Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
"Because I killed him, Scarletta. I killed him."
The words don't land right.
I mean, I hear them. The syllables make sense individually. I. Killed. Him. Three words. Subject, verb, object. Basic sentence structure.
But my brain... buffers.
Like a video that won't load. Like my laptop when I have too many tabs open and everything freezes.
Did this man just say he killed my ex-boyfriend?
That's not—
That can't be—
"Don't you want to know how I killed him, Scarletta?"
His voice is closer now. When did he move?
"Don't you wanna know how Derek died? It's a pretty fun story…"
Fun.
He said fun.
I'm standing here naked, blindfolded, handcuffed, my pussy still throbbing from where his fingers were inside me thirty seconds ago, and this man—this stranger who bought me at an auction—just told me he killed my ex-boyfriend and called it a fun story.
This is—
I need to—
"I don't—" My voice sounds wrong. Distant. Like it's coming from someone else's mouth. "You didn't—"
"He called you a selfish bitch when you used your safeword. Told you that you didn't know what you really wanted. That you were bad at this."
No no no no—
"He kept going. Even after you said red. Even after you were crying. He fucked you anyway because his pleasure mattered more than your consent."
Stop.
Please stop.
"And when he was done, he told you the problem was you. That normal women don't need safewords. That if you really loved him, you'd want to please him however he wanted."
I'm shaking.
Full-body tremors. My begin to chatter.
"How—" I can barely form words. "How do you know that? I never told anyone. I never—"
"I know everything about you, Scarletta. Everything you've written. Everything you've thought. Everything that's ever been done to you."
His hand touches my face. Gentle. Wrong.
I flinch.
"I cut off his fingers first. One by one. Starting with his right pinkie. He screamed a lot. Begged. Promised he'd do anything if I let him go."
I'm going to vomit.
I'm going to vomit or pass out or—
"Then I moved to more... sensitive areas. The parts of his body he used to violate your consent."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. Tender. Horrifying.
"I wanted him to understand what it felt like. To say no and have someone ignore you. To beg for it to stop and have someone keep going anyway."
This is a nightmare.
This has to be a nightmare.
Wake up wake up wake up—
"And when I was done—when he'd suffered enough to balance the scales—I dismembered him. Burned the pieces. Scattered the ashes where no one will ever find them."
The room tilts.
I'm falling except I'm not moving and—
I sink. Down. Down. Until I'm kneeling on cold hardwood floor, still blindfolded, still handcuffed, still naked.
Still here.
With a man who just confessed to murder.
"You're insane." The words come out flat. Disconnected. "You're fucking insane and I need to—I need to leave. I need to—"
"Do you?"
His voice is right above me now. He's standing over me.
"Do you really want to leave, Scarletta? Or do you want to how I knew about him."
I don't want to know.
I don't want to know anything.
I want to go back to my apartment. Back to my blanket fort. Back to the moment before I clicked that link and entered this nightmare.
"I've been watching you for six months, Scarletta. Reading everything you write. Learning who you are. And when I found out what Derek did to you—"
His hand touches my hair. Strokes it.
"I couldn't let him keep breathing. Not when he'd touched something that belongs to me."
Belongs to me.
"I don't belong to you." My voice shakes. "You don't even know me."
"Don't I?"
The question is almost gentle.
"I know you eat Lucky Charms for dinner standing at your kitchen counter because sitting at a table alone makes you feel pathetic. I know you wear your father's hoodie when you write because it makes you feel safe. I know you haven't done laundry in two weeks and you've been rewearing your leggings because you can't seem to care about anything but your sex fantasies."
Stop.
"I know you write your darkest fantasies at three AM when you can't sleep because the silence in your apartment gets too loud. I know you touch yourself while you write but sometimes you deny yourself orgasms because somewhere in your broken brain, you think you don't deserve pleasure unless someone gives you permission."
How—
"I know Derek fucked up your relationship with your own desire. Made you think wanting to submit made you damaged. Made you think your fantasies were proof of your brokenness."
His fingers tilt my chin up. Forcing me to face where I think he's standing even though I can't see.
"And I know that right now—even as terrified as you are—part of you is wet because I killed the man who hurt you. Part of you is aroused because someone finally saw what he did and decided he needed to pay for it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?"
His thumb presses against my lower lip.