Page 74 of Cursed
“I’m not sure I know how to give you space.” My voice drops to a dangerous octave. “You’re mine, Sadie. The Hunt wasn’t just a game. The claiming was symbolic.”
“Symbolic, my ass.” She wraps her arms tighter around herself.
“I’ve never claimed to be anything other than a monster.” I step closer. “I made it clear to you during the Hunt. You knew when you watched my videos. You knew when you opened your door to me yesterday.”
“I didn’t know you’d drug me. I didn’t know you’d?—”
“What? Give you everything you’ve craved and denied yourself?” I cut her off. “Everything about you belongs to me now. Your body. Your pleasure. Your pain. Even your fear.”
The small flash of terror in her eyes should satisfy me. Usually, I crave that look—the moment when they realize there’s no escape. But with Sadie, it feels... wrong. Like I’ve made a mistake, and I never make mistakes.
“The contract?—”
“It’s not just a piece of paper,” I finish for her. “It’s the claiming ceremony. For one year, you belong to me. Running isn’t an option. Neither is leaving.”
I move closer, reaching out to touch her face. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say again, softer this time, as if this small act of consideration might bridge the chasm between us. “Let’s eat. Then we can discuss what happens next.”
The laugh that escapes her is brittle. “As if I have any say in what happens next.”
My jaw clenches as I stare at her. The emotional outburst—her tears, her accusations—it’s too much. I can’t process it. This isn’t how things are supposed to go.
“Kitchen,” I say, turning away before she can respond. I don’t look back to see if she’s following. She will. She has to.
I hear her soft footsteps padding behind me. When I turn, she’s standing in the doorway, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. My shirt hangs off her frame, making her look smaller, more vulnerable.
I point to a chair at the kitchen island. “Sit.”
Her eyes narrow, but she complies, lowering herself to the edge of the seat as if she might bolt at any moment. I place a coffee in front of her—cream, no sugar, just how she likes it—and slide the bag of pastries toward her.
“Now sit down and eat the muffin I bought you.”
Sadie stares at the muffin I pull from the bag, then takes it with trembling fingers. She tears off a microscopic piece, places it on her tongue. Doesn’t chew. Doesn’t swallow. Just sits there, eyes downcast, body rigid.
“Eat,” I command. “You need your strength.”
Her gaze snaps up. “For what? More of your sick games?”
“It’s not a game to me.”
She tears another piece of muffin, smaller than the first. Rolls it between her fingers until it’s nothing but crumbs.
“Sadie.” My voice drops to a dangerous register. “Eat the damn muffin.”
“Or what?” she challenges, dropping the mangled pastry onto the counter. “You’ll force that down my throat, too?”
Her words land like a slap. I straighten, studying her defiant posture. The muffin sits demolished on the counter between us, a physical manifestation of her resistance.
“I didn’t force anything,” I say. “Your body responded to me. It always does.”
Sadie narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t refute my claim. I expected by now that Sadie would understand our connection and recognize that I see her completely, all her broken pieces fitting perfectly with mine.
“You don’t understand what this is,” I tell her, circling the island. She tenses but doesn’t retreat. “What we are. The Hunt was just the beginning.”
“The beginning of what? Your sick fantasy?”
I reach for her, and she remains still as my fingers trace the outline of my initials through the fabric of my shirt. The wound is fresh, tender.
