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KALEB

F uck, I missed being this close to her. Missed it all day long.

But it was worth it. Every second that I spent teasing her. Building tension between us. Every moment I forced myself to stalk her when I could’ve been fucking her.

Worth. It.

Watching her looking over her shoulder during her classes. Throughout her lunch break.

How she ran across the campus’s paved paths tonight.

Having her fear bleed from her was like shooting heroin into my veins. Addictive. Intense. Destructive.

Overall, it’s been a good day.

Other than having to witness that motherfucker Dempsey touch her. I hid in the closet, in one of the classroom's corners. Witnessed the entire fucking thing.

Vowed I’d make him pay .

My body vibrated with barely restrained hatred. Possessiveness threatened to pull me out of my hiding spot and ruin this game for Shiloh and me.

It wasn’t the right moment, though. Their conversation gave me an idea. A sick twist to our adventure. Instead of killing him, I manipulated him.

It worked. Tomorrow, Shiloh and I will have a new game to play on her campus.

Tonight, it’s just me and her.

The feel of her stomach over my shoulder is a breath of fresh air. Having her this close, carrying her to her apartment, is the closest I’ll ever get to heaven.

My Shiloh. The only good thing in my life.

The only thing truly worth destroying.

She makes such a beautiful broken doll.

Her professor is a thing of the past. Nothing and no one will threaten her tonight, other than me. Her phone has been cleared. On the way here, I deleted another missed call from Berkshire. They—Dr. Reynolds, if I had to guess—called minutes after I tossed her into Elron’s car.

Fuck that asshole. He’ll have to search for another test subject that isn’t us.

We get to her apartment building.

Naturally, the PI watching her home is in a deep sleep.

Lucky him.

He gets to keep his life.

For now.

I don’t have time to waste on killing a sleeping man when I could be touching Shiloh .

After hours of craving her. Needing her.

I have her.

Mine.

We’re in her home, going through the front door this time. She’s breathing softly, and I hate that I have to let her go. I really have to, so I place her on the bed.

She thinks this—me, invading her life—is retribution. A punishment since she didn’t stand up for me all those years ago.

Soon, she’ll realize this isn’t what this is about. That it’s all a game.

Soon, she’ll realize that I could never hate her.

I know who’s truly to blame for everything we’ve gone through.

Ronan Talbot. Her father.

The torture, orgasms, and every ounce of my attention—that’s not punishment.

My depraved, repressed sexual needs aren’t anything like my violent impulses. They might look and sound similar, but in reality, they’re two polar opposites.

The most glaring one is, I don’t want Shiloh dead.

Why would I ever want her gone? She’s perfect for me.

Beautiful and vulnerable in her drug-induced sleep. Full lips parted. Thick eyelashes fanning over her cheeks. Her body was meant to be defiled by me.

Her soul is the only one I’ve been desperate to learn. To understand.

To…

Love? Is that what it is?

Never mind .

Tonight, I have her.

She’s tempting and hot and mine.

Her clothes have to go. I tear them off her. Toss most of them aside. Put her underwear to good use. As in using her panties to bind her.

One wrist is tied to the metal headboard by her black bra, the other by her black panties.

I’m drawn to her legs, pushing them apart. Running my knuckles over her knees. The inside of her thighs.

The soft glow of the lamp on her nightstand has shadows and highlights playing on her naked body. It’s how I see her beautiful, bare pussy.

A sweet temptation.

The part of her I’ll destroy first. Once she’s conscious again.

Until then, time to play. Time to make her wet while she’s knocked out.

She’ll be humiliated when she wakes up.

She hated coming for me when I forced myself on her. When she found out whose finger I’d left on her nightstand, she was pissed off and nervous. The cadence of her voice when she spoke to Val—her call records showed that it was the last person she had spoken to—over the phone betrayed those emotions.

So waking up to this? Soaked and upset? Confused as all fuck?

I can’t fucking wait to see her face.

I can’t wait to touch her .

