.

"Why is this my life?" I groaned as I rolled over onto my back and spread my arms on my bed. It would have been easier if I could have just met someone at work. We could bond over our lack of social life, our excessive dedication to climbing the corporate ladder, and maybe make stupid programming jokes here and there. If we were lucky, we could even pretend to like craft beer and binge watch mindless TV shows together. Working in tech, there were lots of men like that in my sphere.

But there was nothing in this universe that would destroy my reputation, instantly erasing every step I'd taken towards being treated as an equal in the software development space, like dating a coworker. Even now I occasionally heard the mutters about my alleged "sleeping my way to the top" and getting so called "preferential treatment," despite having never dipped my pen in company ink. Let's ignore the fact that I had to work ten times harder than the most mediocre programmer on the floor in order to get an ounce of the recognition. Jumping through hoops was exhausting enough without giving those rumors credibility. It was always better to go into an office where no one could post reviews of my vagina on the company bulletin board with a verified purchase checkmark by their name.

So back to sexual frustration and dating randoms that I had nothing in common with.

I drew in a breath for a deep sigh, just in time for Pumpkin, my fluffy, long-haired tabby cat, to launch himself from the top of his cat tree right onto my stomach. The wind was knocked from my lungs in some unsightly combination of choking, gasping, and laughing.

I really need to move the kitty tower a bit further from my bed.

My little cheese puff mewed, then he circled my stomach, and curled up on my chest once he was satisfied that he'd poked me in the gut enough times with his little kitty paws. It was hard to ever stay mad when the fluffle pumpkin started purring though.

Manipulative bastard. All men were the same—even the cats.

I buried my fingers in his luscious fur, then returned to shopping for my next disappointment.

I was about to close the app and throw my phone against the wall, when I came across the picture of a man so striking, he had to have been using some sort of photo manipulation. He had emerald green eyes that practically sparkled, in a shade so vibrant and surreal it could only exist by using colored contacts. There was a devilishness to his smirk that served as its own warning sign, while his stylish auburn hair reaffirmed the obvious assumption that he was a psychopath. I couldn't tell if he was wearing makeup or not, and he was undoubtedly another mistake just waiting to happen.

And like most dumb bitches who never learned, I matched with his pretty face immediately. My messages pinged.

Jericho: I knew you'd accept.

Wow, how completely not narcissistic. God, why did I bother? Who wants to take bets that this guy fucks like a dead fish with a strap-on? These men never lived up to their egos.

Me: And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?

And yet I went along with it.

Jericho: You look like a go getter. The kind of woman who doesn't hesitate when she sees something she wants.

Alright, well, not the worst response. This had turned innocent enough that I was willing to give him a few more responses before I gave him a pass. He did have pretty eyes after all, and I was always a sucker for the eyes.

Jericho: The chances that I didn't meet your standards were less than zero, considering.

Never mind. Here we go.

Me: Considering… what exactly?

Jericho: Considering all princesses dream of attracting the attention of a King.

I raised a brow.

Me: Are you trying to suffocate me with that red flag? Or gag me with it?

Jericho: We can try both and see which one makes you come first.

It's possible that I full snort laughed at that, and I wasn't entirely proud of that fact. What was it about quick wit that always sucked me into engaging with the worst men? Sapiosexuality was real, and it was a curse.

Though I wouldn't be clarifying if the gagging or choking would be more likely to get me off. I definitely wouldn't admit to having casual interest in both. In a safe and sane way, of course.

But this wasn't about him guessing my kinks with clever jokes. This was a battle, and I was here to fight. Or date? No, definitely fight.

Me: Do you often associate women gagging with a night in your bed?

Jericho: Of course I do. It would be unreasonable to expect every woman to be able to relax their throat far enough to take that many inches.

A big dick joke, huh . I'd admit he turned that around way too easily, and I wasn't sure if he was matching me in cleverness or immaturity. Not wanting to play into that hand, however, I ignored his taunt and switched up the game.

Me: So you think you're a king? And yet I'm just a princess? Doesn't that seem a touch egotistical when speaking to a total stranger ?

