Page 33 of Pose for Me

I freeze, my heart pounding as I stare at the innocuous black envelope on the floor. I bend to pick it up, feeling the thick, smooth paper. I take a deep breath, steeling myself before sliding my nail under the flap to open it.

Inside is another photograph, just as I feared. My breath catches as I pull it out, eyes widening as I take in the shadowy image. The details are hard to make out in the dimness, but I don't need clarity to recognize what I'm seeing. My own hands pressed against the rough brick of the alley wall. Behind me, River's powerful form is unmistakable as he takes me from behind, his body curved over mine, his face turned away from the camera.

And I know behind the dumpster on the opposite side of the alleyway, blocked from view is a dead body.

A shiver runs through me, equal parts arousal and unease. The photo captures a moment of raw, primal passion—my head thrown back in ecstasy, River's fingers digging into my hips. It's undeniably erotic, and yet...the fact that someone was there, watching us, photographing such an intimate moment without our knowledge, sends a chill down my spine.

Was it Knox? The thought flashes through my mind, remembering how River had texted him to clean up the scene. But as I turn the photo over, that theory is quickly dispelled.

Scrawled across the back in bold red ink are the words: "Touch him again and I'll kill him."

My blood runs cold as I stare at the threatening message. This wasn't Knox. This wasn't River. This was someone else entirely—someone who had been watching us, who had captured that intensely private moment on film.

Someone who felt they had a claim on me.

Chapter 22

Rayne

MyhandsshakeasI carefully place the photograph back in the envelope. I take several deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. This is no longer a game or a twisted courtship. This is a serious threat from an unknown stalker.

I move to my desk, sinking into the familiar comfort of my chair. The leather creaks softly as I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment to gather my thoughts. When I open them again, I reach for my phone. The screen illuminates, displaying the time—8:43 a.m. I take another deep breath before dialing 911. The call connects almost immediately, a calm female voice answering:

"911, what's your emergency?"

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I need to report a stalker. I've received threatening photographs."

The dispatcher's tone shifts, becoming more focused. "Are you in a safe location now, ma'am?"

"Yes," I confirm, glancing around my studio. "I'm at my place of work, below my apartment. It's secure."

"Alright, I'm going to dispatch officers to your location. Can you give me the address?"

I provide my studio's address, along with my name and phone number. The dispatcher assures me that help is on the way, advising me to stay put and not touch anything else that might be evidence.

After ending the call, I lean back in my chair once more, exhaling slowly. The wait begins. We are stuck somewhere between a small town and something that would mean the police wouldn’t care, which means I won’t be a priority.

The wait for the police feels interminable. To calm my frayed nerves, I busy myself with mundane tasks around the studio. I meticulously clean my camera lenses, wiping each one with gentle circular motions until they gleam. The familiar motions are soothing, allowing my mind to settle into a meditative state.

I move on to organizing my lingerie rack, arranging delicate lace veils and ornate jewelry on their hangers with careful precision. I lose myself in the details.

Time seems to stretch and warp as I work. The soft whir of the air conditioning becomes a comforting white noise, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of fabric or clink of metal as I sort through my collection. The scent of lavender from the sachet I keep hung on the rack wafts gently through the air, further calming my nerves.

As I work, my mind wanders to the stark difference between this threatening message and the oddly sweet gestures from River. It was one thing to think Knox or River was leaving reminders of their claim on me. Their intensity was thrilling in its own way, a dark seduction that spoke to something primal within me. But this... this is something else entirely.

A chill runs down my spine as I recall the menacing words scrawled across the back of the photo. This unknown person had witnessed one of the most intimate, raw moments of my life—and rather than being aroused or intrigued, they had responded with pure malice. The threat to River and no doubt Knox's life hangs heavy in the air, a stark reminder that this situation has escalated far beyond my control.

I find myself longing for River's steady presence, or even Knox's commanding aura. Their brand of danger feels almost comforting in comparison to this unknown threat. At least with them, I had some idea of where I stood. This new player is a complete wild card.

The sudden blare of a car horn outside startles me from my reverie. I glance at the clock, shocked to realize that nearly two hours have passed since I made the call. Just as I'm beginning to wonder if I should call again, I hear a sharp knock at my door.

My heart races as I approach the door, each step echoing loudly in the quiet studio. I take a deep breath, steeling myself before turning the handle. The door swings open, revealing two uniformed officers standing on my doorstep. Beyond them, I can see their squad car parked at the curb, its presence both reassuring and unsettling.

"Ms. Bennett?" the taller of the two officers asks, his voice gruff and businesslike. At my nod, he continues, "I'm Officer Daniels, and this is Officer Martinez. We're here in response to your call about threatening photographs."

I step back, gesturing for them to enter. "Yes, thank you for coming. Please, come in."

The officers move into the studio, their eyes sweeping over the space with practiced efficiency. I can see the moment they register the boudoir setup, the racks of lingerie, the artfully draped fabrics. Officer Martinez's eyebrows raise slightly, a look of poorly concealed judgment flashing across his face.

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