Page 95 of Stalked

“Strange,” I admit. “Everything's familiar but different. The town's grown, it's hardly recognizable.”

“And you're with Vane now.” Sadie's eyes sparkle with curiosity. “That must be... intense.”

“You have no idea.” The words come out before I can stop them, making all three women laugh.

“Oh, I think we do,” Bianca says, sharing a knowing look with Mira. “The Blackwood brothers aren't exactly what you'd call low-key.”

Mira raises her glass in agreement. “That's putting it mildly.”

There's something comforting about this—sitting here with women who understand what it's like to be claimed by men like the Blackwoods. My old friends from high school could never comprehend this world. Hell, I barely comprehend it myself most days.

“It's nice,” I say quietly. “Having people who get it.”

“The Hunt changes things,” Mira agrees. “Creates bonds that are hard to explain to outsiders.”

“Like Keira,” I add. “We've gotten close since the Hunt ended.”

Sadie nods enthusiastically. “She's great. A little wild, but in the best way.”

The conversation flows easily between us—about the gallery, about Bianca's current commission, about Sadie's tech projects. It's refreshing, this easy camaraderie. No judgment, no pretense.

“I need to use the restroom,” I state, setting down my empty glass. “Where?—”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Mira directs.

I slip out of the living room, heels clicking softly on the marble floors. The hallway is quiet, elegant. As I pass the dining room, voices drift through the partially open door.

“—torture him slowly,” Vane's voice cuts through the silence. “Make him suffer for every fucking thing he's done. I want to hear him scream.”

My steps falter.

“We need information first,” Xavier responds, his tone measured. “Then you can have your fun.”

“I want him to beg,” Vane continues, and there's something in his voice I've never heard before—something dark and eager. “Want to make it last for days before I finally put him down.”

Ice floods my veins. My hand grips the wall for support as nausea churns in my stomach.

This isn't some abstract business deal. He's talking about torturing someone to death. Enjoying it.

I force my legs to move, hurrying past the dining room before anyone notices me. My hands shake as I push open the bathroom door, locking it behind me with trembling fingers.

I brace my hands against the marble sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me appears perfectly composed—dark hair still elegantly styled, lipstick intact, designer dress fitting like it was made for me.

But inside, I'm falling apart.

I want to hear him scream.

Vane's voice echoes through my mind, casual and eager. Like he was discussing what to have for dinner instead of prolonged torture. Murder.

I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. The careful makeup I applied earlier runs in dark streaks down my cheeks, but I don't care. My stomach churns violently.

I knew. Some part of me always knew that Vane and his brothers hadn't built their empire through legitimate means. You don't amass that kind of power, that level of influence, by playing by the rules. The exclusive clubs, the connections to Ravenwood's elite, the way people both respected and feared the Blackwood name—it all pointed to something darker beneath the surface.

But I'd convinced myself it was just business. Maybe some illegal dealings, tax evasion, bribery. White-collar crimes allowed me to maintain the fiction that the man I loved wasn't truly dangerous.

How naive. How fucking stupid.

Want to make it last for days.