Page 109 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
She doesn't respond. She just burrows closer, her body melting into mine, her breath slowly evening out.
I should tell her. Now, in this moment of vulnerability and connection, I should confess everything. About her father. About what I did. About the impossible truth that binds us together.
But the words won't come. They lodge in my throat like stones, choking me, refusing to be spoken.
Tomorrow, I tell myself.Tomorrow I'll find the words.
I don't know that tomorrow she's meeting my enemy. I don't know that the truth is about to explode in ways I can't control.
All I know is this moment—her body in my arms, her scent in my lungs, the temporary peace of possession that will never, ever be enough.
I hold her tighter and stare at the ceiling, watching shadows move across the darkness.
She's slipping away from me.
And I don't know how to make her stay.
Chapter 27 - Poppy
I wake to the memory of Gabriel's hands on my throat.
Not squeezing—never quite squeezing—but holding. Controlling. A reminder of how easily he could hurt me if he chose to. A reminder that every breath I take is one he allows.
My wrists ache where the silk ties bound them. When I lift my arms, I can see the faint marks—red lines circling my skin like bracelets. Like brands. Like evidence of everything I let him do to me last night.
You're mine. Whatever happens, whatever secrets you're keeping, you're mine.
His words echo in my head as I lie in the wreckage of his bed, staring at the ceiling. He knew. Even as he was tying me up, even as he was fucking me senseless, he knew I was hiding something. He was trying to claim me hard enough to make me forget my secrets, to make me forget myself, to make me nothing but his.
And it almost worked.
But not quite.
I turn my head and find his side of the bed empty, the sheets cold. He's gone again—meetings, business, the endless machinery of his empire grinding on without pause. I should be grateful for the reprieve. Instead, I feel the absence like a wound.
What is wrong with me?
The question has become a constant refrain, a drumbeat beneath every thought. What kind of woman falls for her stalker? What kind of woman lets a murderer tie her up and bring her to screaming orgasm? What kind of woman keeps his secrets instead of running to the police?
What kind of woman agrees to meet his enemy behind his back?
That kind of woman. Apparently, that's the kind of woman I am.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the evidence of last night—his scent on my skin, the soreness between my thighs, the phantom pressure of his hand on my throat. By the time I'm dressed, I almost look normal. Almost look like someone who isn't about to betray everything.
Gabriel finds me in the kitchen, nursing a cup of chamomile tea that Mrs. Bloom pressed into my hands. He's dressed for business—dark suit, crisp shirt, the armor he wears to face the world.
"You're up early," he says, crossing to pour himself coffee.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I." He leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of his cup. "Are you feeling better? You seemed... overwhelmed last night."
Overwhelmed. That's one word for it.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." He sets down his coffee and moves toward me, his hand coming up to cup my chin. "But I don't think you mean it."
