Page 10

Chapter 9

Seanna

Somehow, I’m not surprised to find another sleek black box waiting for me on my doorstep, almost perfectly centered, as if carefully placed by meticulous hands. Moonlight spills across my cabin porch, outlining it with an eerie, silvered glow. Whoever’s behind these twisted little gifts clearly wants my attention. Unfortunately, they’re also getting irritation—mixed with a dash of grudging curiosity.

I pause, gaze sweeping carefully over the shadows between the trees, assessing the night’s silence. The property sprawls empty and isolated around me, the woods pressing close, whispering quietly in the darkness. With Mom and my dads deep in Chicago chasing a new lead and Hydessa submerged in an undercover op she barely discussed, I’m alone here. It’s rare, a stillness I normally savor, but tonight there’s a subtle edge to it, sharp enough to keep my senses heightened.

Sighing softly, I lean down and scoop up the box, its smooth, heavy surface cool against my fingertips. Turning to unlock the door, I carry it inside, kicking the door shut behind me with a decisive bang. I toss my keys onto the entry table, hearing them skid briefly across the polished wood before coming to rest. The entire cabin feels too quiet, every familiar creak and rustle amplified in the night’s hush.

I set the box down carefully on my kitchen counter, tapping my nails impatiently against the sleek surface before flipping the lid open. Nestled against midnight velvet, a single black rose stares up at me, hauntingly perfect, dark petals glinting softly beneath my kitchen’s overhead light.

“Charming,” I mutter dryly, picking it up delicately between two fingers. The petals are impossibly soft, too beautiful to be anything but a warning—a promise that someone out there is watching me closely.

With a low sigh, I set the flower aside, pulling out my phone. Scrolling swiftly through my contacts, I tap Max’s number, pacing slowly back and forth across the polished wood floor as it rings. He picks up on the third ring, his voice calm and alert, clearly expecting trouble.

“Seanna. Everything alright? I don't normally hear from you this often.”

“I got another delivery,” I tell him bluntly, irritation threading through my voice. “This one’s a black rose. What does it mean?”

He exhales slowly, thoughtful for a moment before he answers. “Black roses mean many things—the end of one era and the start of another, defiance, resilience, even transformation. Could also represent deep, enduring love, though I doubt that's the intent here. Unless whoever left it is obsessed with you. Was there a note?”

“Nothing,” I reply sharply, staring at the rose’s dark beauty as I shift the topic. “Any progress from your end on Reyes or his people?”

Max lets out a frustrated sound. “I’m still coming up empty. They’re ghosts, Seanna. Better at hiding and being invisible than even I am—and trust me, that’s saying something.”

I shake my head, sighing. “I had a meeting tonight with Cruz at the Silver Orchid. He’s suspicious but interested. I go back in three days to finalize negotiations.”

Max lets out a short laugh, humor tinged with genuine concern. “Maybe I should send in one of the recruits to watch your back. Considering Thorne’s particular dislike for federal agents, maybe that’s not the smartest idea—though I do think you’re the exception.”

A laugh slips from my lips, lightening some of the heaviness in my chest. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m good. I can handle Cruz. And I’m definitely not worried about some prick sending me roses in boxes.”

Max’s voice softens, genuine affection slipping through the gruffness. “Just watch yourself, kid. If it is obsession, that doesn’t usually end well.”

I grin faintly, my voice confident and unwavering. “You worry too much, Uncle Max. I’ve got this.”

Ending the call, I set the phone aside, glancing again at the rose resting on the counter. Let whoever sent this watch me—they’ll quickly learn I’m not someone they should’ve fucked with.

They’ll find out soon enough.

Slipping my shoes off I pour myself a generous whiskey. I savor the burn as it slides down my throat, chasing away the remnants of tonight's tension and the nagging irritation from whoever's playing this twisted little game. The familiar warmth spreads smoothly, easing my nerves just enough to regain control over the restless storm simmering beneath my skin.

Glass cradled loosely in hand, I wander down the hall toward my bedroom, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath my bare feet. My cabin usually feels like a sanctuary, a fortress nestled deep within solitude—but tonight, every familiar shadow seems sharper, every silence heavier.

I step into my bedroom, taking one lazy sip of whiskey, but my muscles instantly snap to attention. A sharp spike of adrenaline overrides the whiskey's comforting burn, and I freeze mid-step, eyes locked on yet another goddamned box—this one perched boldly in the center. Of. My. Fucking. Bed.

Seriously? The audacity of this asshole.

I exhale slowly through my teeth, eyes narrowed at the larger black box adorned with the same annoyingly meticulous satin ribbon as the first. An envelope rests conspicuously atop it—the note I'd anticipated with the black rose, finally making its unwelcome appearance.

Setting the whiskey carefully on the nightstand, I move cautiously toward the bed. My skin prickles, awareness heightened, senses strained to catch any hint that I'm not alone—but the stillness in the air is as thick and stubborn as my growing irritation.

