Elena barely slept.
Every creak of the floorboards, every hiss of the pipes, every shadow stretching across her ceiling sent her heart racing. It wasn't just fear—it was fury. Adrian Blackthorn had invaded her home, her last shred of safety. And she had let him in.
By morning, the fury outweighed the fear.
She went through her day like a storm cloud—snapping at the coffee machine when it jammed, glaring at a customer who asked for extra whipped cream, scaring poor Whiskers just by slamming a cupboard shut.
But under it all, a single thought pulsed steady: He doesn't get to own me.
---
The café closed at dusk, and Elena lingered long after the last customer left, scrubbing counters that were already clean. She knew why. She was delaying the moment she'd have to go home—delaying the possibility of him being there again.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Her pulse jumped. She almost didn't answer, but her fingers betrayed her.
"Elena." His voice poured through the line like velvet laced with poison.
Her grip tightened. "How did you get my number?"
"I don't need to get things. They're given to me."
She bit back the shiver that crawled up her spine. "You can't just—"
"I can." He cut her off, calm as ice. "I told you. Stop pretending otherwise."
Something in her snapped.
"You think because you're powerful, because people are afraid of you, that you can walk into my life and decide it belongs to you?" Her voice shook, but she didn't stop. "You terrify me, yes. But that doesn't mean you own me. I won't be your plaything, Adrian. Find someone else to stalk."
Silence.
For a terrifying moment she thought he'd hung up. Then came the low laugh, slow and amused, like she was a puzzle he enjoyed turning in his hands.
"There you are," he murmured. "The fire beneath the fear."
Her throat went dry.
"You don't understand, Elena. I don't want a plaything. I want someone who burns when I touch her. Someone who fights even when she knows the fight is hopeless. And you…" His voice softened, dark and reverent. "You are exactly that."
Her heart hammered. She wanted to slam the phone down, but his words pinned her like chains.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Perhaps. But you'll learn to stop calling it madness."
The line went dead.
---
She walked home with her jaw set, her fists clenched. Rage burned hotter than fear now. She wouldn't let him cage her with words.
But when she reached her apartment, her breath caught.
A single black rose lay on her doormat.
Elena froze, the world tilting. She hadn't given him a key. She hadn't seen him follow. And yet, he had been here. Close enough to touch her door.
Her first instinct was to crush the flower beneath her shoe, to erase the sign of him. But her fingers lifted it instead, trembling as the petals brushed her skin.
The note tied to the stem made her stomach flip.
For the fire in your voice. Don't waste it on defiance. It belongs to me now.
Her knees weakened, fury and fear colliding until she couldn't tell one from the other. She wanted to scream, to throw the rose across the hall, to shatter the illusion of control he was weaving around her life.
But part of her—God help her—clutched the flower tighter.
Because for the first time, someone saw her anger, her voice, her fight… and wanted it. Not to silence it. To claim it.
It was twisted. It was wrong.
And yet, as she stood in the hallway with the black rose in her hand, Elena knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
Adrian Blackthorn wasn't going to stop.
And maybe, just maybe, neither was she.