Claimed By A s*x Animal

I used to believe the fire was an accident—wrong place, wrong time, tragic luck. But the message waiting on my phone at 2:14 a.m. proved otherwise. “You should’ve burned with them.” My blood iced. No name. No number. Just those six words, as sharp as a knife pressed to my spine. Outside, the city kept moving—cars hissing through wet streets, drunk laughter spilling from sidewalks, life happening like my world hadn’t just tilted. But my apartment felt too quiet, too clean, too staged… like someone had been here. I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs. “Get it together, Sera.” The mirror caught my reflection—messy hair, bare legs, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. Vulnerable. Breakable. Pretty enough to be hunted. My phone buzzed again. “Still pretty. Still alive. Shame.” My stomach dropped. I grabbed my pepper spray and crossed the room, checking the locks again—even though I’d already checked them twice. Someone knew where I lived. Someone remembered the fire. Someone wanted me gone. The panic sat heavy in my chest, but I did what trauma-trained people do best—pretended I was fine. I threw on heels, smoothed my dress, painted on lipstick the color of fresh sin, and walked into the night like nothing scared me. The bar was loud enough to drown thoughts, dark enough to hide inside. I slid onto a stool, ordered bourbon neat, and prayed the alcohol would numb something. It didn’t. Instead, I felt him walk in. Not saw—felt. A shift in air pressure. A tightening in my lower belly. A pull I didn’t want and couldn’t ignore. Then a deep voice, smooth enough to ruin a woman's moral compass: “You shouldn’t drink alone, Sera.” I turned—and every muscle in my body forgot how to function. Adrian Blackwell. Six-foot-three of sin, danger, and money. A tailored black suit framing a body built to pin you against a wall. Eyes like winter—beautiful, brutal, merciless. The kind of man who didn’t need to touch you to make you feel naked. “Didn’t realize you were taking attendance,” I said, lifting my glass. His gaze dropped to my mouth—slow, deliberate, possessive. My pulse tripped. “You look like a woman waiting to be claimed,” he murmured. Heat shot straight between my thighs against my will. God, I hated him already. “Try again,” I said. “I look like a woman who wants to be left alone.” A small, wicked smile curved his mouth. “I don’t leave things I want.” There it was—the hunger. The promise. The threat. “How did you find me?” I asked. His eyes didn’t move from mine. “I’ve always known where you are.” My skin prickled. Fear and desire wove into something dangerously intoxicating. “You don’t even know me.” Adrian leaned in, voice dropping to a sinful whisper. “I know you still wake up from nightmares. I know you don’t trust anyone, especially yourself. And I know you’re lying about what happened the night of the fire.” My breath stalled. He shouldn’t know that. No one should. “Who the hell are you?” I whispered. He didn’t answer—not with words. His hand brushed mine, slow and intentional, like a claim. And just like that, every cell in my body remembered what craving felt like. Before I could speak, my phone buzzed again. I glanced down. “He killed them. Ask him.” My heart stopped. Adrian’s jaw flexed—once, hard—as if he already knew what the message said. “Put the phone away,” he ordered softly. “You’re not safe here.” I didn’t move. Couldn’t. “Did you send this?” “If I wanted you scared, Sera,” he said, eyes burning into mine, “you’d be screaming.” I should have run. I should have screamed. I should have done anything but lean closer. But Adrian Blackwell wasn’t a man you ran from. He was a man you fell for—right before he ruined you. The lights flickered—once, twice—then went out completely. And in the darkness, someone whispered my name. For a split second, I thought the universe had stopped breathing with me. The bar—once a chaotic symphony of drunk laughter, clinking glasses, and bad decisions—fell into a blackout so complete it swallowed sound. My pulse thundered in my ears, loud and frantic, like a warning siren I couldn’t shut off. Then—soft as a ghost, close enough to touch—I heard it. “Sera…” Not Adrian’s voice. Not familiar. Not safe. My breath locked in my throat. Hands brushed against bodies in the darkness, chairs scraped, someone cursed under their breath. Chaos erupted—phones lit up faces, bartenders scrambled for flashlights—but all of it seemed distant, muted. Because the voice had spoken directly into my ear. I spun, heart slamming into my ribs—but there was no one behind me. Just bodies moving, shadows overlapping, too many strangers, too many places for danger to hide. A warm hand closed around my wrist—firm, unshakeable. Adrian. “Stay with me,” he said, and even in darkness, his voice hit with that calm, commanding heat that dissolved resistance. A normal person would’ve yanked away. But panic makes you selfish. Makes you stupid. Makes you cling to the devil you know—especially if he smells like cedar and sin. He guided me through the crowd, his body shielding mine, his grip possessive enough to bruise. My heels scraped against the sticky floor as we wove through panicked strangers until we reached the emergency exit. Someone pushed it open, triggering an alarm that wailed into the night. Cold air slapped my skin, grounding