First, though, I head over to her closet. Take out a black thong and return to the side of her bed. With the thin fabric clutched in my hand and my cock about to tear through my jeans, I rip my mask off.

I put her thong to the side and bend to drag my tongue over her nipple. Getting it hard and wet and fucking beautiful for me. The taste and feel of her. I’m groaning with how much I need her.

Still, I need more. I need all of her.

My lips open for her and wrap around her nipple, sucking it into my mouth.

Years ago, two vile little fuckers touched her there. Took what wasn’t theirs.

Her. Breasts. Are. Mine.

I’m starving for her, sucking and biting. Tugging and licking.

Leaving my marks on her skin.

A reminder that I own her. Something she’ll shudder at when she looks in the mirror the next day. A view I’ll come so fucking hard to.

I’m throbbing, aching. Needing her hurts on a visceral level. Missing her is an unfamiliar pain—one I understand only now that I’ve touched her like that. Now that I know how right she feels.

But I’m not here for my pleasure alone. It’s her humiliation I’m after.

Dragging two fingers along her pussy tells me I’m getting there.

She’s soaked for me. I can make her body sing for me .

I look down at her.

Hmm. Seems we’ve got a problem here.

Her other breast is still bare from my marks.

Unacceptable.

With my hand splayed on her hip, I lean forward and take it into my mouth. I sink my teeth into her as if I’m trying to draw blood. Suck on it in a way I know would make her cry out in pain.

If she were up.

The fact that she’s knocked out turns me on more. Having her sleeping, bound, and at my mercy.

My prisoner for the night. My sweet, tortured lover.

When both her breasts are red and bruised, I soak my fingers in her arousal again and shove them into her mouth. Her teeth offer a delicious pain, her plump lips a sweet caress.

I never needed this from anyone else. I need all of it from her.

“You like being my slut, don’t you?” I pull on her bottom lip, darting my tongue out to taste her upper one. When I’m done cleaning her arousal, I gather saliva in my mouth and spit into hers. “Yeah, you do. You could’ve hired security to protect you. Could’ve gone to the police. But no. You’ve been waiting for me. Deny it all you like, but you’re mine.”

Another lick. Another spit into her mouth. I was wrong before—heroin’s got nothing on her. On my Shiloh.

She’s a lethal injection and I’m willingly handing over my arm for her.

“You’ve been saving yourself for me. You’re going to get me.” Pressing my fingers to her tongue, I rub my saliva into her mouth. Forcing another part of myself into my stepsister. “You’ll get me in your waking hours. When you sleep, I’ll haunt your dreams, little one. And you’ll love it. God knows I do.”

“Mmm,” she hums.

My cock jumps as her tongue pushes against me. As her lips move around my fingers.

Coming while I finger-fuck her mouth isn’t happening tonight. I’m not wasting one fucking drop in my jeans.

It’s going into her mouth. Her cunt. On her body.

After I mess with her head. Show her just how painful it’s been for me when she’s fucked with mine for years.

Being invaded by her is unsettling. Having her rushing through my veins is a mind-fuck.

This up close, it feels like I’m the one bound to the bed. Bound to her .

During my time at Berkshire, I wasn’t actually locked away. I could always escape. I knew that one day I would.

There’s no escaping Shiloh.

I get that now as I remove my fingers from her mouth. As I smear her spit across her pillowy lips.

Little, addictive Shiloh.

I’m tracing my fingers lower down her body, circling both her nipples.

Fuck, I’ve got so much to do. So much pain to inflict on this helpless woman.

She said she didn’t want me?

When she wakes up edged, soaked, dying to come, she might sing a different tune .

She might beg me to kill her again.

What a fucking turn-on that would be.

Already is.

A groan escapes me as soon as my fingers settle into her pussy. Two, up to the second knuckle. Too deep and I could break her hymen.

My fingers won’t get the honor. Hell fucking no.

My cock will split her in half. My ears will get to enjoy her screams.

“Wet and tight for me. Hmm.” I pump in and out of her. Curl my fingers the way that made her scream in pain and pleasure. “Your hot pussy sucks me in. Begging me to get you off.”

