Page 5 of You're Mine Now

I hated how he’d catch me looking sometimes, his sharp gaze snapping to mine in the halls. I’d look away, my heart pounding. If I stared too long, he’d do exactly what he promised. But he never did. It was all a game to him—a twisted, cruel game.

But now, standing here with him, all grown up, I realized it wasn’t a game anymore.

Every word of those promises felt tangible, hovering between us like an unspoken challenge, daring me to see them through.

Chapter Two

Back at home, I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing through the too-quiet space. My mind was in turmoil. If I didn’t show up, would he really come looking for me?

How does he know where I live?The few people I’d stayed in touch with from high school would never give me away, and I wasn’t on social media.

But he’d tracked me down before.

The letters had followed me to college, showing up in my dorm mailbox, haunting me like a shadow I couldn’t escape. Adrian’s tone had grown sharper with every passing year—more dangerous threats, darker promises.

But then, one day, they stopped. Like sunlight breaking through a storm.

I’d always linked the letters’ sudden end to when he went to jail. But it struck me as strange. Weren’t prisoners allowed to send mail? Had something–or someone–stopped him?

Maybe he’d outgrown his fantasy. Maybe he’d been ashamed, weighed down by his incarceration, the loss of control. I didn’t know, and at the time, I told myself I didn’t care enough to dwell on it.

The relief I’d felt when the letters stopped was overwhelming. But… a small, insistent ache lingered. Theattention, the thrill of opening a new letter, not knowing what he’d say this time. That was gone.

Still, not having those letters haunt my every move had given me something I hadn’t realized I needed. Space to breathe.

For the first time, I started to feel normal—or at least what I imagined normal might be. I threw myself into college, painting and studying late into the night. I came out of my shell, went to parties, and even dated.

After graduation, I moved back to my hometown, into my gran’s old house, and got a job at a small gallery downtown. For the first time, everything seemed to be falling into place.

And yet, sometimes, when things were quiet, I’d catch myself glancing at the mailbox or flinching at the sight of a folded note. But eventually, those habits faded, too. Adrian became a memory, a story I could almost convince myself had happened to someone else.

But today—I knew. He wasn’t a ghost. He was never really gone. He was as real as the places in my life—the gym, the streets I walked on. As solid as the punching bag he’d pounded into over and over again, each strike a reminder of his relentless presence.

Standing before him, feeling the heat in his gaze, the unmistakable electricity between us—I knew the truth.

He hadn’t gotten over me. Even if life had pulled him away, even if prison had forced him to stop… I’d never left his mind.

A darker thought came to me.Was it even a coincidence, running into him today?

I told myself it had to be. And there was no way he knew where I lived now—he had to be bluffing.

But… did I want to risk it?

The idea of making him angry sent a ripple of unease through me.

It’s just a workout,I told myself.One time.

As disturbing as his letters had been, he’d never actually laid a hand on me—not even that time we were alone together.

My breath quickened as the memory surfaced. The fluorescent lights had flickered slightly overhead, their hum a faint buzz in the otherwise silent studio. My hands moved instinctively, molding and manipulating the cool clay under my fingers. I’d been so lost in the rhythm of creation, so absorbed in my craft, that his voice sliced through the quiet like my own scalpel.

“Amazing.”

I’d jumped, spinning to find him leaning against the doorframe, his steely blue eyes fixed on me. Watching my hands as they worked the clay. His gaze traced their movement, lingering on the curves of my fingers.

Heat surged in my chest, anger pricking my skin like needles. Of course, he wasn’t complimenting my art. He was talking about me.

I didn’t say a word, but my glare was sharp enough to cut glass.

---