Page 76 of Cursed
Why is this different?
She takes another piece of muffin into her mouth, and I’m watching her reluctant compliance with a growing sense of unease. This should feel like victory. This should feel like power. Instead, there’s a strange emptiness spreading through me.
During the Hunt, I recognized a dark need in Sadie that matched my own. A perfect, broken mirror. I thought she understood what was happening between us. I thought she recognized our connection for what it was: inevitable. Two broken pieces fitting together.
“Take another bite,” I command.
Women have cursed my name, threatened me, begged me to let them go. I’ve always found their resistance amusing, arousing even. Their hatred was another form of acknowledgment that I am their superior.
But Sadie’s hatred feels like acid, eating through layers of certainty I’ve built around myself.
Maybe because, for the first time, I want someone to see me—the real me—and not run screaming. I want her beautiful mind to understand mine. I want her to recognize that I’m not justtaking; I’m giving her permission to acknowledge and embrace the darkness within herself.
Her hatred isn’t part of the script I’ve written in my head. Her fear, yes. Her reluctant arousal, absolutely. Even her defiance plays a role. But hatred? That wasn’t supposed to be there.
The uncomfortable truth surfaces like a corpse in dark water: I don’t want Sadie to hate me. I want her to need me. To crave me. To recognize that we’re the same.
32
SADIE
The code on my screen blurs as my concentration wavers. My eyes burn from staring at the monitor for hours, but work provides the only escape from my reality. From him.
My phone buzzes again—the eighth time in two hours. Jolene.
Sadie, please just let me know you’re okay. I’m worried sick.
Call me back, I swear I’ll call the police if I don’t hear from you soon.
This isn’t like you. Did something happen after the Hunt?
If only she knew. I type a quick response:
I’m fine. Just busy with work. Talk soon.
The lie is bitter.
Landon had all my belongings moved here two days ago—clothes, laptop, even my robot figurine collection. Like he was erasing any evidence of my independent life. At least my boss agreed when I called to request working remotely forpersonal reasons. He values my work enough not to question the sudden change.
The door swings open without a knock. Landon strides in wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, his presenceoverwhelming the room. I keep typing, refusing to acknowledge him.
“Get ready,” he announces. “There’s a street race tonight. I’m competing.”
I stare at my screen. “I have work to do.”
“Work can wait.” His voice carries that familiar edge—the one that expects immediate compliance.
“No, it can’t. This code needs to be finished by morning.”
He moves behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. I stiffen but don’t pull away, knowing it would only provoke him.
“You need to get out,” he says, massaging my tense muscles. “You’ve been at that computer all day.”
“I said no.” The words come out firm. “I can’t leave my computer for something astrivialas watching you and your brothers risk your necks.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and oppressive. Since that night—when he drugged me, carved his initials into my skin, and violated me while I was unconscious—we’ve been locked in this strange battle. I try to preserve a fragment of autonomy, but he wants it all—every last piece of me.
I hear him exhale sharply. “Fine. Work.” His frustration is palpable as he walks toward the door, pausing before he leaves. “I’ll be back late.”
