This book is a dark romance novel—containing sexual and mature themes, please pay attention to the triggers noted below:

•Blood play

•Knife play

•BDSM

•Age gap

•Manipulation

•Abuse and Trauma

•Kidnapping

•Trafficking

•Depression

•Suicidal tendencies

•Revenge

Please proceed with caution, this is a dark romance novel and whilst it contains euphoric sexual scenes, it also has a lot of dark themes, please take this into consideration before reading, your mental health matters.

...“You can love me, you can hate me, but god forbid you try to leave me, little dove.”...

...\~Our Stalker...

Note that this book does not intend to romanizatize harmful and manipulative acts in regards to toxic relationships and taboo romance.

This is written for all the dark romance girlies and for those are not sensitive to said topics.

...Z O R H A...

My breath got knocked out of my chest.

My knees buckle beneath me.

My eyes threaten to close.

My mouth stinks of blood.

My tongue stained with red.

I wish I’d gotten use to the sound of my own bones breaking inside of my body. Each kick, another reminder of how close I am to death. Apparently I’m not close enough.

I’m not close enough for him to stop hurting me. I haven’t bled enough to stop being kicked, hit, bruised.

It’s pathetic…how weak I am. So much so, that I can’t even defend myself. So much so, that I’m sprawled out onto the floor with blood cloaking my body.

I croak and cough and bleed and cry all at once but only after I slip slowly out of consciousness and admit to a fault that was never mine, do I finally get relieved from my pain.

How ironic; I thought that if a human being got the same pain endured upon them multiple times, everyday or every minute, that they’d eventually feel nothing.

But even nothing is a feeling.

I want all of it to end. I want to find the golden bridge and jump off. I want to drown. I want to suffocate. I want to die.

But my wants were never important. Not in this house, not in this world and never in this universe. And I’ve gotten use to that by now.

One step after the other, my father finally walks away. I’m finally free for atleast a few minutes before the sun rises.

I clutch softly onto my stomach, hoping that if I held tight enough, it would stop bleeding. This would have been the fourth time this week, that I’d had to redo my bandages.

It’s no wonder my ribs never get healed properly.

I whimper softly in pain as I force myself up. Even my arms are tired of carrying my weight.

I slide myself gently toward the side of the kitchen counter. I would’ve made this a cliché by crying, but that’s not an option.

Ever since I was young, I was told by the doctor that I cannot cry. I don’t have enough water in my body. I reckon it’s some sort of disease or condition.

And funny enough, that doctor also told me that crying is a release of pain. So now I suppose I won’t get relieved of my pain.

Not now, not ever.

I sigh softly and take in a few unsteady breaths. My lungs are beginning to fail me. I wouldn’t be surprised if my broken ribs have punctured one of them by now.

The sun is slowly beginning to rise. The curtains are beginning to light up. I haven’t properly slept in 10 consecutive days.

I’ve been more frequently speaking to people who I assume are there, even though, they aren’t.

It’s a new day, and like always, my father is most likely passed out from his overload of drugs and expecting his breakfast to be ready before he leaves to smuggle for coke and smoke more weed with his so called friends.

So like the good daughter I am, I force myself to my feet and after a few times of nearly falling, I finally manage to stand up.

My body is tired. My brain is tired. My energy is drained from the inside out.

I slowly make my way to the pan and turn on the stove. My fingers are shaking as I crack 2 eggs and break them into the hot oil.

I have to get them perfectly shaped and perfectly proportioned or I’ll risk getting another beating when my father wakes up.

I’m sure by this time I’ve developed some sort of OCD.

My lips are dry and cracked and my stomach growls and moans with hunger. Unfortunately, there’s only enough to feed one of us.

And I can’t have the honor of eating this time.

The ceramic plate shakes in my bloody hands as I place it on the countertop of the kitchen table and dish the eggs onto it.

My father wakes up to the small noises I’ve made in the kitchen. He growls in anger. My breathing is unsteady as I walk toward him with the plate.

He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence and just chows down the food that I’ve taken into such precaution whilst making.

