Page 18 of Sweet Doe
"Did you?" His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and I hate the way my body responds to the touch, instinctively arching off the wall behind me. "Or did some part of you know the truth?"
"You're delusional."
"Am I?" He leans even closer, close enough that his breath warms my skin. "Then why aren't you fighting me right now? Why aren't you screaming? Why is your pulse racing for all the wrong reasons?"
Because he's right, and we both know it. Because standing here surrounded by evidence of his obsession, I should be fucking terrified. I should be planning violence, my escape,anythingexcept wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me right now.
"I hate you," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.
"You think you do." His forehead rests against mine, and we're breathing the same air. "But hate and want aren't mutually exclusive, are they? You can hate me for what I've done and still want me to do it again."
The truth of those words hit me. He's right.
I hate him for deceiving me, for killing my boyfriend, and for trapping me in this beautiful fucking cage.
But I also remember the way he made me feel. The way he touched me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And that memory is stronger than it should be.
"Thank you," he says suddenly, pulling back to meet my eyes.
"For what?"
"For being brave enough to explore the cabin while I was outside. For wanting to understand." His smile is gentle, almost fond. "It shows me you're not giving up. I'd be disappointed if you gave up too easily."
He talks so coolly about my resistance, like it's his own personal brand of entertainment rather than my desperation… But there's something in his expression. Something that looks almost like... respect?
"I'll never stop trying to escape," I tell him, meeting his gaze steadily.
"I know." He steps back, finally giving me space to breathe. "I'm counting on it. The chase is half the fun, after all."
The words send a chill down my spine. Because I'm starting to understand that this isn't just about possession for him. This is about the game. The hunt. The constant push and pull between predator and prey.
And despite all logic and reason, some sick part of me is starting to enjoy it too. Because I’m too competitive for my own fucking good.
"Come on," he says, turning toward the door. "I made you breakfast. You need to eat something."
Just like that, he moves on. Like I didn’t just discover how truly psychotic he is.
But as I follow him out of his office, I catch one last glimpse of those photos covering the walls. Hundreds of moments from my old life, arranged like a museum exhibition dedicated to his fixation.
In the back of my mind, I'm already planning how to use his obsession against him.
If he wants to play games, I'll play.
But I'm going to win.
Chapter Six
ASHER
She looked through everything.
I can still see the evidence in the way her pupils dilated, how her breath stuttered when I stepped into the room. She tried to play it off—bathroom, wrong direction, some dumb little excuse that maybe someone else might’ve believed. Not me.
She found my fucking shrine.
I should be furious—any other time, I would be. That room is private. Sacred. My altar of obsession, of study and worship. But instead of anger, all I feel is this strange, humming heat under my skin. A kind of twisted joy.
