Page 94 of Cursed
The sunlight streams through the windows. I stretch my limbs, feeling a pleasant soreness in muscles I rarely use. The events of last night flood back—Landon allowing me to lead, watching me with those intense eyes as I moved above him, then the way he reclaimed me afterward when I admitted what I truly wanted.
This morning feels different. Lighter. As if admitting my darkest desires out loud has somehow freed me from their weight.
The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest—has he left?—until my senses register an unfamiliar aroma wafting through the penthouse. Bacon. Someone’s cooking bacon.
I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. Landon’s cooking? That can’t be right. The man who drugged me, carved his initials into my skin, and treats me like his possession is... making breakfast?
I slide from the bed, my bare feet silent against the plush carpet. Landon’s dress shirt lies discarded on a chair. I pull it on, doing up just enough buttons to maintain a minimal level ofdecency. The fabric smells like him—undertones of musk, darker and more primitive.
Following the scent of food, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. I pause at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the sight before me.
Landon stands at the stove, his back to me. He’s wearing only pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips, revealing the muscled plane of his back. One hand expertly flips bacon while the other stirs the contents of a pan.
It’s disconcertingly... normal. Domestic, even. This dangerous man, who threatens and dominates and claims ownership of me, is making breakfast like we’re some ordinary couple after a night together.
I lean against the doorframe, unsure whether to announce my presence or retreat back to the bedroom. This version of Landon—the one making bacon on a sunny morning—seems more dangerous somehow than the one who pins me down and takes what he wants. It makes him human. Real. Not just the monster I’ve been telling myself he is.
Landon turns suddenly, his gaze finding mine in the doorway. His eyes narrow slightly, that carnal intensity I’ve come to know so well settling on me like a physical touch. The spatula pauses mid-flip.
“Why are you just lingering there?” His voice is morning-rough but lacks the cold edge I’ve grown accustomed to. “Come here.”
It’s not a request. Despite our moment of role reversal last night, Landon will always command rather than ask for things. His free hand extends toward me, beckoning.
My feet move before my brain catches up, drawn forward by some invisible pull I can’t explain or resist. I’m scared—of him, of myself, of whatever this is becoming—but simultaneouslyeager to touch him again. The contradictory feelings tangle inside me like crossed wires.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I approach.
When I reach him, he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me against his bare chest. His skin is warm, and I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek. It’s steady—like everything about him except when he’s inside me.
It’s weird. I’ve never felt so drawn to someone like this before, not with Melvin, not with anyone. This pull toward Landon defies logic, safety, and self-preservation. He’s dangerous, possibly psychopathic, definitely controlling—and yet I crave his touch, his approval, his attention.
My hand rises before I can stop it, fingers spreading across his inked chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle. The intimacy of the gesture startles me—it feels too natural. This isn’t about sex, or the Hunt, or the push and pull of power. It’s something else—something more unsettling than his threats.
“What’s going through that brilliant mind of yours, little butterfly?” Landon asks, his thumb brushing my jaw tenderly.
I swallow hard, uncertain how to answer. How do I admit that what frightens me most isn’t his dominance or the pain, not even the surveillance? It’s how easy moments like this make me forget who he really is.
“Just wondering when you learned to cook,” I deflect, nodding toward the stove where eggs sizzle beside the bacon.
His lips curve into that familiar half-smile that never reaches his eyes. “I’ve lived alone most of my adult life. Contrary to what you think, I don’t keep servants to handle everything for me.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I murmur, and immediately tense, expecting his mood to darken at my sarcasm.
Instead, he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest against my palm. “Careful, Sadie. I might start to think you’re getting comfortable with me.”
The truth in his words sends a chill down my spine. I am getting comfortable. And that terrifies me more than his threats ever could.
Landon turns back to the stove, keeping one arm around me. “The eggs are almost done. Make yourself useful and pour the coffee.”
I slide from his grasp, relieved to have a task that puts a few feet between us. As I reach for the mugs in the cabinet, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of his refrigerator—hair tousled, wearing nothing but his shirt, moving through his kitchen like I belong here.
Two weeks ago, I was a normal woman with a boring job and an even more boring ex-boyfriend. Now I’m the willing captive of a man who’s carved his initials into my skin.
What scares me isn’t that I hate it. What scares me is that some part of me is starting to love it.
I pour the coffee, my hands trembling slightly as I set a mug on the counter beside him.
Landon gestures toward the dining table with a tilt of his head. “Sit.”