Page 42 of Don't You Pucking Dare

I slam my body against his chest, desperate to hurt him, to make him feel pain. "You don't get to play hero when you're the fucking villain."

His arms lock around me, trapping me against him. The worst part is how safe it feels, even now. "I'm the hero and the villain in your story, baby, just like you're the angel and devil in mine."

"Don't." My voice shakes as I look around the torture chamber. Chains. Tools. Blood. "No more riddles. What is this place?"

"My playground." His fingers trace my jaw, gentle in a way that terrifies me more than violence. "Remember this the next time you think about testing me."

He pulls out the blindfold, letting it dangle between us like a promise. Like a threat. "Ready to go?"

I stay silent as he covers my eyes, his hands sure and steady as they tie the knot. He leads me upstairs, through corridors, until cold air hits my face. Freedom. Safety. But as his fingers lace through mine, I realize the truth— I'm not escaping anything.

I'm his now. His to protect. His to destroy.

The blindfold comes off once we're past the iron gates. I blink against the streetlights, trying to orient myself in a world that suddenly feels too normal after what I've witnessed.

Brody reaches into his jacket and pulls out my composition journal. "Thought you might want this back."

My fingers shake as I take it, clutching it to my chest. All my original pieces, my midnight confessions written in staff lines and crescendos— I'd thought I'd lost them forever.

He walks me to my door like this is some ordinary date. Like I didn't just watch him orchestrate torture. Like his hands aren't capable of both violence and this strange gentleness.

"Don’t forget who you belong to," he whispers before I head in. I catch one last glance of him before he walks off. The thought of what he did tonight feels empowering yet I’m full of shame.

Inside my room, I ignore my phone lighting up with Kiah's texts. I need something else right now. My cello waits in the corner, faithful as always. I let the first note bleed out of me. Then another. And another.

I play until my fingers burn, until the darkness I witnessed tonight transforms into something else— something haunting and beautiful and mine. The melody pours out of me like a confession, like a scream.

Light bleeds through my eyelids, but I've barely slept. Jack tied up, beaten. The domination in front of the masked men. The pliers. The screams. Brody's hands, capable of such careful cruelty. My brain keeps cycling through the images, trying to make sense of a world where the masked stranger from the garden is real, has a face, has a name, has a goal.

I trace my wrist where the rope left phantom marks. Nothing visible— he was too careful for that. Just like he was careful hitting Jack.

The worst part? Under the horror, under the shame of watching torture and doing nothing—there's something else. Something that burns when I remember Brody's hands on me, his voice in my ear. Careful, Duchess.

The shower's hot enough to hurt. I stand under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders, trying to wash away the underground chamber. But I can't wash away the memory of Brody's face. The cruel cut of his jaw, those eyes that see right through me. No more mystery man in a mask. Now he's flesh and blood and terrifyingly real.

My cello case waits in the corner of my dorm. Professor Schweig expects me to play today— my chance to show my talent. The irony of preparing for a normal day of college after last night almost makes me laugh.

I pull on jeans, a sweater that covers any imagined marks. My hands shake slightly as I work my hair into a braid. In the mirror, I look exactly the same. No one would guess what the hell happened last night.

The cello feels heavier than usual as I lift the case. Or maybe that's just the weight of everything else I'm carrying now. Sheet music tucked into my folder— the piece I composed in the dark hours after Brody dropped me off.

The morning air bites at my cheeks as I cross campus. Students stream past me, laughing, drinking coffee, living a normal life where men like Brody are just hot hockey players. I was naïve to think I had any control before last night. I’m clearly out of my league.

But I know better now. I know what lies beneath the surface of these rick pricks. And still, my body remembers his touch, craves it even as my mind recoils.

I walk into class with my cello in hand. The mean girl, Amanda, and her crew barely try to hide their whispers as I slip into my usual seat. Professor Schweig's eyes light up at the sight of my cello—at least someone's genuinely excited to hear me play.

I flip through my composition journal, relief flooding through me at having it back until unfamiliar handwriting catches my eye. My heart stumbles as I recognize Brody's bold scrawl in the margins. I snap the journal shut before I can read whatever messages he's left me. Not now. I want to take my mind off him and focus on this class.

The room goes quiet. All conversations stop at once, like someone hit pause. I’m mentally trying to figure out how I’m going to navigate my new life now that I’m owned by someone I know nothing about. I need to do my own digging, learn everything I can about him, and figure out what’ll make him break before he hurts me. When I glance up, Brody's presence fills a room like smoke before a fire. His eyes find mine as he crosses to my desk, and my stomach twists with something between fear and want.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

He slides into the seat next to me. "Checking on my Duchess."

"God, what does he see in her?" Amanda's voice carries just far enough.

Brody turns, all lazy danger. "Careful, Amanda. Some of us prefer substance over silicon."

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