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My body still tingles in places I didn’t know could tingle, the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin like a brand. The concrete floor is cold beneath my feet as I adjust my clothes, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, my mind still foggy from what just happened.

What the fuck did I just do?

Thatcher watches me dress, his eyes tracking my every movement with that predatory focus that should terrify me but somehow doesn’t. Not anymore. Not after what we just did. His own clothes are already back in place, not a hair out of line, as if the last twenty minutes never happened.

But they did. The ache between my thighs confirms it.

I’m smoothing down my shirt when he steps toward me, closing the distance between us in two long strides. His hand catches my chin, tilting my face up to his. There’s something different in his eyes now—an intensity, yes, but softened somehow by what we’ve just done.

“Do you understand now?” he asks, his voice low, intimate in the silence of the chamber. His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, still sensitive from his kisses. “Do you understand that you’re mine and there will be no more retaliating? No more fighting me?”

The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with significance beyond the words themselves. This isn’t just about sex or control or even protection. It’s about surrender—complete and absolute.

I should hate him for this. I should hate myself for what I’ve just done, for what I’m about to agree to. But the strange thing is, I don’t. Because for the first time since this whole nightmare began, I don’t feel alone.

“I need to hear you say it, Dove,” he presses, his fingers gentle but insistent on my skin. “I need you to verbally agree, and then we can leave.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry, the words sticking like gravel. But I need this to be over. I need to get out of this place with its cold concrete and watching eyes. And more than that, I need what he’s offering—protection, safety, a shield against the consequences of a single terrible night.

“I understand,” I whisper, the admission more difficult than I expected. “I’m yours.”

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, satisfaction, maybe hunger. His thumb strokes my cheek once, a gesture almost tender in its restraint, before he steps back.

“Good girl, Dove,” he murmurs, and though I should bristle at the condescension, some traitorous part of me warms at the praise. “Now let’s go.”

He takes my hand, his palm warm and dry against mine, and leads me toward the door. I follow without resistance, eager to leave this room, this building, whatever the hell this place is.

The hallway outside is dimly lit, the concrete walls closing in on either side. My footsteps echo in tandem with Thatcher’s as we walk, our joined hands swinging slightly between us. It’s such a normal gesture, so at odds with everything that’s happened tonight, that I almost want to laugh.

We pass a series of closed doors, each one identical to the last, before reaching a staircase that leads upward. The steps are steep, my legs still shaky from exertion and adrenaline, but Thatcher’s grip on my hand is steady, his pace slow enough that I can keep up without stumbling.

At the top of the stairs, another door—heavier, metal, with a complex-looking lock that Thatcher opens with a code punched into a keypad.

It swings open to reveal a large, empty space that might once have been a warehouse.

Moonlight filters through high windows, casting everything in shades of blue and silver.

And then we’re outside, the cool night air hitting my face like a benediction after the stale confinement of below. Stars pepper the sky above us, a canopy of distant light so vast and indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath it.

The parking lot is nearly empty, just a few cars scattered across the cracked asphalt.

Thatcher leads me to his Tesla, the sleek vehicle gleaming under the security lights.

He opens the passenger door for me—such a jarringly normal, gentlemanly gesture—and I slide in, the leather seat cool and smooth beneath me.

As he walks around to the driver’s side, I take a moment to breathe, to process what’s happened.

I just agreed to belong to someone—to Thatcher.

The same man who blackmailed me, threatened me, had me kidnapped and questioned.

And yet, as he settles into the seat beside me and starts the engine, I find myself oddly grateful for his presence.

For the first time since I’ve known him, I’m glad to have Thatcher on my side. There’s a strange peace in this surrender, a relief in no longer having to fight every step of the way. Whatever else he is, whatever else he’s done, he’s protecting me. And right now, that’s all I need.

The building recedes in the rearview mirror as we drive away, a silhouette against the night sky. I finally gather the courage to ask what I’ve been wondering since they dragged me here.

“Why are you a part of something like that?” I turn to face him, studying his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “What is that place? Who are those people?”

Thatcher keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unchanged, but I see his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel. For a long moment, I think he won’t answer.

Then he glances at me, his eyes reflecting the intermittent flash of streetlights as we pass beneath them. “You’re part of it now too, Dove,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “Whether you like it or not.”

A chill runs through me despite the car’s warmth. “What does that mean?”

“It means I promised you protection if you remain mine,” he continues, his gaze returning to the road ahead. “And you don’t want to face the consequences if you ever change your mind. What you saw tonight? That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

The warning in his words is unmistakable, and I shiver involuntarily. But there’s something else too—a current beneath the threat, a hint that he’s telling me this not just to scare me, but to prepare me. To keep me safe.

We lapse into silence, the only sound the hum of tires on asphalt and the subtle purr of the engine. The lights of the city grow brighter as we approach, the familiar landmarks of campus coming into view. I’m alive. I’m going home. The relief of that simple fact washes over me in waves.

I steal a glance at Thatcher as he drives, really looking at him now that my panic has subsided.

The strong line of his jaw catches the passing lights, sharp and defined.

His arms flex slightly as he turns the wheel, the muscles visible even beneath his shirt sleeve.

A memory flashes—those same arms braced against the wall, his body moving against mine—and heat pools in my belly.

Now that we’ve crossed that line, now that I know what it’s like to have him inside me, my body craves more. It’s a physical hunger, separate from my conflicted emotions, pure in its simplicity. I want him. Again and again and again.