Call them on their bullshit and watch them flail. Ah, I was being a cynic again. Maybe he'd impress me a third time. I'd never form a deeper connection with anyone if I wrote people off too quickly, and he had shown promise with his comebacks so far.

Don't be the stereotype who dismisses people after the first mistake. I reminded myself.

Jericho: Facts aren't ego, lovely Miss Sela. I have no doubt you have the soul and spirit of a queen, but you've allowed yourself to live a life as the pawn instead of the player.

Me: Go on. I'm listening.

I was still staunchly on the offensive, but his answers were interesting enough thus far that I was curious to see what he'd come up with.

Jericho: I'll gladly indulge you then. It's simple, really. While you may wear the fa?ade of a Queen, with the skill and heart to rule, your crown is terribly fragile. The slightest misstep, and your whole kingdom will shatter. You've spent your whole life terrified of rebellion from subjects who are too small minded to recognize your individual brilliance, because much like the child of someone truly strong, your power must be given to you by another rather than taken with an iron fist. Your spirit is suited to royalty, but your fear holds you back from being a true monarch.

Insightful. Clever. I didn't hate this explanation so far. In my head I knew I should have argued that I'd fought tooth and nail for my position, but in my heart, I knew he had a point, however unsettling. There were pieces of my soul that identified deeply with all of that, no matter how desperately I fought it. He'd described the battle of my entire life in such a simple, succinct metaphor, I was starting to wonder if I was truly that predictable.

Another message pinged before I could form a rebuttal.

Jericho: As a result, you're desperate to be allowed to relax and be yourself. Every day you walk the halls of your kingdom, high on your toes and never allowed to stumble. You know that one day, someone will discover your weaknesses, because your entire reputation depends on your ability to hide your humanity, and no one can wear that mask forever.

Then another text.

Jericho: Which is why you need a man more powerful than you are. Because holding up that front, day in and day out, is exhausting , and all you want is relief and release. It was only natural that your intuition immediately sensed I could provide that for you.

I blinked a few times to process that cute little diatribe. He was still a red flag in a forest fire, but he wasn't entirely wrong, and he was already proving a thousand times more interesting than all of the matches who sent me little more than "hi" and "send boobs."

So I took the bait, figuring if nothing else, this was the most stimulating conversation with a man I'd had in years. As arrogant as he was, he at least offered literacy and eloquence that the rest of the dating pool wasn't.

Me: You speak like such an authority on who I am for someone who only knows me by a handful of sentences on a dating profile.

Jericho: No, I know you by the look in your eyes. It's one I've seen in my own reflection for too many years .

I wanted to sigh, because now I was sucked in and there was no turning back.

Me: That doesn't sound like the sentiment of an untouchable king.

Jericho: No one is untouchable when they're alone, especially not a king. History has taught all of us that.

I paused on that statement for several moments. Despite his initial greeting, he was unexpectedly poetic and emotionally vulnerable, and I didn't mind that. It was refreshing, honestly. Cynicism told me it was a trap to bait me into revealing too much about myself, but that na?ve child at the parade told me I wasn't out anything to give hope a chance.

Me: So you think we'd be indomitable if we were together?

Jericho: Yes and no.

I raised a brow, despite being too invested to not hear him out.

Jericho: I think our place on the throne would never be contested if we sat side by side, but I also think you would be terribly unhappy if you still had to clench your iron fist behind closed doors. The burden of control will be my cross to bear, and you'll submit to your pleasure and trust me to take care of you. I'd assure the world forever bowed at your feet, but you, my queen, would buckle only for me.

Though vaguely resembling sweet nothings, this was probably the point where I should have lashed out. The idea of me being subservient to him, like I'd owe him for the status he'd give me, was disgusting, abhorrent, and went against everything I stood for.

But that stupid, contradictory knot in my stomach wondered what it might be like to have a safe place where I didn't have to always be the dominant figure. Where I didn't have to always have it all together and could let someone else take the reins, even if just for the night, when no one else was looking. Was I allowed to want that without losing my credibility?

