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"Motherfu—" The word choked off as I clawed frantically at the fabric smothering me, my lungs heaving in blind panic. This wasn't how I pictured my night ending—getting bagged in my own goddamn living room by some psycho-fan of my twisted fantasies.
"Let go!" I spat, the words muffled and futile against the rough material. My mind raced, every dark alley I'd sauntered down, every questionable online interaction, every lock of eyes that lasted too long—it all came crashing back. Someone had stepped out of the shadows of my imagination and into the stark reality of my home.
"Help!" I tried again, knowing damn well the city had swallowed my voice whole. Loneliness had a new name, and it breathed down my neck, sending shivers across my skin that were far from the good kind.
But even as I fought, even as fear seared through me hot and bright, there was a sick part of me that relished the sharp edge of terror, the uncertainty of what lay beneath the burlap veil of darkness.
This wasn't how I wanted it, but it was happening anyway, and I was painfully aware of the twisted thrill that accompanied the thought.
In a desperate bid for freedom, my hand fumbled, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the forgotten knife. I clung onto it, the chill seeping into my bones. I swung my arm wildly, the weight of the knife in my hand a cold comfort. The world beyond the fabric was pitch-black, but I didn't need sight to fight like hell. I felt the blade connect with something solid, and a moan—a fucking moan—vibrated through the stifling air.
"Shit!" The sound ripped from my throat as my attacker recoiled. I couldn't see anything, but I could imagine him, clutching at the wound with a sick grin plastered on his face. The thought made me want to hurl.
"Is this your fucked-up way of proposing, Celeste?" The voice slithered into my ears, coated with something that might have been amusement if it wasn't so goddamn twisted. My blood ran cold, but boiled with anger at the same time.
I scoffed between jagged breaths, disbelief twisting my features even though he couldn't see them. "I'd rather make out with a chainsaw, you creep."
My hands shook—not all from fear, but from fury too. This bastard had invaded my home, my sanctuary, and now he was trying to turn it into some perverse game. Well, I wasn't playing.
"Come on, Celeste, don't be such a tease," he taunted, voice dripping with venomous charm. My skin crawled at the sound of my name on his lips. How many nights had he spent listening to me spill my secrets into the void, mistaking my written words for an invitation?
"Fuck off!" I spat, lashing out again. I was a rabid animal backed into a corner, desperate and dangerous. Maybe he hadn't read the part of my blog where I said betrayal makes me batshit crazy. Or maybe he just didn't care.
I lunged at him again, but this time he was ready. He sidestepped my attack, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. The knife clattered to the floor, useless. His grip was like iron, and as I struggled against him he began to bind my hands. My wrists chafed against the coarse rope, a stark reminder of the reality I couldn't escape. His hands, firm and unyielding, cinched the binds tighter, and despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I felt it—a sick, twisted thrill at the sound of his voice. The bastard who had turned from shadow to flesh, haunting me beyond the screen.
"Comfortable, sweetheart?" he mocked, close enough that his breath ghosted over my skin.
"Ecstatic," I bit back sarcastically, the tremor in my voice betraying the fear I was desperately trying to mask. "Nothing gets me off quite like being kidnapped in my own damn home."
Anger seethed within me, a molten core of rage ready to explode. Yet, there it was, that fucked-up flutter deep in my belly, responding to his nearness. I hated myself for it, hated him more. My art, my blog—it was supposed to be my safe space to explore those dark desires, not an open invitation for some psycho stalker to drag them into the light. That was too far. That wasn’t our agreement.
"Your pulse is racing," he observed, like we were discussing the fucking weather and not the fact that he was binding me like a Christmas present. "Scared? Or something else?"
"Go to hell," I hissed, yanking at the ropes in vain. I refused to acknowledge the shameful excitement that coursed alongside my terror. He'd taken my control, my choice, but he wouldn't take my defiance.
"Been there, babe. It's overrated," he retorted, and I imagined the smirk on his face—the kind of smirk that needed to be wiped off with a sandblaster.
Every tug against my restraints sparked dual fires within me—one of fury, the other an infernal curiosity that licked at my insides. I wanted out, craved freedom like a drowning person craves air. Yet, here I was, gasping for breath in a sea of my darkest fantasies turned nightmare.
"Let me go, you asshole," I demanded, even as part of me, some depraved piece I didn't want to recognize, longed to see what he would do next. It was a fucked-up game, and I wasn't sure anymore who was chasing whom.
"Patience," he cooed, tracing a finger down the bag that covered my head igniting a blaze of both revulsion and reluctant anticipation. "The night is young, and so are you."
"Patience is for saints and suckers, and I'm neither," I spat, thrashing against him, but it was like fighting quicksand. The more I struggled, the deeper I sank into this twisted abyss he'd created.
I should've been scared shitless—and I was, don't get me wrong—but with every second that ticked by, entwined with my desire to survive was this perverse craving for the unknown. Maybe betrayal hadn't just made me crazy; maybe it had cracked me wide open, leaving me vulnerable to the very darkness I painted in secret strokes on canvas.
"Quite the firecracker, aren't you?" he mused, almost admiringly.
"Light the fuse and find out, motherfucker," I challenged, because if I was going down, I'd go down swinging—even if part of me wondered what it would be like to burn.
The cold grip of the night air slapped against my skin as I was hauled out of the sanctuary-turned-prison that had been my home. My bare feet scraped against the concrete steps, each stumble a sharp reminder of how royally fucked this situation was.
"Fuck, she's got some fight in her," one of them grunted, his voice laced with surprise and something like respect. It might have warmed me, this recognition of my ferocity—if it weren't for the fact that they were complimenting my survival instincts like I was a particularly feisty breed of dog.
"Didn't expect the little artist to have claws," another laughed—a jagged sound that set my teeth on edge. They tossed me into the back of a vehicle, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through my bones.
"Fuck you," I spat, the words muffled against the bag over my head.
