Page 69 of Desperate Crimes

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Which is fair, honestly.

And yet—here I am.

Wrapped in silk and lace, standing in a stranger’s kitchen—except he’s not really a stranger, is he?

He’s Nico Jr.

My fantasy. My stalker. My captor.

My Hades.

And somehow, I’m fine.

More than fine. I’m okay, I think?

No bruises. No chains. No cold basement floor.

Just multiple orgasms, soft lights, clean towels, lusty glances.

And him.

Watching me like he’s not sure if he wants to feed me or fuck me again. Or both.

Please be both.

This all feels like something out of a dream.

Like I wandered into the pages of a dark, decadent fairytale and forgot how to find the way out.

I look around at the house Nico built—every tile, every nail, every rose bush and perfectly strung light—and I feel it in my bones.

This isn’t just a home. It’s a kingdom built for one purpose.

Me.

All of it bears his mark. All of it says mine.

It’s obsessive. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying.

And it’s beautiful.

Like Hades dragging Persephone into the Underworld—not by force, not really—but by offering her a throne and a crown she never even knew she craved.

What happens if I choose to stay?

What if the world wants to paint me as the stolen daughter, chained to a dark god’s desire?

I know the truth. I’m not some girl ripped from the spring.

I want the fall. Always have.

And when they come for me—because they will—I’ll have to decide if I want to return to the light or reign with the devil who built me a garden in the dark.

“Come on,” he says, and I follow.

The kitchen smells divine—buttery and warm, like cinnamon and caramelized sugar. And then, to my horror, my stomach growls loud enough to echo.

I immediately want to die.

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