A Deal with the Devil Who Wants Me

Chapter Six – The Reminder

The apartment feels contaminated.

No amount of bleach or locked bolts can erase the truth: he’s been here.

Damien has crossed every line, and yet… I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my cheek.

I walk into the kitchen, determined to distract myself with something mundane. But there it is—waiting like a trap.

A single black envelope.

My breath stutters. The air turns thick and heavy.

My fingers tremble as I break the wax seal.

“Don’t lock me out again.”

The words are sharp, masculine. They bleed authority. My stomach drops.

But the paper isn’t the worst part.

The photograph slips out next.

It’s me.

Sleeping.

The angle—taken from my bedroom doorway. My hair sprawled across the pillow, lips parted in unconscious surrender. The thin strap of my nightgown slipping off one shoulder.

My throat tightens. Horror claws at me. He was in my room. Inches away from me. Close enough to touch…

Close enough to ruin me.

The longer I stare, the sicker I feel—because beneath the terror is something dirtier. Hotter. Wrong.

I’m wet.

The realization makes me choke on a sob. My body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach as if my nerves are addicted to his danger.

I slam the photo on the counter, but it doesn’t help. My hands still shake as I press my thighs together, disgust curdling with need.

The silence is unbearable. I swear I can feel his eyes on me even now, watching, laughing at my torment.

I force myself into the bedroom. I need to prove to myself it’s safe. I fling the closet open, crawl onto my knees to check under the bed like a child. Nothing.

And yet, when I sit back on my heels, something catches my eye.

On the nightstand.

A single white rose.

Fresh. Dew-kissed. Its petals spread open like a taunt.

My vision blurs. He was just here. He’s mocking me, daring me to feel beautiful and owned.

The phone on my nightstand buzzes. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know. But my hand betrays me, clutching the device.

One word glows against the screen.

“Mine.”

My chest caves, a desperate gasp ripping through me. The photo. The flower. The note. The text.

This isn't an obsession. It’s possession.

And the most terrifying truth?

A dark part of me wants to give in.

The photo burns into me like a brand.

I drop it, but my eyes keep darting back to it, as if some twisted gravity pulls me.

My pulse stutters when I notice faint handwriting scrawled on the back.

“You look prettier when you’re dreaming of me.”

My stomach twists. Heat races up my neck.

I stagger backward, knocking into the counter. My chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. I’m suffocating.

Another buzz vibrates from my phone. My hands move before my brain tells them to.

A new message.

“Check your mirror.”

I freeze.

Every instinct screams don’t. But I can’t not look. I lift my head slowly toward the hallway mirror.

There—ink written across the glass in bold, jagged strokes.

BE MINE

The words stretch across my reflection, bisecting my face. For a second, I almost don’t recognize the wide-eyed, trembling woman staring back at me.

I rush forward and press my palm to the glass, smearing the letters. But my touch lingers longer than it should, almost as if… I want to feel what he wrote.

My skin prickles. The apartment suddenly feels alive. Charged. Watching me.

And then another message arrives.

“I’m closer than you think.”

The phone slips from my hands, clattering against the hardwood. My throat tightens with a helpless noise that isn’t quite a sob.

He’s turning my home into his playground. My body into his stage.

And the worst part?

A dark ache pulses between my thighs at the thought of him standing in the shadows, smirking while I break apart.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But underneath it simmers something dirtier. Something I can’t confess to anyone—maybe not even to myself.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing a single breath past my lips.

But when I open them again, the reflection in the mirror looks different.

It isn’t just me staring back anymore.

It feels like him.