The Dangerous Man Beneath My Bed

chapter6

NAOMI

When consciousness returned, it wasn't gentle. It was a collision.

I woke with a gasp, my body jerking violently against the mattress. Pain flared instantly—a deep, bruising ache in my hips, a raw burning between my legs, and the stiff soreness of muscles that had been locked in terror for hours.

I wasn't on the floor. I was in my bed, tucked beneath the duvet. For a fraction of a second, a desperate, pathetic hope bloomed in my chest that it had all been a hallucination brought on by stress and exhaustion.

Then I inhaled.

The scent of him was everywhere. It was seeped into the pillows, into the sheets, clinging to my own skin. Tobacco, leather, and the musk of the man who had shattered my world only hours before.

I froze, squeezing my eyes shut, afraid to open them and confirm the nightmare.

"You slept fitfully."

The voice came from the corner of the room. It was low, calm, and terrifyingly familiar.

My eyes snapped open. Dominic was sitting in the velvet armchair by the window—the chair where he’d told me he used to sit and watch me sleep. He was impeccably dressed in a fresh, charcoal-grey suit, not a single crease hanging loose. He looked like a high-powered executive waiting for a morning meeting, not a monster who had broken into my home and r***d me on the floor.

The contrast between his pristine appearance and my own wretched state—naked, sore, and reeking of his semen—made bile rise in my throat.

I scrambled backward, pulling the duvet up to my chin, pressing my spine against the headboard. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm.

"Where are my things?" My voice was a ragged croak. I looked towards the nightstand where my phone usually sat charging. Empty. My keys, usually in the small bowl by the door, were gone too. I knew it without looking.

Dominic crossed his legs, resting his hands casually on his knee. The calm ownership in his posture was infuriating. "You don't need them anymore."

"I have rehearsal at ten," I said, the words sounding absurd even to my own ears. I was clinging to the wreckage of my normal life, trying to pretend the structure still existed.

"No," he said simply. "You don't."

"You can't just keep me here."

He c****d his head slightly, his dark eyes devoid of any emotion save for a chilling fixity. "Look around you, Naomi. The deadbolt is engaged. The chain is on. You’re in your sanctuary. Isn’t this what you wanted? To be safe?"

The way he twisted my own words, my own pathetic attempts at security, turned my stomach. My apartment wasn't a fortress anymore; it was a cage with silk bars, and the warden was sitting in my armchair.

"I need to shower," I whispered, needing to escape his gaze, needing to scrub the physical evidence of him off my skin.

"Go ahead." He gestured vaguely toward the en-suite bathroom.

I didn't move. I stared at him, the silent question hanging in the air.

"I'm not leaving, Naomi," he said, reading my mind with that intrusive ease he’d cultivated over weeks of stalking. "Get used to my eyes on you. You belong to me now. There is no part of you that is private."

A fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. I wanted to defy him, to curl up in the bed and refuse to move, but the memory of his immense strength, the weight of him pinning me to the floor, was too fresh. I was terrified of what he might do if I pushed him.

Shaking, I wrapped the duvet around myself like a shield and stumbled toward the bathroom. I locked the door behind me, a useless gesture, but one my trembling hands performed automatically.

I turned on the shower, making the water as hot as I could stand. I stepped under the spray, letting the heat scald my skin, hoping it would burn away the lingering sensation of his rough hands. I scrubbed myself raw, focusing on the junction of my thighs, trying to wash away the sticky remnants of his possession. I cried silently under the spray, the water mingling with my tears.

When I turned off the water, the silence in the small room was suffocating. I dried myself with a thick towel, dread pooling in my stomach at the thought of opening the door.

I wrapped the towel tight around my body and stepped back into the bedroom.

Dominic hadn't moved. His eyes tracked me instantly, assessing, owning.

"Get dressed," he commanded.

I walked to my closet, my legs feeling unsteady. I reached for a high-necked black blouse and tailored trousers—my armor for the outside world.

"No," he said from behind me.

I froze, my hand on the hanger.

"That’s for the cellist," he said, his voice closer now. I could feel his heat behind me. "That woman doesn't exist today."

He reached past me, his arm brushing against my towel-clad shoulder, sending a shiver of revulsion and fear through me. He pulled out a soft cashmere sweater in a muted cream color and a pair of dark leggings. Clothes for lounging. Clothes for staying put.

"Wear these."

He tossed them onto the bed.

I didn't want to drop the towel in front of him. The thought of being naked under his gaze again made my skin crawl. But the threat of violence hung thick in the air. I knew, with sickening certainty, that if I didn't undress, he would do it for me. And he wouldn't be gentle.

Turning my back to him, I let the towel drop. I dressed frantically, stumbling in my haste to cover my skin, acutely aware of his eyes burning into my spine, my ass, my legs. Every second of exposure felt like another violation.

When I turned around, dressed in the clothes he had chosen, he nodded once, satisfied.

"Come into the kitchen."

It wasn't a request.

I followed him out of the bedroom, my own home feeling alien and hostile. In the kitchen, the morning light streamed in through the window, bright and mocking.

Dominic moved around my kitchen with infuriating ease, as if he had been making coffee here for years. Which, I realized with a sickening jolt, he probably had been, in his mind.

He poured two mugs of coffee. He set one on the island counter in front of one of the barstools.

"Sit."

I sat. My hands were shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the granite counter to hide it.

He leaned against the opposite counter, sipping his coffee, watching me. The jacket of his suit was open, and for the first time in the daylight, I saw the leather holster strapped under his arm, the matte black grip of a handgun protruding from it.

The reality of my situation crystallized in that moment. This wasn't just a stalker who had broken in. This was a professional violent man, a soldier in a war I didn't understand, who had decided to claim me as spoils.

The silence stretched, taut as piano wire. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic beating of my own heart. The air felt too thin, sucked out of the room by his overwhelming presence. He filled the space, his quiet intensity dominating every corner of the apartment I used to call mine.

"Drink your coffee, Naomi," he said softly, his eyes never leaving my face. "It's going to be a long day."