Page 55 of Stalked
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter, annoyed at my own reaction.
I spent years at The Red Room learning to embrace submission and to stand my ground, even when my knees wanted to buckle. I've faced down art critics who tried to tear my gallery selections apart. I've negotiated deals with millionaires twice my age who thought they could intimidate me.
Yet one look at Vane Blackwood in that stupid mask, and I bolted like a scared rabbit.
My heart rate begins to slow as I slide down the wall, crouching to gather myself. The emerald dress clings to my skin, now damp with sweat.
“So much for being fearless,” I scoff at myself.
The worst part is that I was genuinely excited about this. I'd convinced myself that fifteen years had changed things, that Iwas in control now. That I could face Vane as an equal, make him work for me.
But the moment our eyes locked across that room, fifteen years collapsed into nothing. I was eighteen again, waking up in his bed, overwhelmed by what I'd let him do to me—what I'd begged him to do. But it wasn't just the intensity of what we'd shared physically that had sent me running. It was the terrifying depth of emotion that had crashed over me afterward—a tsunami of feelings I wasn't prepared to face.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The sharp pain centers me, pulls me back to the present.
“Get it together, Lia,” I whisper. “You didn't enter this fucking Hunt to run.”
I straighten up, smoothing the emerald fabric of my dress—this dress I never chose. When I arrived at the dressing room earlier, it was laid out for me. No options, no alternatives.
I push away from the wall and start moving again, deliberately choosing a path that leads deeper into the maze rather than back toward the rope room. My steps are measured now, my breathing controlled. The initial panic has faded, replaced by a growing resolve.
Let one of the other hunters find me. Any of them. The thought forms clearly in my mind as I navigate the dimly lit corridors. I picture being caught by one of the masked strangers instead—someone without fifteen years of history weighing down every interaction.
It would be simpler. Cleaner. Just a game with clear boundaries.
“I don't want Vane,” I whisper to myself, the words feeling hollow even as they leave my lips. “I don't.”
I pause at an intersection, glancing down each possible path. One leads to what looks like a sensory deprivation room, anothertoward what might be a suspension setup. The third is darker, its destination unclear.
“Not Vane,” I repeat more firmly, as if saying it enough might make it true. “Anyone but him.”
I choose the darkest path, hoping it leads me to a different hunter, someone who hasn't been haunting my thoughts for fifteen years. Someone who doesn't already know exactly how to break through every defense I've built.
A shadow materializes from the darkness ahead, and before I can react, strong hands grab my wrists, slamming me against the cold wall. My breath leaves me in a gasp as I stare up into those familiar green eyes behind the mask.
“Anyone but me?” Vane growls, his voice low and dangerous. “That's what you want, wildflower? One of my brothers? One of the others?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. He heard me. Of course, he heard me.
His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to make escape impossible. His body presses against mine, the heat of him searing my skin.
“Let me go, Vane,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He leans closer, his masked face inches from mine. “Never. You're not running from me again. Not after fifteen fucking years.”
“I’ve not been running,” I insist.
“You've always been mine.” His voice drops to a whisper that somehow feels more threatening than a shout. “And from this fucking day on, you're only mine. No more bankers, no more Red Room Doms who don't know what you need.”
His hand slides up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing roughly across my lower lip. The possessive gesture sends a shiver of unease through me.
“The others know,” he continues, his breath hot against my ear. “They all know you wear my color. They touch you, they die. It's that simple.”
I try to turn my face away, but his grip holds me in place. “I signed up for the Hunt, not to be your possession. Let. Me. Go.”
Instead of releasing me, his body presses closer, pinning me completely against the wall. The hard planes of his chest against mine remind me of that night fifteen years ago, of sensations I've never been able to recreate with anyone else.
“You want to run?” His eyes burn into mine. “Go ahead. But understand this—whoever catches you answers to me. You belong to me, Lia. You always have.”
