Page 27 of Tricked By Jack
I play the footage, watching it again. And again. Each time focusing on a different detail. The precision of his movements, the way my lips part when he presses me against the wall, the visible shift in my posture from resistance to surrender.
My pulse quickens with each viewing, my breath coming faster as I zoom in on the moment of impact. There’s something horribly fascinating about seeing myself this way—a woman I barely recognize, responding to a dominance I should reject but don’t.
Without conscious decision, my free hand drifts toward the waistband of my shorts, fingers slipping beneath the elastic to find the slick heat between my legs. I catch myself just before contact, jerking my hand away as if burned. What the hell am I even doing?
Instead of closing down the app or putting my phone down, I replay it, watching the moment loop. The shove, the wall, the cage of his body around mine. The wine burns in my veins, loosening the tight grip of propriety, of self-judgment.
My fingers trace the red line on my chest, following the same path the envelope took. The skin is sensitive, the sensation is a perfect memory—the sharp edge of the paper, the implied threat, the control in his movements.
I set the phone down, screen still illuminated with the paused image. The poem sits beside it, the orange lettering seeming to glow against the black cardstock. It feels like it’s mocking me… or maybe that’s the wine talking.
My hand trembles slightly as I pick the phone back up. My fingers move before I consciously tell them to, like they know I need to research to feel grounded.
I open a web browser and type in what little I know; black rose, gas mask, midnight bride poem. The results come in fast, and each link I click leads down the social media rabbit hole.
All across different platforms, people are posting selfies with men wearing black gas masks while the women hold a note similar to mine. Except… theirs only have two words written on the paper. It’s eitherI doorI don’t.There are no other variants.
I click on a woman that looks like a gothic doll, and it takes me to her latest social media post.
@hauntdoll91
???? SQUEEEEE!!! I DID IT!!!! ????
I’m officially going to be a Bride at the Sanctuary of Shadows!!! ??????
#SanctuaryOfShadows
#OneVow #BrideOfDarkness #MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
And from there on, I continue. Reading through comments, and following the hashtags they all seem to use.
@NotYours73
OMGGGGG!! I can’t even explain how excited/shaky/feral I feel right now. The #GasMan just delivered my ‘I do’, and I screamed. Literally. Woke up my roommate #Worthit #SanctuaryOfShadows
#OneVow #BrideOfDarkness #MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
@BuryMe_Softly
To whoever picked me—you’ve made my dark little heart so happy.
I promise to be a worthy Bride. And I promise to bleed pretty ?? I’ve already picked my burial dress. Let’s GOOOOO!!
#SanctuaryOfShadows #OneVow
#BrideOfDarkness
#MidnightMarked #ChosenNotAsked
Hours tick by, and before I know it, I’ve emptied almost a second bottle of wine. Sanctuary of Shadows is so much more elaborate than I gave it credit for. And where I was mildly curious before, now I’m practically salivating.
Not only are they going over the top with their social media presence, delivery of replies to those who applied to be a Bride. But their tickets are actual medallions instead of paper or a barcode that needs to be scanned.
I suppose the courier makes more sense now that I’ve seen all of this. Well… kind of. Yet… not really. Because if the man at my door was just a courier, as my mind wants to believe, it poses new questions.
Like, why would he fight Caleb just to deliver a cryptic poem to me? And why am I getting poems instead of a simpleI door Idon’t?
My legs feel unsteady as I stride into my living room and retrieve all the notes I’ve received. Once I’m back on the stool in the kitchen, I place them next to each other.
