Page 23

23

EDEN

I toss and turn on the thin mattress in Remy’s trailer, unable to find rest. The digital clock blinks two-seventeen a.m. when the door finally creaks open. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of him—blood streaking his face and shirt, bruises blooming across his jaw.

“Oh God, are you okay?” I rush to him, hands outstretched as I reach for his face.

He grunts, brushing past me to grab a towel. “Fine.” His voice is rough and dismissive.

“Let me help,” I insist, taking the towel from his grip. He allows it, though his jaw remains tight. I dab at the blood on his face, realizing the cuts are superficial. Most of the crimson staining his clothes isn’t his.

My breath catches. The evidence of violence coating his skin sends a thrill through me. My fingers trace a bruise on his bicep, and heat pools in my core. The pungent scent of blood mingles with his natural musk, making my head spin.

“You’re not scared,” he observes.

“No,” I whisper, continuing to clean him. Each swipe of the towel reveals more of his unharmed skin beneath the blood. The knowledge that he emerged victorious from whatever violent encounter left him in this state makes my pulse race.

My clinical interest in criminal psychology feels far away now. This is a visceral attraction to his obvious power and capacity for violence. As a researcher, I should be horrified. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to press myself against his blood-stained chest.

I set the bloodied towel aside, my gaze still on his body. “I’ll get some ice for those bruises.”

His grip catches my wrist before I can move away, yanking me hard against his chest. The blood on his shirt transfers to my skin, and my breath catches.

“You like this, don’t you?” His voice drops low. “The blood. The violence.” His fingers dig into my flesh. “You spent years interviewing killers, studying psychopaths, and now you’re here with one.”

The academic distance I’ve maintained through countless prison interviews evaporates. This isn’t theoretical anymore—this is real and pressing against me.

“Tell me, Eden.” He twists my arm behind my back, forcing me closer. “Does it excite you? Knowing what I am? What I’ve done?”

“Yes,” I gasp, the confession tearing from my throat. Years of professional detachment vanish as I arch into him. The evidence of violence coating his skin only heightens my arousal. “I need help, but yes.”

“Such a twisted little thing.” His bloody fingers trace my jaw. “All those interviews and research, you weren’t trying to understand them. You were looking for someone like me.”

I pull away from him, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s not true.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I’m a professional. My research is academic.”

“Is that why you broke into my trailer? For academic research?” His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

I shut my eyes, shame burning through me. I can’t let him see how right he is, how perfectly he’s pegged my darkest desires. Years of maintaining a professional facade crumble under his knowing stare.

“Your listeners are getting worried,” he suddenly says, releasing my chin. “There’s chatter online about you falling prey to one of the killers you hunt. Ironic, isn’t it?”

My eyes snap open. “What?”

“Your social media’s gone dark. People notice when their favorite true crime podcaster disappears.” He pulls out his phone, showing me Reddit threads speculating about my whereabouts. “You need to maintain appearances.”

“How exactly should I do that locked in your trailer?” The words come out sharper than intended.

His thumb traces my lower lip. “If you promise to behave, to stay put and not try anything stupid, I’ll let you have some freedom around the carnival. You can record your podcast and take photos for social media.”

“You’d trust me with that?”

“Trust?” He laughs. “No, but I’ll be watching every move you make. One step out of line, and you’ll never leave this trailer again.” His grip tightens on my jaw. “Do we understand each other?”

I nod, relief flooding me at the prospect of autonomy, even if it’s an illusion. “I understand.”

His fingers tighten around my throat, cutting off my air. The pressure sends sparks through my body, a mix of fear and something darker. My pulse thunders against his palm.

“One wrong move,” he growls, “and this will be tighter next time. Understand?”

I slightly nod, stars dancing at the edges of my vision. Just as the room blurs, his grip shifts, and his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is brutal and possessive.

And I melt.

My body betrays every pretense of resistance, molding against him as his fingers maintain their warning grip on my throat. The rational part of my brain that spent years studying criminal psychology screams that this is textbook Stockholm Syndrome. Captive bonding with captor. Classic trauma response.

That explanation rings hollow. My obsession with Remy predated my capture. I stalked him, broke into his trailer, and collected his belongings. I chose this path long before he took control.

This leaves only one terrifying conclusion in my mind as his kiss brands me: I’m falling for him. Not the sanitized version I imagined while watching from afar, but the real, dangerous man who holds my life in his hands.

The realization should horrify me.

I kiss him back with a desperate hunger, my hands clutching at his blood-stained shirt. The unmistakable taste of blood lingers on his lips, and I chase it with my tongue, wanting to taste every part of him. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as I press my body against his.

Gone is any pretense of professional distance. This is pure need. I pour years of suppressed craving into the kiss, letting him feel how much I want him.

His grip on my throat tightens in response, and I moan into his mouth. The sound seems to trigger something in him. His other hand grabs my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The pain only heightens my arousal.

My hands slide under his shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath. I trace every scar, every mark that tells the story of his violent nature. Each one makes me burn hotter.

The kiss grows more demanding, his teeth catching my lower lip. I taste my own blood this time and whimper. He swallows the sound, consuming my submission like it feeds something inside him.

I arch against him, begging for more. My body speaks a language my professional vocabulary never could, telling him exactly how much I crave his dark side. How perfectly his violence matches my own twisted fantasies.