As if he can read my thoughts, Thatcher glances over, his eyes meeting mine for a heated moment. “Stop looking at me like that,” he warns, his voice low and rough.

I should feel embarrassed at being caught, but instead, a rebellious thrill runs through me. Even now, even after everything, there’s a power in knowing I affect him too, that this isn’t entirely one-sided.

But I lean back in my seat and turn my gaze to the window, watching the familiar streets of campus slide by. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable now, but charged with a new awareness, thick with knowing what he feels like.

When we finally pull up outside my apartment building, relief floods through me at the sight of the familiar facade. Home. Safety. Normalcy, or at least the illusion of it.

Thatcher cuts the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do I, suddenly reluctant to end whatever this is, to face the empty apartment and my own thoughts.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, the words inadequate but necessary. “For... for getting me out of there.”

He nods, his face half in shadow. “Go inside, Rhea. Get some rest.”

The use of my actual name rather than ‘Dove’ strikes me as significant somehow, a return to reality after the surreal events of the night. But I’m not ready for that yet, not ready to be alone with the memories and the uncertainty.

“Will you...” I hesitate, doubting myself even as the words form. “Will you come up? Stay the night?” I rush on before I lose my nerve. “I don’t want to be alone. Not after what happened.”

Thatcher goes very still, his expression unreadable in the dim light. The silence stretches between us, growing heavier with each passing second.

He’s hesitating. Why is he hesitating?

Doubt floods through me, cold and insidious. Have I read this all wrong? Maybe all he wants is to control me, to own me in some abstract way. Maybe if I’m too willing, too submissive, he’ll lose interest. Maybe this was just a game, and I’m playing it all wrong.

“Never mind,” I say quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow. “I’m just tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before he can respond, I’m out of the car, the night air cool against my heated face as I slam the door behind me. My keys jangle in my trembling hand as I rush toward the building entrance, not looking back, not wanting to see his expression.

The lobby is deserted this late, the overhead lights dimmed for the night. My footsteps echo on the tile floor as I hurry to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster.

When the doors finally slide open, I step inside and lean against the back wall, closing my eyes as the car begins its ascent. What the hell am I doing? What have I agreed to? The reality of the situation is starting to sink in, the adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion and confusion in its wake.

The elevator dings at my floor, and I make my way down the hallway to my apartment. The lock turns easily under my key, and I step inside, flipping on the light switch by the door.

Everything is exactly as I left it—textbooks on the coffee table, empty mug by the sink, Gregory curled up on the couch. The normalcy of it is almost shocking after the night I’ve had.

I cross to the window, unable to resist the urge to look down at the parking lot. Thatcher’s car is still there, idling in the same spot. As I watch, the headlights flash once, then twice, before the car pulls away, disappearing around the corner.

My heart races, a mix of relief and disappointment churning in my chest. What happens now? What does this agreement mean for tomorrow, for next week, for the rest of the semester? When will he get sick of me, decide I’m not worth the trouble, and walk away?

Or worse, when will he decide I’ve outlived my usefulness and hand me over to the police anyway?

I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pane. Too many questions, too many uncertainties. But at least I’m alive. At least I’m home. For tonight, that has to be enough.

With a sigh, I turn away from the window and head to my desk, pulling out the journal I’ve kept since freshman year. I need to process what happened, need to make sense of the chaotic emotions swirling inside me.

Settling into my chair, I open to a fresh page and begin to write.

November 11 th

I had sex with Thatcher tonight. That feels so strange to write, like I’m talking about someone else’s life, someone else’s choices. But it was me in that room, me with my hands against the cold concrete wall, me making sounds I didn’t know I could make as he moved inside me.

The most fucked up part? I loved it. Every second. Even the parts that should have horrified me… being watched, being claimed, being owned… lit something inside me that I didn’t know was there.

There’s a thin line between hate and love, and tonight I think I fell right through it.

I still hate him for the blackmail, for the manipulation, for dragging me into whatever the hell that organization is.

But God help me, I want him again. I want to feel him inside me, want to hear those possessive words in my ear, want to surrender to something bigger than myself.

Next time (and there will be a next time, I know it as certainly as I know my own name), I want to see him in that mask again.

I want to fuck the monster who stalked me at that Halloween party, the one who’s been haunting my nightmares.

Maybe then I can reconcile these two versions of him in my mind—the threat and the protection, the nightmare and the salvation.

The most unbelievable part of all of this? I’m getting away with murder. Actually getting away with it. Thatcher is protecting me, shielding me from consequences that should have destroyed my life. Jack is dead, and I’m the one who killed him, but somehow I’m going to walk away from this.

I should feel guilty. I should be consumed with remorse. But all I feel is relief, and a twisted gratitude to the man who’s made himself my owner to keep me safe.

I’ve entered some alternate reality where the rules I’ve lived by my whole life no longer apply.

Where killing someone doesn’t lead to punishment, but to protection.

Where hate and desire are two sides of the same coin.

Where surrendering control somehow makes me feel more powerful than I’ve ever been.

I don’t recognize myself anymore. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe the Rhea who went to that Halloween party was always just a shadow of who I could be, who I am now becoming.

Whatever happens next, whatever this thing with Thatcher evolves into, I’m in it now. I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back.

And the scariest part? I don’t want to go back.

I belong to him now. And I think maybe I always did, from the first moment he saw me.

I think I might be falling for the devil himself.