“Where’s the sauce?” He asks finally. He looks up at me with a scowl on his face. My mouth opens slightly—realizing I’ve forgotten the sauce.

“I’m sorry da—”

The harsh clicking sound of his hand colliding with my cheek echoes throughout the empty space of the kitchen.

I bite back a cough. I stare at the ground. A painful sting makes its way to my temple.

“Don’t you fucking call me that—you stupid bitch!” He spits as I flinch at his sudden change in tone.

My hands shake furiously at my sides and I stutter out an apology. “I’m s-sorry s-sir.” My voice cracks and I realize just how dry my throat is.

Without warning, he smashes the plate onto the floor and stands up, towering over me with a height of 6’8 feet.

My body feels heavy and shakes with fear. My organs feel as though they’ve been smashed together.

“Clean that up before I get home.” He speaks down to me and furiously slams into my unstable body whilst exiting the door.

That’s all it takes for my to lose my balance and fall.

A scream erupts from my throat as my soft flesh gets penetrated by the sharp ends of the ceramic plate.

My hands clutch tightly onto the broken pieces as though they were glass. I want to feel this. This hate. This anger. This pain. This sadness. This grief.

It’s the only thing that keeps me attached to myself. Without it I’m afraid I’ll float away.

Without it I’m afraid I’ll lose my grip on reality. I’ll lose my ability to feel.

I will never forget my mother’s words before her death.

Never lose yourself because of pain. You’ll only be robbing others of getting to see how bright you really are…

My heart aches for her touch. Her soft embrace that made me feel safe.

After her death—my dad became what he is today.

It leaves me wondering why she never said those words to him. He needed it more than me.

And I needed her more than him.

A loud knock on the door pulls me back into reality. I’ve been laying with my own thoughts on the floor for the past few minutes.

My head buzzes softly as the anxious pit in my stomach returns. I pray to god that isn’t my father.

But I know it isn’t. He wouldn’t have knocked.

So who would it be?

The thought of being seen in a condition like this by anyone else but my father scares me. I know what my dad would do if he knew that I’d been seen in this state.

For a few seconds I’m considering just laying here. Just succumbing to the reality set out for me to live.

But then a small pulse of mine elevates at the thought of perhaps getting discovered. Found, saved….

A flicker of hope and a ray of light for a blinding moment, blinding me enough that I don’t even realize the impossibility of that ever happening.

The knocks on the door have become more prominent now, louder and boisterous.

That door could be my salvation. Or it could be some sort of test.

A few seconds later accompanied by the sound of my bones pivoting eachother and my skin being penetrated further on the inside, I’m standing somewhat straight up and just barely stable.

My fingers slowly open the door, afraid of who’s on the other side. The suns ray of light hurts my eyes for a while as I make sure to obscure myself from my visitors view.

“Ma’am—I’m officer Gordon. I’ve come to confront you about the noise pollution. The neighbors are complaining-“

Just before he can finish his sentence, I shut the door harshly in face as my body shakes with adrenaline and fear.

There’s a police officer on the other side of the door, who now hits it even harder with the persistence to come inside.

My heart skips a few beats and I wish that it was all the encouragement I needed for death to envelope me.

The floor should swallow me at this point. I’d rather be dead than discovered.

My hands shake anxiously as spikes that feel like dripping, cold water runs through my spine.

“Ma’am—I’m gonna need you to open this door!” He insists and the feeling of his hand banging against the door vibrates against my body and sends pain shooting through my back.

I fall to the floor, and suck in a deep breath. I’ve set a trap for myself. There is no one guarding the door.

It swings open violently and the gentle features of the police officer reveals themselves as he stands in the doorway looking down at me.

I am petrified.

He shakes and trembles and atlast steps one foot forward with his eyes fixated deeply on me and a heavy, surprised gaze embracing his face.

His mouth agape and I’m worried I’ve done something wrong. I fear that I’m somehow wanted.

I fear that he knows me and no one knows me.

His voice is just above a whisper and broken into shards of the ceramic piled out onto the floor.

“Marinette?”