Page 182 of Hateful Games

I tilt my head and give her a knowing look.

She comes at me again. However, I let her snatch her laptop and grab her book instead. I read the title. Twisted Deeds by Rose.

“Stop stealing my stuff, Nova!”

I cage her against the desk and tilt her chin to mine. “Are you an author, Rose?”

Chapter Forty-seven

Rosalie

My secret is out.

One I haven’t told a single soul.

Call it lack of confidence or fear of society’s judgement but I never found the courage to publicly reveal myself as the face behind my penname ‘Rose’. The author who writes dark, spicy romance.

Everyone assumes I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.

But like every girl, I have my insecurities too.

Sex is already considered as a taboo and shameful subject in our country. Women are made to feel they shouldn’t discuss it, let alone voice their desires. The ones who do find courage and are bold enough need to have thick skin when immature and sexist jokes are made. Or they’re simply told it goes against our values or culture. It takes a split second for people to look down on you if you even hint at being a sexual person.

People actually forget Indians have written the Kama Sutra.

We might live in the twenty-first century, but there’s still a stigma and regressive thinking that dictates how women should behave or live. If it ever got out among my family or friends that I write erotic romance, I’d be a laughingstock everywhere. It’d nothing compared to facing my dad’s wrath. It makes me shudder in fear.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve published over eight books and am blessed with a successful career that makes me more than enough money to not depend on my father. Something always held me back.

I hate that I fear being judged.

I hate that I’m hiding.

I hate that I’m scared.

Most of all, I hate that I’m not as strong as the women I write.

I wish people understood that there’s more to romance books than just dirty sex. There’re emotions, there’s connection and love, thrill and mystery. Agony and healing. Words escape me to explain what writing and reading means to me.

To some, it’s their safe space. A way to forget the worries for a while. Hence, I made myself happy with writing anonymously.

Until I got caught tonight.

Of course, Nova had to be the one to uncover my secret.

I swallow against his fierce chocolate eyes and twist in his hold. I don’t make it anywhere.

“Answer me,” he softly probes, brushing my bottom lip.

I lick my lips, catching his thumb. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I?” I scoff. “You’re always making fun of my reading choices, calling it book porn. Did you really expect me to go, ‘Oh hey, by the way, I write it too’, huh?”

He has the decency to look apologetic. A quality I didn’t think he possessed. “How long have you been writing?”

“I’m not discussing it with you.”

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