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)
"Hi, Scarletta." His voice is soft. Not the commanding tone from the basement fuck fest. Just... him. "I'm guessing you've watched the other files by now. I'm guessing you're freaking out about the blackouts."
Yes.
"I need you to understand something. What happened to you—it's called subspace psychosis." He pauses. Holds up a hand. "Not actual psychosis. That's just what subs call it. It's not dangerous. It's not a medical emergency."
I lean closer to the screen.
"It's a condition where subs who are deep bonded to their dominants enter a particular kind of subspace that affects memory formation. The blackouts weren't breathing problems. They weren't from blood pressure drops. It was your mind resetting because of the intensity of the orgasms combined with your neurological response to submission."
No.
"I know you don't believe me." He shifts forward. "Look up Dr. Alicia Friedman's research on altered states in BDSM relationships. Published 2019 in the Journal of Sexual Medicine. Look up the Kinsey Institute's study on subspace amnesia from 2021. It's real, Scarletta. It's documented."
He's lying. He has to be lying.
But I'm already opening a new tab. Typing the first citation. The article loads. Real. Peer-reviewed. Published in an actual medical journal.
Fuck.
I go back to the video.
He's quiet for a moment. Then he takes a breath. "But that's not why I'm recording this." Something in his tone shifts. Colder. "Clearly, you're having doubts about me. About this. About what happened."
Yes.
"And that's okay. You should. You barely know me. I drugged you to keep you calm after you woke up the last time. I've been stalking you for six months. I killed your ex-boyfriend. Your auction was fake, all the auctions are fake. It's a service I provide to men like me around the world."
Men like him?
I drugged you.
I killed your ex boyfriend.
I'm stalking you.
He says all this so calmly. Like he's listing groceries instead of felonies.
"So I'm going to leave you alone."
What?
"I'm going to give you space. Time. Whatever you need. The money's in your account—you can check. You don't owe me anything, Scarletta. The contract's fulfilled. You earned every penny."
I pause the video. Because I don't know what I'm feeling right now. What the fuck am I feeling right now?
Did I have a good time?
Well. I'm alive. That's something. He didn't kill me. He could have. He killed Derek. Cut off his fingers. Mutilated him. Burned the body.
But he didn't kill me.
He fucked me unconscious, drugged me, and then he tucked me in.
I liked it.
I liked it.
I shouldn't have liked it. Normal girls don't like that. Normal girls don't get off on being bought, and used, and drugged, and discarded.
"There are cameras in your apartment, Scarletta."
I blow out a breath, completely overwhelmed.
"I left a document on your lap top called my_eyes.docx. It's saved to your desktop. It shows where they all are and how to turn them off via the app I use to spy on you."
This is so fucked up.
"There's another doc called her_thoughts.docx on the desktop," he says. "It's got the log in details for the keystroke recording hack I used to spy on your writing. I've left instructions on how to turn it off." He smiles at me. Or… the camera, whatever. "It was fun. I'm glad you got what you needed. Thank you for giving me what I needed back. As I said, the money's in your account. I hope you have an amazing life."
Then… he reaches forward and stops the recording.
And that's it, I guess.
It's over.
Epilogue - Caleb
Blood for Blood hammers through the speakers as i turn down the long driveway to my log mansion. Same song. Same ritual. Different body.
Tall firs and pines press in from both sides, snow-heavy branches creating a tunnel of white and shadow. My hands are steady on the wheel, not even a hint of shaking after the adrenaline rush. Just the familiar hum of satisfaction that settles in after I balance the scales.
The barn appears through the trees. I pull the Jeep inside, kill the engine, and enjoy the way the silence drops like a curtain.
My clothes are soaked through with blood. Not my blood, it's never my blood. I peel off the thermal shirt, the jeans, the boots. the furnace fire roars to life when I open the grate and toss it all in. I watch the fabric catch, curl, then blacken. The smoke disappearing through the chimney vent.
Evidence erased.
The cold hits me the second I step outside. Naked. Minus fifteen according to the thermometer mounted on the barn wall. Snow crunches under my bare feet as my breath spews out in front of me in long, white clouds.
I don't feel the cold. Not really. It's just data. Temperature. Wind chill. Irrelevant.
Steam rises from the surface of he hot tub in thick coils. I climb in and sink down to my shoulders. The water stings every inch of exposed skin. I close my eyes. Let the heat dissolve the blood residue, the gun oil, the smell of fear and piss from the warehouse.