This was dangerous, controlling, and one red flag after the other. But then… what if it wasn't? Right now, this was just flirting and banter. Feeling out each other's fantasies and interests wasn't inherently wrong, and he'd given me enough glimpses of emotional intelligence to think he wouldn't respond badly if I shut him down. I wasn't falling into some narcissistic mind game. I was smarter than that. It's not like I was so simple that good dick would keep me in a bad relationship anymore. He could be a safe place to live out a fantasy I'd always wanted to try, and if he wasn't, I didn't have to see him again.

The too vivid thought of a serial killer locking me in a cage in his basement flashed through my mind, and I made a mental note to stop watching so many true crime documentaries. Statistical likelihood of being kidnapped and tortured by a man on a dating app wasn't exactly high.

But it wasn't zero. Never zero.

I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the unexplained discomfort in my gut and tug at my intuition. It was with the utmost care that I crafted my reply.

Me: Say you're right. Maybe I wouldn't mind letting someone else take control for once. What would dominating me look like to you?

Jericho: Let me paint a picture for you .

This should be good.

Jericho: You're going about your day at the office, everything orderly and in place, just like it always is. The day ends, but you're dedicated, so you stay late. That project could wait until tomorrow, but it will reflect better on you if it's finished tonight. You've always had to do more than everyone else, after all.

Eerily accurate.

Jericho: Exhausted, but satisfied that your work has been completed, you step into the elevator, long after everyone else has gone home. You step out into the lobby and the doors close behind you. That's when you hear quiet footsteps, steady, light, careful, and tactful, like a predator sneaking up on its prey. Maybe it's security, you tell yourself, but you know these hallways are empty at this late hour, because you've done this so many times before.

My imagination was moving a thousand miles a minute, and I watched his description play out in my mind like a vivid and enthralling movie. It was easy to picture, because it was word for word my every day.

Jericho: Spooked, you consider heading back up to the office. You call for the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly, hoping it will arrive before those footsteps do. The elevator pings, and the doors slide open. Relief rushes through you. You're safe.

Jericho: Only there's nothing safe about being locked in a windowless box, my princess. You haven't even fully exhaled when a soft rag covers your mouth, and you take in the sweet scent of an unknown drug. It's too late to stop yourself from breathing it in. In your shock and surprise, you've ensnared yourself in a trap. The last thing you see are my beautiful eyes and perfect smile as you black out in my arms.

My mental movie kept playing, but it wasn't curiosity in my core anymore. The scenario wasn't fantasy, and it certainly wasn't sexy.

Another message pinged.

Jericho: When you awaken, you're in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by a cursed forest and the walls of an imposing fortress. Danger lurks in every shadow, and there's no one to protect you except your own strength. You can hear the low growl of a monster coming from an indiscernible direction, and every sound makes you jump. Your head is throbbing from the drugs, while the fear climbing up your spine is so visceral you want to puke.

What in the actual fuck. My lips pulled back, and I cringed with my whole face. The switch from stalker rhetoric to fantasy land gave me whiplash, but also started easing my own initial unease. Maybe he's a tabletop dungeon master or something?

As much as I wanted to say something, I opted to let him finish. See where else this story went. If nothing else, maybe it would be fodder for a future game.

Jericho: You're shaking, you're confused, and you're trapped. The sense of vulnerability seeps into your bones, and your heart stops when you meet my eyes. You're now a rabbit staring down the wolf, and you have nowhere to run.

Me: I think you're getting a bit too far from the assignment here.

His little fairytale had started to develop an increasingly sinister bend despite the outlandish basis, and I wasn't feeling particularly safe with this stranger anymore. It was impossible to discern if this was an elaborate metaphor or a threat, but it certainly wasn't dirty talk .

Jericho: In that case, let's clarify the assignment, Sela.

The use of my name almost came off as malicious now, trying to emphasize some unearned sense of familiarity.

Pumpkin moved from his position on my chest to nuzzle against my chin. The small gesture grounded me again, and I focused on my cat's soothing movements to keep calm.

Jericho: While you stand before me like a cornered animal, I present to you a maze: the only place you can hide from me, and the only chance you have of surviving.

