Page 11 of Not Another Dark Romance

Which is the understatement of the fucking century.

My heart starts to pound in my skull and my chest now, the pain competing with the surge of adrenaline flooding my system.

I yank at the restraints, ignoring the way it makes my head feel like it’s splitting open. The material holding my chest to the chair doesn’t budge. I wiggle my fingers, but I don’t feel anything I can grab.

Maybe my feet have a better give to them. Not that untying my feet will do anything to help free my hands, but who knows, maybe I can stand. I’ve never been tied to a chair before in some unknown person’s basement, so might as well try everything.

Wait a second… This is like my books! Except way less fun because there’s no hot masked man looming over me ready to fuck my face.

I wiggle my feet, trying to loosen the material while I focus back on my memories from earlier. Or yesterday. I don’t know what time it is. I ate dinner, then followed Zane to his car. That’s the last thing I remember. Did he do this? Could he actually be in the Mafia? Or was I right that he could be into dark romance too and this is an elaborate fantasy setup? Is that why the restraints seem so amateur?

Except, now I remember Zane got into his truck, and I started chasing after him, planning to talk to him… Then he backed up. Oh god, did he hit me with his car? He must’ve hit me with his fucking car, and that’s why my head hurts so much.

But why? Was it on purpose? If it was an accident, why the hell would he tie me up in his basement? Unless he saw my dark romance book and saw the opportunity for us to have some fun and took it…

Is this a sexy game? Or am I going to die in a shitty basement in Kansas City where no one is going to find me?

“Take a deep breath,” I instruct myself even though it hurts. Zane wasn’t outwardly flirting with me at the restaurant, but maybe he did sense the same vibes I felt. He must have. He probably decided to do all this to seduce me. Maybe he’s waiting right now for me to call out to him.

“Positive thoughts,” I murmur to myself. “This has to be a positive experience, right? I’m not going to die. Why would he want to kill me? He’s just helping me live out my fantasies.”

A sound from upstairs steals my attention, so I start shouting, “Hello? Hi, it’s me, your ‘victim.’ I’m awake. Can I have some water? And some Tylenol?” My throat is dry, and he should want to take good care of me. The kidnapping daddies always do in the books.

The footsteps stop, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

He’s probably just getting me water.

My heart starts hammering in my throat as I hear the footsteps pick up again, and eventually, there’s a long, dragging sound before a creaking that I assume is the basement door opening.

This is it. I’m about to find out who did this and why. I’m about to come face-to-face with my kidnapper. I should be terrified. I am terrified… but also feel a strange flutter in my stomach that almost feels like anticipation. Am I already getting hard?

Fuck, I really hope it’s Zane and not some creepy old man.

It’s got to be him. Nothing else would make sense in my quiet, boring life.

Footsteps creak down the stairs one at a time, slowly revealing boots and jeans, then a torso wearing an unzipped hoodie hanging open to show off his abs and do nothing to hide his broad shoulders. Hell yes, based on the sexy-as-fuck body type alone, this man looks like Zane. Could it really be? Is this really happening?

Another step down, and I see that his face is covered… by a mask. A white hockey mask with red streaks down it that look like blood.

My brain short-circuits because this is… this is really happening.

Somehow, Zane knew. He knew exactly what I wanted, and now he’s here to bring my fantasies to life. I knew stalking him was a great idea!

He comes to the bottom of the stairs and stands there, watching me with a tilted head. He’s tall and built, just like I remember from earlier. Even though I can’t see his face or eyes, it’s clear he’s watching me. It’s obvious it’s him.

This is straight out of one of my books. A scene I’ve read so many times. The mysterious, dangerous man in the mask and the helpless victim—me, this time, thank God—who is terrified but also turned the fuck on. And turned the fuck on I am.

He’s still standing there, assessing me. Yep, my dick is definitely getting hard now. Heat creeps up my neck, and my mouth is even more dry as I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s planning to do to me.

This is so fucked up.

I’m so fucked up.

But I don’t care. This is arguably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“What do you want to do with me?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper as I try to make it sound sultry.

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer. His movements are controlled, predatory, but he almost looks nervous, too. His hands are trembling, and I wonder if this is his first time living out this fantasy. The stakes are definitely high for him to have gone through all this effort. Is he worried about doing something wrong and letting me down?