Page 73 of Cursed
“Stay the fuck away from me!” she hisses.
I freeze, genuinely perplexed. “What’s wrong?”
Her laugh is hollow. “What’s wrong? Are you serious? You drugged me. You carved your initials into my skin. You... you fucked me while I was unconscious. And you’re asking what’s wrong?”
“You loved it,” I state. “You came multiple times. You begged for more.”
“After I woke up!” She pulls the shirt tighter around herself. “Do you even understand what consent means?”
I frown. “You signed the NDA and contract. You surrendered your right to withhold consent for the Hunt. You’re mine for a year.”
“Are you hearing the words coming out of your own mouth? I signed the contracts that covered seventy-two hours of the hunt. Period. That doesn’t make me your property to use when I’m unconscious!” Her voice cracks.
In my mind, everything between us has been a dance of desire, a perfect symbiosis of her desire to be used.
“The contract states that you consent for the year after the hunt, if you are claimed. I claimed you, Sadie. You said you wanted it,” I insist, my voice rising. “You came looking for this. For me.”
“You’re insane!” Her words bounce off me like they're in a foreign language. I stare at her, confused by the disconnect between what happened last night and her reaction now. During the Hunt, she wanted consensual non-consent—she even asked me to act it out with her. In my mind, everything flows together perfectly—the Hunt, the claiming, what I did last night.
“You watched my video,” I remind her, moving closer. “You saw what I'm capable of, what I do to women, and you still let me in. You researched me. You knew.”
Sadie’s eyes flash with anger, but there’s calculation behind the fury.
“I did research on you,” she admits, her voice tight. “But there's a difference between fantasy and reality, Landon. And the reality is you drugged me and then...” She gestures between us, frustration evident. “I should have had a safe word. A way to say no if I'd woken up last night and wanted you to stop.”
She's right, of course. The problem is, this kind of dynamic, where I don't simply want to cause fear and suffering, is entirely new to me. An uncomfortable sensation twists in my chest. I'm not used to this feeling—this doubt, this... feeling of having wronged her. Usually, I'm certain about everything I do.
“Let's set one now, then,” I offer, watching her carefully. “You want a safe word; I'll give you one.”
Sadie pauses, studying me as if searching for deception. Her anger doesn't disappear, but it seems to recede slightly at my concession.
“Fine, how about firewall?” she suggests.
I smirk as it's classic Sadie. Bringing her work into the safe word. "Fine, if you say that at any point, I stop."
A moment of understanding passes between us. She relaxes slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“That's... reasonable,” she admits, glancing up at me. "I didn't expect you to agree so easily."
"I'm not unreasonable," I tell her, moving closer. “This is new territory for me as well.”
She doesn't back away, which I take as a good sign. The silence between us feels less hostile now.
“The coffee smells good,” she says, nodding toward the breakfast tray I brought. Her stomach growls, and a flush spreads across her cheeks.
I reach for a muffin and offer it to her. "Muffin?"
She accepts it, our fingers brushing. For a moment, I think we might be moving past this.
Then she shifts to sit up straighter, and her hand flies to her collarbone as pain flashes across her face. She pulls down the collar of my shirt, examining the marks for the first time in proper light.
“On another note,” she says, her voice hardening though not returning to the full fury from before, “you carved your initials into me while I was drugged. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”
I don't. That's the problem. In my world, this makes perfect sense. You claim what's yours. You mark it. You ensure no one else can have it—not even death itself. I run a hand through my hair, unsure what to say. "I've given you a safe word now. What else do you want from me?"
“What do I want?” Sadie climbs off the bed, finding her voice. “I need you to give me space, Landon. Time to process all of this.” Her tone is firm but not final—a request for breathing room rather than permanent distance.
A coldness stabs at my chest. I watch her standing there in my shirt, her body marked by me in a dozen different ways, and while the idea of giving her space is difficult, it's not the same as her walking away completely.
