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SADIE

Back then...

I have a new job now.

Instead of arranging florals, I paint custom portraits online for my followers.

My office is a café on the edge of town, and I look forward to the occasional glimpse of a man who’s been starring in my fantasies.

Always dressed in a crisp button-down and freshly pressed dark slacks, he sits alone with his laptop. From what I’ve gathered, he’s some kind of doctor—successful enough to drive three cars: an Audi R8, a BMW, and a Porsche.

He’s also the only reason I can afford to eat here twice a week. The waiter told me he’s put over a thousand dollars on a tab just for me and said, “Don’t let her pay a dime.”

He’s never said a word to me, though.

I don’t even know his name.

As I step into the parking lot, I spot a man creeping up behind the sexy stranger—both hands gripped around a steel bar, raised high and ready to strike.

Instinct takes over.

“Hey!” I scream, sprinting across the pavement before I can second-guess myself.

The attacker jerks around, startled, and swings the bar in my direction. I duck just in time, stumbling back—but it’s enough. The stranger seizes the moment. He snatches the weapon mid-air and slams the man to the ground in one swift, brutal move.

The attacker groans, blood pooling beneath him, but he doesn’t get back up.

Heart pounding, I stand there, breathless, adrenaline flooding my veins. I fumble for my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1...

But when I look up, the stranger is already facing me—eyes dark, jaw tight. And he’s glaring at me like I’m the one who crossed a line.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps.

“He was about to attack you.”

“And?” His tone sharpens. “You should’ve let him try. I would've handled it much better. Trust me.”

“Okay, fine.” I take a step back. “Next time, I will. I’ll never help you again. Actually, I hope I never see you again.”

“Good.”

“Ugh.” I scoff and turn away, but he grabs my waist from behind and spins me around.

“Do you understand that he could’ve killed you?” His eyes blaze. “You look like you weigh, what, a hundred forty-five pounds soaking wet? He was easily three hundred.”

“This is a weird way to say thank you for saving my life .”

“Since you strike me as a psychopath, I figured you liked it.”

“I have feelings. That makes me not a psychopath.”

“You’d be a sociopath if you didn’t. But you? Definitely a psychopath. I saw the signs long before now.”

“Hope you’re not planning to bill me for the time you spent diagnosing that, Doctor.”

He smirks. “What are you doing out so late anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m not telling you a damn thing, you ungrateful asshole.”

His low laugh sends butterflies fluttering through my chest.

As much as I want to keep walking, I can’t. Being this close to him is arousing in a way I’ve never experienced before. His laugh makes it worse.

“Thank you for saving my life, Miss…?”

“Pretty,” I say. “Sadie Pretty. And you’re very fucking welcome, Mr…?”

“Weiss.” He steps closer. “Ethan Weiss. Can I buy you a ‘thank you’ dinner?”

“I would like that.”

Our first dinner lasts six hours.

Our second, eight.

By our tenth date, we’re meeting at a bar that opens early and closes long after midnight. We’ve been kicked out more times than I care to admit, and yet—he never asks me to go home with him.

I know he wants me. It’s obvious in the way he watches me, the way he listens . But unlike the boys I’ve dated before, he never tries to take anything from me. Not even once.

“Sadie?” Ethan waves a hand in front of my face during our twentieth meetup. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I ordered you a drink,” he says, smiling. “You’ve been zoning out for a while.”

“I didn’t realize…”

“Would you like to dance?”

I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me from the booth onto the dimly lit dance floor.

The band’s lead singer is crooning some song I’ve always hated. Something about killing time instead of killing people .

“What if some people deserve to die?” I ask. “Better yet, if they do, who gets to make that choice?”

“Sounds like you need a new major,” he says. “Add psychology to your art and drama ones.”

“No, I’m just talking…”

“Hmmm.” He kisses me.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t flinch. I melt into him, wrap my arms around his neck, let his hands travel down my waist.

When he squeezes my ass, then presses his palm against my bare back, his thumb finds it. The scar.

Then it catches another.

He tilts my chin up. “What happened here?”

“Nothing major.” I fake a smile. “Just a rug burn.”

He brushes his fingers over it again.

His touch is gentle, but it burns in the worst way.

“Tell me the truth,” he whispers.

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Just don’t look at it when we have sex. I mean— if we have sex, okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just touches it again, then kisses my neck.

“Come home with me.”

We barely make it through the door of his riverfront condo before he slams it shut and pins me to it.

His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, rough, consuming. My fingers tear at his shirt, buttons flying, fabric yanked down his arms. He spins me toward the kitchen counter, then lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing.

We fuck like fire—fast, hard, everywhere.

The walls.

The couch.

The floor.

His bed.

My body forgets every name but his.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. He takes his time driving me over the edge again and again, learning every inch of me like a man who doesn’t just want sex—he wants to memorize me.

For once, the sex is what I want. For once, it’s mine.

And he makes sure I come every single time.

Later—breathless and flushed—we collapse in his bed, our skin still damp, limbs tangled in his dark sheets.

He runs a single fingertip down my side, slow and deliberate, until it grazes the raised scars along my lower back. His gaze lifts to the mirror. Watches the moment his touch finds the branded letters again.

“Rug burns don’t usually come with letters,” he says softly. “You didn’t do this to yourself, did you?”

I freeze. My throat tightens.

“I didn’t even know what it said for a whole week,” I whisper. “It just… kept burning. And when I could finally walk, when I saw it in the mirror...”

The tears come fast. No warning.

He pulls me into his arms without hesitation, cradling me like something precious. Like I’m not broken.

“Who did this to you, Sadie?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” His voice drops an octave—soft, but edged in steel. “Who did this?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“This isn’t a request.” His grip tightens slightly around me. “Tell me now.”

I take a breath. “He’s on a really popular football team. They might even make it to the Super Bowl this year.”

His jaw tightens. “What’s his name?”

I hesitate.

“It’s safe with me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “I just want to know.”

“…Jonathan Baylor.”

He stills. “The star quarterback for the Falcons?”

“Yeah.” I look away. “Let me guess—you don’t believe he could ever do something like that. You think I probably asked for it.”

“No,” he says. His voice is quiet, but hard as concrete. “I believe he’s probably gotten away with it more than once.”

A long pause.

“Probably,” I echo. Then, before I can stop myself, “Can I tell you a secret?”

His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

“I walked in on a beating at a gas station last year,” I whisper. “The girl couldn’t have been any older than me. But the guy? He had to be at least sixty. She kept begging him to stop... and he didn’t. He beat her until she collapsed—then walked out to his truck like nothing happened.”

Ethan’s expression hardens, but he stays quiet.

“I followed him home that night. And then I kept following him. For weeks.”

He arches a brow, silent invitation for more.

“I waited until everything lined up—just right. Like the angles and shadows in one of my paintings.” I pause. “And then I erased him for good.”

I exhale, steady but quiet.

“He’ll never lay a hand on anyone again.”

Silence settles between us.

There are a lot more stories I could tell him, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.

Maybe I trusted him too soon.

“I…” My voice falters. “I shouldn’t have said that. You regret meeting me now, don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

He kisses my forehead.

“You’re exactly my type.”