Her clit is hard under my thumb. I want to make her wetter. Have her wake up horrified at how her body reacted to me while she was passed out.

There’ll be no denying it. No avoiding the mortification.

Her tortured expression. The agony of having her pussy hot and clenching and desperate for release.

Can’t. Fucking. Take. It.

From my place at the edge of her bed, I free my cock, rubbing the pierced tip on her lips.

Not enough. Need more.

Digging my hand into her thigh, I spread her wider for me. Grab her thin thong and mash it on her cunt. Drenching it with her arousal.

Getting harder than I am now should be impossible. Except my flawed, thrumming human body shows me that yes, it is possible. It hurts, this wanting . This constant need .

The black material darkens as I drag it back out and looking at it awakens the possessive side within me more than before. The territorial madman who’s so thoroughly obsessed with her.

Watching her isn’t cutting it, though. I need her.

I need this—fuck, yes—her wet thong around my cock drives all the blood in my body down south. I curse under my breath, looking at her face while I use her underwear to jerk off.

“Look at you, Shiloh. Look at how much you need me.” I put my knees on the bed. Press two fingers on that spot inside her pussy that swells with my touch. I keep jerking off to her. Can’t hold back. “You’d curse me if you were awake for this. You can’t now. You’re silent. Obedient. Mine.”

Her thong slides up and down my length, spreading her arousal on me. The thong she wore. The material that was once tucked between her legs. Grazed her cunt. Her ass. Christ.

I’ve fucked my hand before. Fucked the pillow as I stared at her picture. Fantasized about my hand around her neck. About her twisted expression as pain burned through her.

Nothing has ever come close to this.

What I would give to see her cry.

She will cry for me.

She’ll weep.

Her pussy sure does. She squeezes around me. Her juices drip down my hand and to my wrist. She must be close.

So. Goddamn. Close.

That’s when I pull them out. I make her wait, make her need it badly while I chase my pleasure, spilling myself on her pussy. While I turn my good girl into a dirty one .

It must feel awful to be left like this. Unattended to.

I’m a bastard. Her worst nightmare.

She shouldn’t expect any less from me.

I don’t expect any less of me.

What’s strange is that I’m not calm.

In many ways, this woman is supposed to be my captive. I’m the one who’s supposed to be under control.

Yet she’s the one consuming me.

That makes me want to hurt her all the more.

Just until we’re equals.

That’s why I step back. Stuff her used thong in my jeans. Tuck myself in. Leave her bedroom.

No better way to soothe this chaos inside of me than walking it off. Do some digging around her house.

It’s a constant pain in my chest to have her out of my sight. A pain so strong that my bones protest. An invisible rope pulls me back to her. It’s all I can do to stay out of that room.

Focus.

My version of sanity is back as I start browsing through her things without worrying that she might wake up or stop me.

Her apartment is in perfect condition. Clothes inside the hamper and closet, not scattered around the floor. The sink is empty. The granite counter is sparkling.

The more I see how organized her life is, the more determined I am to make a mess of it.

She wasn’t meant for this life.

This…boredom .

A soul that burns as bright as Shiloh’s isn’t supposed to be caged in this perfect little home. Isn’t supposed to be shackled to this mundane routine.

When I start heading back to her room, I notice something. The bookshelves that line the walls of her living room aren’t as perfect as the rest of the place.

Something that shouldn’t be there sticks out like a sore thumb.

“What do we have here?” I pull out a thick, black binder that stands out from her other textbooks.

The spine is tattered and old. Its age shows. I carry it with me to the kitchen, switch on the light, and set the binder on her dining table.

My jaw clenches at what I see on the first page. A contract between her and her dad. A signed agreement states that Shiloh is prohibited from contacting, responding to, or being interviewed by any media outlet.

In exchange for allowing her to live here, in Seattle.

So that’s why she stayed away. The bastard refused to let her come back home.

She found a way to manipulate him anyway, my clever sister.

The man is beyond obsessed with appearances. Even that indie reporter Jerome warned me about has gone silent. It has to be him.