Jericho: If you can get through it, you'll be given everything your heart desires. If you can't, you'll be food for both monsters and men. Neither option will feel fair, but you're a woman of action, right? Despite the nerves and adrenaline spiking in your chest, you're so tough, clever, and capable, you confidently believe that you can take on the obstacle before you. After all, how can you resist proving me wrong. Proving everyone wrong.

Jericho's tinge of mockery wasn't lost on me, and even in a fantasy I didn't want to put up with it.

Me: Seriously, you can stop now.

He ignored me, replying almost immediately with his next twist to the story that was even worse than the last.

Jericho: You've always been a survivor, so you'll fight, you'll lash out, and you'll experience horror and pain like you've never imagined. You'll know I'm always watching, and you‘ll put on a show for me, because you're still so desperate to be worthy. You want me to notice you. You want me to take you. Even in the most dire moments, that intrusive fantasy will never go away.

Yeah no, not my kink.

Me: That's enough.

If the first rule of any hookup was safe, sane, and consensual, he wasn't offering any of that anymore with this story. This might have been engaging and exciting in a comic book, but it was disturbing on a dating app.

Jericho: Enough? No, there's no such thing as enough for you. Even as you're dragged through hell, you'll keep enduring, suffering, and trying to escape. You're already mine, but that adorable fighting spirit will refuse to accept it to the violent, bitter end.

Pumpkin mewed and rubbed his cheek on my cheek more aggressively, while I was stroking his fur with a nervous rhythm.

Jericho: I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I could practically hear the laugh through his text. I didn't believe the apology in that statement.

Jericho: I nearly forgot to explain the most important rule. I'll allow you seventy-two hours to get through, and should you fail to meet your deadline, you'll be mine to do with as I please. I'll chain you to my bed, and use your body until you've forgotten your own name. You'll tell yourself it's a punishment, but your body will know it's a prize.

Jericho: And that is what dominating you will look like. I hope that answered your question .

I choked on my own saliva, then in an attempt to lighten both the mood and the feeling of nausea, I forced myself to stay cool and play along.

Me: And if I win?

I made myself ask when I should have stopped engaging entirely. I might have stumbled over those words if I had to say them out loud. The whole story was absurd, but he told it like it was his manifesto. He had the charisma that might make a girl believe in magic, combined with malice to make a girl believe in the devil, and neither sat right with me. It was only out of shock and morbid curiosity that I was still reading. Maybe I was waiting for the punch line where he invited me to game night. That was what I told myself, even if it felt more like attempting to diffuse any aggression before rejecting an unstable stranger.

Jericho: Ha!

He let me sit with his laughter for entirely too long, before he answered the fucking question.

Jericho: Losing to me is winning. There's no reason to discuss impossible scenarios. You gave up your freedom the moment you chose to engage with me.

I shook my head then decided to press the issue.

Me: I'm not sure I get the joke.

I hit send, hoping he would pick up on the distaste through my diction.

Jericho: That's because it's not a joke. Nor is it a fantasy. I was quite clear from the beginning, Sela.

I kept waiting for an indication of laughter or a "just kidding" or that saving reference to his underground tabletop RPG group—anything at all that broke the feeling of being threatened. I thought we were doing the sexy banter thing, not sharing his plans for executing his next victim.

It was worse than that though. The references to drugging someone and making them fight for their life—even with the backdrop of monsters and mazes—didn't come off as innocent, playful fantasy. It read like a subtle confession from someone who felt so powerful and in control that he didn't need to hide. He was the villain who knew he'd already won.

Me: If this is some kind of game you like to play with your dates, I'm not into it.

I made one more attempt to lead the conversation elsewhere, just for my own peace of mind. As if I might feel less powerless under the oppression of his words if I could get him to admit it was just a creative writing exercise.

Jericho: You'll warm up to the idea, I promise. And if you don't, you'll be dead, so you won't care. Though I expect you to try your very best to stay alive. I don't like it when my women die too easily.

Bile settled at the base of my throat.

