Page 90 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

And somewhere beneath the horror and betrayal, I can see the moment when understanding finally dawns—when she realizes that her anger, her knowledge, her moral outrage... none of it matters.

Because I own her now, completely and irrevocably. Not through lies or manipulation or convenient omissions.

Through truth.

The purest, most honest truth of all: I am exactly the monster she always suspected I was.

And monsters don’t let go of their treasures.

Not ever.

Chapter 18

The photos slip from my trembling fingers like accusations made flesh, their glossy surfaces catching the dim light as they scatter across the leather interior. Each one lands with a whisper that sounds like Jack’s name, like a death rattle, like the truth finally clawing its way to the surface.

My breath fogs the passenger window as I stare at Thatcher—really see him for the first time. Not the hockey star or the silver-spoon rich boy or even the predator who’s been stalking me. This is something else entirely. Something that watches me with those calculating eyes like I’m prey he’s been circling for months, finally ready to strike.

He killed Jack.

Something dark and twisted in my chest unfurls like a flower blooming in poisoned soil. He killed for me. Because Jack hurt me. Because Jack touched me. It doesn’t make him a better monster, does it? Maybe, but I see now that he’s my monster.

“What are you going to do about it now?” His voice is silk sliding over razors, deceptively soft for someone who just confessed to murder.

The question hangs in the air between us, but my body has already decided. Fight or flight, and every cell in me is screaming to run. My hand finds the door handle, fingers fumbling with the lock mechanism until I hear the decisive click of freedom.

I don’t look back. Don’t pause to consider the wisdom of bolting into the middle of nowhere with a killer behind me. I just move, yanking the door open and launching myself out of the Tesla like I’m escaping a burning building.

The asphalt is harsh beneath my feet as I sprint past the abandoned gas station, its broken windows like dead eyes watching my flight. Behind me, I hear the slam of his door, the measured crunch of his footsteps on gravel. No urgency. No panic. Just the steady, deliberate pace of a predator who knows his prey can’t escape.

The tree line rushes toward me, offering shadows and concealment. Branches are catching at my hair and clothes like grasping fingers. The forest floor is uneven with roots and fallen logs that threaten to send me face-planting.

I can hear him behind me—closer now, his breathing steady and controlled while mine comes in ragged gasps. He’s not even winded. Not even trying that hard. Just... following. Hunting.

The realization sends heat spiraling through me even as terror claws at my throat. This is what he is—a hunter. A killer. And I’m the prize he’s been stalking since that first night.

My foot catches on something—a root, a rock—and I stumble forward, arms windmilling as I fight for balance. The stumble costs me precious seconds, precious distance.

And then he’s on me.

The impact drives all the air from my lungs as we go down together, his body crushing mine into the carpet of dead leaves.The earthy smell of decomposition fills my nostrils, rich and loamy and somehow appropriate for this moment—this death of who I used to be.

“Let me go!” The words tear from my throat, but even as I say them, my body is responding to his weight, to the solid heat of him pressed against me from shoulder to hip.

His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head with an ease that should humiliate me. Instead, it sends liquid fire straight to my core. The helplessness, the complete surrender of control—it’s exactly what some sick part of me has been craving.

“Tell me, Dove…” His voice is rough, breathless, but there’s steel beneath the velvet. “Tell me that you’re mine.”

“Fuck you.” But the words come out breathless, lacking conviction. Because we both know the truth—I am his. I’ve been his since the moment he decided I was worth killing for.

His body shifts against mine, and I can feel him hard and wanting and dangerous pressed against my hip. The knowledge that chasing me through the woods, tackling me like prey, has aroused him should disgust me. It doesn’t.

“Say it from that pretty fucking mouth, Rhea.” His breath is hot against my ear, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the cool night air. “No matter what I’ve done, no matter what you know—say you’re mine.”

I try to twist away from him, but his grip is iron. And worse—I don’t really want to escape. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” His lips brush the shell of my ear, so soft it’s almost tender. “But I’m yours.”

There’s something desperate in his voice now, a crack in the controlled facade that reveals the man beneath the monster. When he kisses me, it’s not gentle or coaxing. It’s claiming, branding, marking me as his in the most primitive way possible.

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