Shiloh could’ve ruined the miserable control freak with the snap of her fingers. She could’ve told the press a story so tragic they’d be salivating for an exclusive. Or they’d go over their editors’ heads altogether and get her an exclusive book deal. Anything.

Instead, she signed this contract.

She twisted his arm so he’d step down and let her come home.

Close to me.

Fuck her dad. Fuck this contract.

Once I’m done letting out years of frustration and making her truly mine, we’re taking him down.

Which has been the plan all along. Him and my doormat of a mother.

Thoughts of a bright future together are cut abruptly when I turn the pages of the binder.

These are letters.

Addressed to me.

She wrote the date on the top of each page. The first one is dated eleven years ago.

I flip through them. The last one is from a year ago.

She’s been writing to me. Letters she couldn’t send. Or maybe she’d been too afraid to send them. Contacting a monster is dangerous.

Finally, though, they’re in my possession. The letters I’ve been desperate for.

The warmth in my chest. The heat behind my eyes.

What the fuck is this?

I’m weak for them. For her.

I should go back to her bedroom. Hurt her until she wakes up from her drug-induced sleep. Act like myself.

I won’t be so alone once she’s up.

But my feet are planted on the floor. My fingertips trace the old paper of that first letter. My eyes fixate on the words.

Kaleb,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

For everything.

For not screaming in the court because it hurt when Daddy slapped me.

For being sad when you’re the one who’s locked up.

I’m selfish for hurting this bad. For missing you so much.

Daddy tells me I’m stupid. That you’re awful and the worst. That you would’ve killed me, too.

Would you?

I hope he’s wrong.

I hate that he says it so much that I start believing it.

You killed the boys that hurt me. Just them.

Right?

Right?

I’m so sorry.

Come back. Please. I hate it here without you.

Your stepsister,

Shiloh

Tightness eradicates the warmth in my chest. Darkness clouds my vision.

My mom forced him to keep me around. He couldn’t separate Shiloh and me while I lived there and behaved.

Then I murdered her abusers, playing right into his hands.

Sure, it humiliated him, being called downtown to the police station. Discussing his daughter’s assault. He was ashamed of her for being a victim, the motherfucker .

He must’ve gloated after I’d avenged her.

He hated me. He was scared of me, same as the rest of them. I didn’t let him hurt Shiloh.

I sure as fuck wouldn’t have let him send her off to a boarding school.

Right before the police came for me, I was about to kill him for hinting she should be shamed for being a victim.

Now that I’m out, he has to know I’m coming for him.

The bastard has done everything in his power to make sure I’d never get out. That Shiloh would never come back for me by sending her away and brainwashing her. By forbidding her from sending me these letters.

My nostrils flare as I continue to browse through them. At how lonely she’d been in LA. How, when she came home for the holidays— appearances , the letters say—his brainwashing had gotten worse and worse.

Shiloh’s I miss you and I’m sorry slowly dwindle. They’re replaced with You scare me and please, don’t hate me. Please, don’t kill me. Or if you do, be quick about it.

There’s no mention of my mom, obviously. A pretty, useless wallflower. An empty shell.

I slow down when the content of her letters changes. Again.

Shiloh was in her senior year and wrote to me about choosing her major.

She missed me. It says so right fucking there. She didn’t understand why she’d miss a man who could kill her. Why she’d develop feelings for the person inside her head, one she hadn’t seen in years. One who she shouldn’t like. Her stepbrother.

But it wasn’t all about her. She wanted to learn about me. She was curious to find out why I was the way I was.

She wasn’t selfish. Not her.

She was falling for me. She always loved me, and she needed to make sense of it.

Of both of us.

Poor thing. My poor little Shiloh needs outsiders’ help to figure out this thing between us.

She doesn’t need her school. She doesn’t need anyone else.

She needs me.

Time to make things right. To teach Shiloh that valuable lesson no professor ever could.

That I’m her entire world just be-fucking-cause.

Me.

And guess how I’ll do it?

The hard, painful way.

My way.