"Someone clearly has too much fucking time on their hands," I mutter, snatching the envelope from the box with deliberate impatience. I rip it open with exaggerated annoyance, eyes quickly scanning the message inside:

A derisive snort escapes my lips, and my eyes roll toward the ceiling. Really? That's the best this mystery admirer—or stalker—can come up with? I’d almost hoped for something more original. But clearly, originality isn't their strong suit—creepy persistence, however, seems to be their specialty.

This does confirm they have been watching me, at least.

Flipping open the lid of the box, I brace myself for more cliché theatrics—only to have the breath punched from my lungs by the stunningly provocative lingerie inside. This isn't some tacky strip-mall lace bullshit; no, this set screams expensive taste and dark, dangerous elegance. Supple black leather interwoven seamlessly with delicate lace, tiny crystals shimmering wickedly under the soft lamplight, every carefully placed strap and cutout clearly designed by someone who intimately understands the power of suggestion.

And probably costs more than some people's cars.

My fingertips drift cautiously over the luxurious material, heart hammering with irritation—and, admittedly, reluctant fascination. Whoever chose this knows exactly what they're doing, and the audacity of it makes me equal parts furious and impressed.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper to the empty room, shaking my head even as curiosity digs in deeper, a stubborn thorn beneath my skin. Of course, the asshole behind these gifts would think expensive lingerie would throw me off my game, maybe intimidate me, or worse—seduce me into playing along.

Too bad for them, I’m not easily intimidated, and I sure as hell don’t bend to anyone’s twisted fantasies—not without making them earn every damn inch.

But as I stare at the lingerie again, a slow, rebellious smirk curves my lips. If they really want a show, maybe it's time to teach this mysterious admirer exactly what happens when you push Seanna Darling too far.

My pulse quickens, heat pooling deep in my core as defiance and reckless impulse merge into something irresistible. A thrill courses through me as I realize I can practically feel their eyes crawling over my skin, their pathetic attempt at control sparking something primal and savage within me.

Fuck that. Fuck their games, fuck their power trips, and fuck their delicate attempts at intimidation.

If they’re out there right now—and I’m sure they are—let them watch. Let them realize just how little control they have over Seanna Darling. I'll show them exactly what happens when they try to pull my strings.

Ignoring the ridiculously expensive lingerie they've chosen for me, I turn on my heel and stride purposefully toward the French doors at the end of my hallway, leading to my private deck. My hand curls around the polished brass handle, flinging the doors wide, and the cold night air rushes in, caressing my heated skin, whispering promises of danger and rebellion.

Stepping out onto the wide wooden planks, I tilt my chin up defiantly, daring the darkness to test me. The moonlight bathes my skin, illuminating every curve and bare inch I reveal as I deliberately peel away my clothes. First the dress I wore to the club, then my bra and panties, sliding them off until there's nothing left but smooth skin and an unwavering challenge.

The chilled night breeze teases goosebumps across my naked body, nipples tightening to sharp peaks, but adrenaline and bold rebellion keep me warm. I smile coldly into the night, heart racing as I imagine their eyes on me right now—watching from some hidden spot in the shadowy tree line.

Fuck them.

Slowly, I run my fingers down my throat, across my collarbone, lingering at the swell of my breasts before slipping lower, teasing myself just enough to send sparks shooting through my nerves. I shiver, the sensation a mixture of cold night air and my own fiery determination.

But this isn't about gentle teasing or subtlety tonight. I'm not here to give them the submissive show they want. No, tonight they get the truth—the aggressive, fierce side of Seanna Darling who refuses to yield, who takes pleasure on her own fucking terms.

Glancing around the deck, my eyes settle on the large, sturdy chaise lounge, illuminated faintly by moonlight. Perfect.

Without hesitation, I stride to the chaise, my movements confident. I sink onto the cushioned surface, spreading my thighs shamelessly wide, offering a bold, unobstructed view of every intimate inch of me. It’s not like anyone else should be on this property right now, so if they are, let them fucking look. I hope it drives them insane.

My fingers dive lower, circling aggressively. I'm rough, impatient, deliberately harsh, taking my pleasure rather than coaxing it gently. I'm not here to be controlled or dictated to—my pleasure belongs entirely to me, and tonight I'm making damn sure whoever’s lurking in the shadows knows it.

Every stroke is fierce, relentless, my breathing ragged as I arch into my own touch. I imagine their frustration, their helplessness at realizing I'm not theirs to command, and that image only heightens the white-hot pleasure surging through me. Teeth sinking into my lower lip, I let out a fierce moan—raw and unapologetic, echoing through the night air.

This is my moment, my body, my rules. The orgasm hits me like lightning—hard, brutal, and intense—tearing through my body until I'm shuddering and gasping beneath the moonlight, every nerve raw with satisfaction.

Chest rising and falling, I let my head fall back against the cushion, breathing in the sharp night air as I slowly regain control of my body.

"Hope you enjoyed the fucking show," I murmur darkly into the night, my voice dripping with venomous satisfaction.

If they think tonight makes me vulnerable, they’ve never been more wrong. I rise slowly, body still humming with aggressive satisfaction, and step back inside without a glance back, slamming the door behind me. Whoever they are, whatever twisted plans they have in store—let them try.

Because Seanna Darling doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.