and sharp. We spilled into the alley behind the bar, neon lights flickering against wet pavement. I sucked in a breath—relief and terror tangled in my chest. Adrian didn’t let go of me. He didn’t even loosen his grip. “Let go,” I said, forcing steel into my voice even though my knees were shaking. “I’m fine.” “You’re not,” he said. “Someone followed you here.” My stomach dropped. “You didn’t hear a voice?” He studied me—really studied me—like he was trying to read the parts of me I never put on display. “No,” he said. “But I saw someone watching you before the lights went out.” A chill slid down my spine like an invisible hand. “You’re lying,” I whispered. “If I were lying,” Adrian said, stepping closer, “I’d tell you everything is fine so you’d stop looking over your shoulder.” God help me—his proximity made rational thought impossible. His chest rose and fell inches from mine, and despite the cold, heat pooled low in my stomach. “You need to leave this city,” he said. I laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. “Sure. I’ll just pack up my trauma and go.” His jaw flexed. “I’m serious.” “So am I. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Silence settled—thick, charged, suffocating. I expected him to step back. Instead, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—slow, deliberate, intimate. “You don’t have to be brave all the time, Sera.” My breath caught. He shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t see that. “Don’t pretend you know me,” I said, softer than I intended. His eyes traveled over my face—my lips, my throat, the pulse betraying me. “I’ve known you longer than you realize.” A spark of fear—or desire—ignited beneath my skin. “What does that mean?” He hesitated. And in that hesitation, the world narrowed to two truths: 1. Adrian Blackwell wanted me—badly. 2. Adrian Blackwell was hiding something—deadly. A car horn blared from the street, snapping the moment apart. I pulled my hand from his. “I’m going home.” Adrian exhaled sharply—a sound made of restraint and frustration. “I’ll take you.” “No.” I shook my head. “The last thing I need is you knowing where I live.” His expression didn’t change—but something in his eyes flickered. Not anger. Something colder. “I already know where you live.” My heart stuttered. I wanted to demand how, when, why—but instincts told me I didn’t want the answer. “Goodnight, Adrian.” I forced my feet to move. I expected him to follow. He didn’t. He just watched. Like a predator who knew the chase wasn’t over. The Uber ride home felt endless—every headlight trailing behind us looked like a tail, every streetlight flicker a warning. When the driver finally dropped me off, I almost tipped him triple just for existing. The building was quiet, too quiet. Not unusual—just unsettling tonight. My heels clicked through the lobby, echoing louder than they should have. By the time I reached my floor, my pulse had settled. Mostly. I unlocked my apartment and stepped inside. Dark. Still. Familiar. I exhaled slowly, leaning against the door, letting the tension bleed out of my muscles. “See? Nothing’s wrong,” I whispered, attempting to convince myself. I tossed my bag on the counter, kicked off my heels, and headed toward the kitchen—because nothing cured existential dread like cheap wine. The fridge door opened with a hum, and I grabbed the bottle. Then froze. My glass was already on the counter. Filled. Perfect pour. I hadn’t poured it. A chill crawled up my spine. “Hello?” Silence. I forced myself toward the living room, each step heavier, slower, like walking into quicksand. Nothing looked disturbed—no drawers opened, no furniture moved—until I reached the hallway. My bedroom door—closed earlier—was now cracked open. A sliver of darkness waited inside, still and watchful. My heartbeat roared in my ears. “This isn’t happening,” I whispered. I reached for my phone. No service. Of course. I took a breath—quiet, controlled—and flipped the bedroom light on. Nothing. No intruder. No shadow. Just my bed, my clothes, my life, untouched. Relief washed over me—too fast, too easy. Then I saw it. Propped on my pillow. A single Polaroid. My lungs collapsed. It was me—taken tonight—sitting at the bar. Lips parted. Eyes distant. Vulnerable. Alone. The angle… The lighting… It wasn’t from across the room. It was close. Intimate. On the back, written in slanted ink: *“Told you. You should’ve burned.”* My throat tightened—panic surging like a tidal wave. My phone buzzed with a new notification. Unknown number. Hands trembling, I opened it. A video. Of me. Sleeping. In this bed. My stomach twisted—violently, sickeningly—because the timestamp was from last night. And then—before I could scream—the front door lock clicked. Turning. Slow. Deliberate. Not breaking in. Entering. Like they had a key. I backed away, chest heaving, heart detonating inside my ribcage. The door creaked open. Footsteps crossed the threshold. Then a voice—low, deep, and sinful—dripped into the silence: “You shouldn’t have walked away from me, Sera.” Adrian. Standing in my home. Uninvited. Unapologetic. Unsmiling. And not alone. Behind him, someone’s shadow lingered—still, silent, watching. My back hit the wall, breath frozen in my throat. Adrian stepped forward, eyes burning into mine—not with desire. With possession. “Now,” he murmured, “we’re going to talk.”