Remy’s fingers dig into my hips as he maneuvers me into the bathroom. The small space feels oppressively intimate, his hard body crowding mine.

The shower roars to life, steam quickly filling the room. Remy strips us both with brutal efficiency, revealing the dark marks my nails left on his back in the forest yesterday. The sight makes something stir within me, a fierce possessiveness that mirrors his own.

He pushes me against the wall under the stinging hot spray, his mouth crashing down on mine. His kiss is frantic, devouring.

This is a staking of a claim. He angles my body to his liking, bending me over. Water cascades down my back.

“Can’t hide how much you want this,” His voice is a growl in my ear. “Your body can’t lie to me.” His fingers slide inside me, making me gasp. “My perfect little slut.”

I want to disagree, to tell him I’m not this person. That I’m a respectable podcaster, not some sex-crazed groupie. But as his fingers thrust inside me, I know it’s a lie.

I’m exactly this person. I always have been.

The proof is in the way my body opens for him, in the moan that tears from my throat, and in the slickness coating his fingers. I’m dripping for him.

His fingers leave me, only to be replaced by his cock. He pushes inside, filling me. My back arches at the delicious stretch, the feeling of being complete.

His hands grip my hips, so I know he’ll leave bruises as he starts to move. The burn between my legs builds a fierce ache that demands release.

I grip the shower wall as Remy’s hips slam against my ass, his blood-streaked chest pressed to my back. The water swirls pink down the drain, evidence of his violent night washing away.

“Tell me,” he growls, fingers digging into my hips. “Tell me how much you love getting fucked by a killer.”

My breath catches. The metallic scent of blood mingles with steam, making my head spin. “I—I…”

He yanks my head back by my hair. “No more pretending. No more hiding behind your professional facade. Say it.”

“I love it,” I gasp as he drives deeper. “The blood, the violence, knowing what you’ve done, what you’re capable of; it makes me so wet.”

His bloody fingers slide around my throat. “Keep going.”

“I’ve interviewed dozens of killers, but none of them made me feel like this.” My words come out breathless. “I want your depravity—need it. The blood on your hands just makes me want you more.”

He groans against my neck, his grip tightening. “Such a twisted little thing, getting off on my violence.”

“Yes,” I moan, pushing back against him. “I’ve never been more turned on than seeing you covered in blood. Knowing the power you wield...”

His teeth sink into my shoulder. “That’s it. Let me hear how depraved you really are.”

The confession breaks something loose inside me. “I want you to fuck me with blood still on your hands and to taste it when you kiss me. I want to watch you kill. Fuck. I need to witness how dangerous you are...”

Remy’s hands grip my throat and hips, controlling my every motion. His cock thrusts deeper, demanding my submission.

“I need to watch,” I gasp. “I want to be there when you do it again. When you kill. I need to see the life drain from their eyes. Witness the moment they realize they’re never leaving that room alive.”

His fingers tighten on my throat as he slams into me. My core clenches around him, and I cry out.

“You like the idea, don’t you?” His voice rumbles against my neck. “Imagining my hands around their throat. My blade sinking into their flesh.”

“Yes,” I moan. “I imagine them fighting, struggling... but you’re much stronger. They have no chance against you.”

“No one escapes me,” he growls, teeth grazing my shoulder. “And you’ll never escape either.”

“I don’t want to.” The truth spills from me, raw and uncontaminated by the pretenses I’ve constructed in my public life. “I chose this. You. I wanted you to catch me.”

“Smart girl.” His teeth find a sensitive spot on my neck, his cock pounding into me.

“No one can know what I am or want.” The confession tumbles from my mouth as I arch my back, meeting his powerful thrusts. “This can’t ever leave this trailer, but I want you to show me exactly how powerful you are.”

He growls against my skin. “You want to be mine? To belong to me?”

“Yes,” I breathe, my back arching as a coil of pleasure tightens deep within. “I want everyone to think I’m scared, that you forced me, that I’m your victim... but underneath, I want to be yours.”

His teeth find my ear, biting down gently. “And how would you prove yourself to me, little stalker?”

“Whatever you want. Whatever you need.” I’m breathless now, the pleasure making me lightheaded. “I want to prove my devotion, my surrender. Anything.”

His fingers dig into my hips, leaving bruises I’ll treasure. “Would you beg me to kill for you?”

“Oh God, yes...” I’m on the edge now, every nerve singing. “I need to know I’m capable of it. That I can give in to the same depravity I’ve obsessed over and just let go. But...”

“But what?” His voice drops low, commanding.

“But I’d only do it for you.” I force the words past my lips as my walls clench around him. “Only to prove my loyalty to you. I want to give you that gift.”

He groans, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “You’ll do anything I ask?”

“Yes,” I gasp, my back arching. “Anything.”

His grip on my throat tightens, and the pressure sends me tumbling over the edge. My vision whites out as my body clenches around him. My release coats his cock, gripping him with my pulsing walls.

“That’s it, little stalker,” he growls in my ear, hips still moving. “Come all over my cock.”

My hands claw the shower wall. The helplessness is exhilarating. Remy controls my pleasure, my body, my very breath. The confession that I need this, him, hangs unspoken between us.

He continues to move inside me, chasing his own release. My core twitches around him, pulling out every last drop as he roars.

There’s no denying now that I’m his. Every part of me has surrendered to the powerful man behind me, and there’s no going back. This is where I belong.