Page 56 of Stalked
“I don't belong to anyone,” I spit back, pushing against his chest.
Vane's grip on my wrists tightens as his body presses harder against mine. The mask obscures half his face, but those green eyes burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His lips curl into that arrogant smirk I remember too well.
“You know what I think about, Lia?” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “That night after prom. When you were so fucking tight around me.” His mouth moves to my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “I still remember being the first to fuck that pretty little cunt of yours. Breaking you in. Making you bleed on my dick.”
My body goes rigid against the wall. The explicit memory of that night floods back—the pain that had given way to pleasure.
“God, it was so fucking hot,” he continues, one hand sliding down to grip my hip possessively. “Watching you take me, seeing that blood on me after. Ever since then, I've had quite the penchant for blood play.”
I freeze completely at those words, my eyes widening. Blood play. The term itself sends a conflicted shiver down my spine. At The Red Room, I'd observed scenes involving needles, smallcuts, but I'd never participated. It had always seemed too extreme, too intimate.
“What's the matter, wildflower?” Vane's thumb traces my lower lip. “Suddenly quiet? Don't tell me the experienced submissive from The Red Room has limits she hasn't explored.”
“I—” My voice catches. “I haven't done much of that.”
Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, perhaps—at finding an edge to my experience that he can claim. “Good,” he growls. “Another first I get to take.”
His grip on my hip tightens painfully, and I can feel his arousal pressed against me through the emerald silk dress.
I swallow hard, fighting the war inside me. Another first he wants to take? The irony almost makes me laugh. He already claimed my most significant first moment—the moment he took my virginity that night after prom. That night has been etched into my memory, defining every relationship that followed. I'd tried to replace him, tried to recreate that feeling with others, but no one ever came close.
Not that I'd admit this to him. Not now. Not ever.
“Back off, Vane,” I say instead, my voice stronger than I feel. “Find someone else to claim. There are five other women in this maze who don't have our... complicated history.”
His grip tightens at my words, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. The green in his eyes darkens dangerously.
“You don't mean that,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, rough tone that always made something deep in my core clench with want. “Fifteen years, Lia. Fifteen fucking years I've waited. Watched. Planned. And you want me to choose someone else?”
His laugh is bitter, humorless. “You're wearing my color,” he continues, one hand sliding down to grip the fabric at my hip. “Did you think I would let you outshine me in my color?”Vane taunts, a wicked grin lighting up his piercing green eyes. “Tonight, I’m going to prove to you who your master truly is.”
“I didn't choose this dress,” I snap back, though we both know it's a weak defense.
“Maybe not,” he concedes, “but you could have walked away, refused the Hunt altogether. But here you are.”
His eyes spark with sudden decision. “Enough talking. Time to play with ropes, wildflower. Your favorite.”
Before I can protest, Vane grabs me around the waist and hoists me over his shoulder in one fluid motion. My world turns upside down, blood rushing to my head as the emerald dress falls around my thighs.
“Put me down!” I pound my fists against his back, kicking my legs uselessly. “I'm not some caveman's prize!”
His hand comes down hard on my ass, the sharp sting sending a shock through my system. “Stop fighting me, Lia.”
“Like hell I will!” But even as I struggle against his grip, something deep inside me responds to this primal display of strength. The sophisticated gallery manager in me is furious at being manhandled, carried like a sack rather than the professional businesswoman I've become.
Yet there's another part—the part I've only ever shown to select Doms at The Red Room—that's already softening, yielding, beginning that familiar descent into submission.
“Tell me you loved rope at The Red Room,” Vane says, his grip tightening as he strides confidently through the maze corridors. “Tell me those pretenders tied you up and thought they knew what you needed.”
I freeze against him. “How do you?—”
“I told you I kept tabs on you in New York,” he growls. “I knew you were a member there, knew you went regularly. But what happened behind those doors...” His voice turns bitter.“That was the one place I couldn't see. Couldn't protect you from men who didn't deserve to touch you.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his body and into mine. “Did you really think I'd let you disappear completely, wildflower? That I wouldn't know exactly what you needed, what you craved?”
The weight of his declaration settles into my bones with contradictory gravity—part anchor dragging me into frightening depths, part wings lifting me toward something I've secretly craved.
As he carries me back toward the rope room, I'm caught between two worlds—the independent woman I've fought to become and the submissive who's always craved this level of possession.
