Page 26 of Tricked By Jack
His thumb brushes my nipple—just once, deliberate and slow. The contact is featherlight, but it shoots through me like static. I freeze. Not because I’m scared. But because I want more. And that terrifies me more than anything else he’s done.
He extends the envelope toward me, an expectant silence hanging between us. This time, I don’t hesitate. I take it from him, practically ripping it out of his hand with a small growl that makes him laugh. At least, that’s what I think the sound from behind the mask is.
I run my thumb over the wax seal before unceremoniously tearing it open. The card inside is thick and black. The surface is matte and textured, like pressed ash. The lettering is etched in deep, metallic orange—coppery, almost glowing against the matte black surface.
One vow. One offering. One trick.
One mask for silence, one vow for shame,
One ring for lust, one kiss to blame.
One game begun, no truth to guide,
One trick revealed when vows collide.
The poem pulses with dark energy and theatrical menace. I look up from the card to find him watching me, his posture slightly changed.
There’s a new tension in his shoulders, a coiled energy that wasn’t there before. He’s waiting for my reaction, I realize. This moment matters to him. Just as I think that, he steps back, allowing space between us for the first time since he pushed me against the wall.
Relief and loss both pulse through me in the absence of his proximity, which is entirely fucked up. Yet it feels… wrong.
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” he says, his voice a low, distorted rumble. Before I can process what this means, he quickly leaves my apartment.
Chapter 9
The Bride
As soon as he’s gone, I dart to the door, locking it behind him. The lock clicks with quiet finality, leaving me alone with another dead flower, another poem, and the burning impression of his presence on my skin.
I touch the tender line across my throat and chest, the skin is still raised and warm beneath my fingertips. Proof that I didn’t imagine the encounter, that I allowed a masked stranger to mark me in my own home.
On unsteady legs, I make my way to the kitchen, clutching both the box and invitation against my chest like artifacts from another world.
“I’m too sober for this,” I mumble.
With robotic movements, I reach for the wine I opened earlier. It’s a deep red Malbec that waits by the sink and begs to get inside me. I pour some into the largest glass I own, filling it nearly to the brim.
The wine slides down my throat in three long swallows, disappearing so quickly I barely taste it. The warmth blooms in my stomach, a poor substitute for the heat that consumed me only minutes ago, but welcome nonetheless.
Without bothering with the glass again, I lift the bottle directly to my lips, taking another long pull that drains nearly half of what remains.
My cheeks flush immediately, whether from the alcohol or the lingering effect of his presence, I can’t be sure. Probably both. I set the bottle down with more force than necessary, the sound echoing.
What the actual hell just happened? Wait, did it even happen? My body is a battlefield of contradictions, but each one tells me that yeah, I didn’t make up the midnight visit. My nipples still strain against the thin fabric of my tank top.
My thighs clench with a need I refuse to acknowledge, much less satisfy. Yet my mind recoils at the implications—at what it means that I responded this way to intimidation, to the thin edge between fear and something darker.
I understand the complicated lines between danger and desire, the ways trauma and fantasy intertwine in the human psyche. But understanding doesn’t make it easier to accept my own responses.
My phone sits on the counter, its screen dark and indifferent to my internal struggle. I pick it up, unlock it with shaking fingers, and open the security app. The system isn’t elaborate or fancy. It’s just one camera facing my front door.
While the app loads, I take another swig of wine. “Here we go,” I say when it’s displaying a timeline of recorded events.
I scroll to the most recent entry, my thumb hovers over the play button for a moment before I press it, both dreading and craving the replay of what just happened.
The footage is stark in its clarity; me opening the door, the brief exchange, my turning away. Then comes the moment that makes my breath catch. His sudden movement, the way he shoves me inside, the controlled violence of his advance.
On screen, my body hits the wall with an impact I can almost feel again in my back and shoulders. The camera angle captures only a portion of what follows—his back, my face visible over his shoulder, my expression a mix of shock and something else. Something hungrier.
