Page 44 of Stalked
In my five years at The Red Room, I'd seen and done things that would make vanilla people blush. I'd surrendered control, been bound, flogged, and edged until I begged. But nothing like this. This is beyond edge play. This is... primal play.
“Relinquishing all rights to refuse for seventy-two hours,” I read aloud, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
I should be horrified. I should be calling the police, or at the very least, throwing this invitation in the shredder. Instead, heat pools between my thighs, my pulse quickening with each reread of the terms.
I set the invitation aside and pace my living room, arms wrapped around myself. The rational part of my brain lists all the reasons this is insane—the danger, the lack of proper safety protocols, the fact that Vane fucking Blackwood is involved.
But another part—the part I've tried to suppress since leaving New York—whispers how exhilarating it would be. To be pursued, captured, claimed. To surrender so completely, with no safe word, no limits, no control.
“Even if it's not Vane who catches me,” I murmur, then pause, surprised by my own admission.
Is that what I want? After fifteen years of running, do I want him to finally catch me?
I set the invitation down and lean back against my couch, memories of last night flooding my senses. God, what was I thinking? Riding my favorite silicone toy while Vane's name fell from my lips like a prayer. After fifteen years, I should be over him. One night—one fucking night as teenagers—shouldn't have this hold on me.
But it does.
I close my eyes and the sensation returns—my hips rising and falling as I imagined it was him inside me instead of cold silicone. My body still aches from how hard I came, how desperately I fucked myself while pretending my own fingers on my breasts were his.
“Pathetic,” I whisper to myself.
Fifteen years. Countless men. Several women. Experienced Doms who knew exactly how to bend me to their will at The Red Room. I've had partners who studied the art of pleasure, whoknew how to read my body better than I did. Partners who spent hours bringing me to the edge only to deny me until I begged.
None of them was Vane.
I've tried everything to exorcise him from my system. I've dated men who looked nothing like him. Men who were gentle where he was rough. I've knelt for Doms who had decades of experience in the lifestyle, who could tie knots that would make sailors envious, who knew exactly how much pain mixed with pleasure would make me transcend.
And every single time, in the back of my mind, I compared them to an eighteen-year-old boy who took my virginity on prom night.
What kind of spell did Vane Blackwood cast that even New York City's most elite BDSM club couldn't break?
I stare at the dotted line on the last page of the contract, my pen hovering just above it. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to tear up this invitation and forget I ever saw it. But my body has other ideas—my heart races, my skin flushes with heat, and there's an undeniable throb between my thighs that I can't ignore.
“This is insane,” I whisper, yet I'm already lowering the pen to paper.
My signature flows across the line in dark ink, the curves and loops of my name sealing my fate. The moment the pen lifts from the paper, a strange calm washes over me. Decision made.
I fold the contract carefully and slide it back into the black envelope. No going back now. The thought should terrify me, but instead, a delicious shiver runs down my spine. I'm going to be hunted. Pursued. Caught.
Maybe by Vane.
I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, fingers tapping against the screen. Five minutes until my ride arrives. Just enough time to change into something more appropriate for avisit to Purgatory. I slip into a sleek black dress that hugs my curves, paired with stiletto heels that make my legs look a mile long. If I'm delivering my consent to be hunted, I might as well look the part.
The notification chimes—my driver is outside. I grab the black envelope, pausing briefly to run my fingers over its expensive paper. Inside these pages, I've just agreed to surrender my control, my body, my will to whoever catches me. The thought sends another pulse of arousal through me.
“Stop overthinking,” I tell myself as I lock my apartment door. “It's just a game.”
But as I slide into the back seat of the Uber and give the driver Purgatory's address, I know I'm lying to myself. This is more than a game.
And that's exactly why I can't resist it.
The bouncer at Purgatory's entrance doesn't even ask for identification. One look at the black envelope in my hand and he steps aside, the heavy door swinging open to reveal the thrum of bass and the scent of expensive cologne.
I stride in, shoulders back, chin high. The confidence isn't entirely manufactured—there's something freeing about having made my decision, about embracing whatever chaos awaits me during the seventy-two hours of the Hunt. My heels click against the polished floor as I scan the main room.
Xavier Blackwood sits at the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, his attention focused on a tablet in front of him. Even from here, I can see the family resemblance—the same strong jawline as Vane, the same imposing presence—but where Vane radiates barely contained energy, Xavier exudes cold, controlled composure.
Perfect.
