Page 30 of Sinful Lord

That’s enough to finally snap me out of my lustful haze. Shifting my hard cock with my hand, I turn back to the suitcase and pick it up. But before I can head out into the hallway, I find myself stopping in the doorway and gazing back into the apartment—specifically, towards the drawer, then to Melina’s bed.

I can feel the soft weight of her panties in my pocket. They’re mine now. And soon, she will be too.

But first, I will stalk her. I will watch her. I will hunt her. Like the predator I am, I will learn her every move. I will understand her every desire. That way, when the time comes to pounce, she won’t have any choice but to surrender to me, because I’ll be everything she ever hoped for and more—even if she doesn’t know it yet.

7

Melina

It's him. It has to be.

Who else would do something like this?

Who else would I want doing something like this?

“Shit,” I mumble.

The newest mystery email sits open on my laptop screen. But this one isn’t like the rest—not that anything has been the same since I returned from the hospital four days ago.

Each day has been stranger and more unexplainable than the last.

The first thing I noticed was the warmth. The second was the painting supplies. Then it was the stack of cash on my dresser. Beside that were two sleek black credit cards. But even weirder was what was on my bed. A brand-new phone and laptop.

And someone had already left a message on both.

Don’t worry, princess. Nothing can be traced. Your secrets are safe with me ;)

If only that was the end of it.

Every day since, I’ve been getting reminder notifications to take my doctor-subscribed medication. Two days ago, another anonymous email arrived in my inbox that implored me to start painting again.

If I’d had the energy, I would have run the second I pushed in through that door and saw that someone had clearly broken in. But I was completely drained from my stay at the hospital—not to mention the events that led me there—and the private warmth of this once cold apartment felt so comforting that I couldn’t help but collapse beneath my covers and sleep for an entire day.

When I woke up, it was to a fresh email. But unlike the first, this one contained no words. Instead, all I saw was a link to a food delivery app. Again, I should have shut it down and scrambled away. I should have used the laptop to email my brother or my father or anybody from my family. I should have been begging for someone to save me. I was kidnapped, after all. I was chased into a freezing fucking river.

But then I was saved.

A new warmth had washed through me at the memory of how tightly my rescuer held me. Then my stomach growled, and my hazy brain decided that I could wait on being dragged back to my gilded cage for a little longer. This didn’t seem so bad, not right now, especially not after what I’d been through.

So I clicked on that link. I downloaded that app to my new phone. And I ordered a big, steaming pizza, with a healthy serving of hot sauce on the side.

Still, the second I finished that amazing meal, my mind cleared enough to remember what had really gotten me into this mess.

Elsa. She must have sold me into some kind of camgirl brothel.

Immediately, I was up on my unsteady feet, searching every inch of my apartment for signs of a webcam.

But before I could even get halfway through, fatigue took over me again, and I quickly found myself back in bed, tucked under covers, drifting off.

Now, all of a sudden, it’s been four days, and another anonymous email has appeared in my inbox.

Start painting again. You can do it.

That’s all it says.

My eyes drift to the easel set up by the living room window. Yesterday, I unpacked some of the brushes. But I couldn’t push myself any further.

I look down at my fingers.