Jericho: Any other questions? I suggest you ask now, while I'm in the mood to answer. Even if you beg, I won't be helping you anymore after this.

I drew in a breath and held it. Don't let him rattle you.

Me: No need because I won't be playing. This whole game sounds like some one-sided sick fantasy. Why would I risk life and limb to beat you when I already have freedom?

Jericho: Because you won't once I find you.

Pins and needles. Those words hit me with unexpected force, and I dropped my phone through my shaking fingers. I could physically feel the extra beats in my chest as my heart picked up pace. A cold sweat bloomed from my pores, and a very real sense of fear radiated through my veins.

Pumpkin tried again to come to my aid, nudging me with his cold wet nose, but not even his impossibly soft fur was enough to break my haze.

I stared at those words for entirely too long, still desperate for some disturbed sense of humor in his tone. I gave him ten more seconds, partially to compose myself, and partially in hopes that he would say something to take it all back, but neither came to pass.

Me: I think you can fuck off now, thank you. You can go ahead and forget my face and forget we ever spoke.

I sent one last message, then I fumbled for the block button. I hit confirm, but it hadn't been fast enough to miss his one, final message.

Jericho: I'll be picking you up tomorrow. I can't wait for you to join my collection, Sela Ariti.

My eyes rounded, my lips slackened, and I stared vacantly at the words on my screen.

There was no reason he should know my last name.

Why the FUCK did he know my last name?

How?

I inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to force myself to gather all my wits back into a safe pile, but my whole body was shaking, and my skin was cold and damp. I was going to end up on a missing persons list if I entertained men like this. He'd started out with all the right words, but they always did, really.

It… it was fine. I was reading too much into it.

I was easy to find on a quick search if someone knew my first name and my job. I had credits and interviews all over the web. It wasn't like I'd told him where I lived, so there was no need to panic. All he actually knew about me was my name and how I looked in a two-year-old picture. It was impossible that he could find me in a metro area that was over 30,000 square miles and had millions of people in it with so little to go on.

Deep breath.

It was much too late at night, and I lived entirely too alone to be flirting with some narcissistic psychopath. It was completely within reason that I'd gotten a little spooked, so I couldn't be too hard on myself for the feelings in my chest at the moment. Considering how the conversation started, he was probably just talking like that to get a rise out of me. Maybe a guy with a weird LARPing kink, or some dumb teen boy trolling women because his mother didn't raise him right. The chances of him being a real life stalker or kidnapper or serial killer were slim to none.

Think rational, logical, statistically realistic thoughts, Sela.

Imagine waking up every day as a creep whose only hobby was trying to scare girls on the internet for fun. I bet he was jerking off to my block notification. No need to dwell on this .

I said all of this, but my body was responding intensely in a way that was hard to shake. There was no good reason goose bumps were covering my arms right now. Nothing to justify the instincts that were telling me to lock all of the doors and windows, despite living in an apartment on the tenth floor.

I got out of bed and pulled on a robe over my tank top and pajama shorts, unable to dispel the feeling that someone could be watching me.

Which was, again, ridiculous.

No one was here. It was just a text conversation. He didn't even have my phone number to try and trace my location with. I'd experienced more disturbing interactions than that at work, back when my coworkers had started to get too comfortable with the only girl on the programming floor. Those guys used way more offensive language than that. Not to mention the time my desk mate turned the whole office against me for turning him down for a date, or when my first project lead propositioned me while carpooling home.

An anonymous stranger I'd never meet was nothing to be afraid of compared to a not-real-friend in the driver's seat.

Still, I verified every latch was latched and lock was locked, then I returned to my bed and set my phone aside for the night.

Pumpkin settled next to me on the comforter, and I snuggled into his fur. His small, warm body helped to chase away the chill in my bones, while his gentle purr calmed my nerves.

Stress must have been getting to me. My reaction wouldn't be so strong if I wasn't stretched to the hilt these days. I didn't have time to keep wasting on that stupid app.

Calm down, Sela. Everything is fine.

I closed my eyes and begged for sleep to empty my mind for a little while. I was glad tomorrow was Saturday.