Claimed By Three: The Stalker, The Don and The Killer

Alissia POV

I sit at my desk, staring blankly at the blinking cursor on my screen. It mocks me, as if it knows I have no idea where to start with my latest attempt. Dark romance. The genre I never thought I’d touch. But after bombing miserably in everything else—comedy, fantasy, sci-fi, even horror—I figured I’d give it a shot. How hard could it be to blend the raw, twisted emotions of a toxic relationship with an edge of danger? Apparently, harder than I thought.

“Alissia, seriously?” Jenni’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife, sharp and teasing. “Dark romance now?”

I swivel my chair to face her. She’s sprawled out on the couch in our tiny living room, legs draped over the armrest like she owns the place. Well, technically, we share the apartment, but she’s definitely made herself more comfortable. Her blonde hair is a mess of waves, and she’s wearing one of those oversized graphic tees with some sarcastic quote about coffee on it.

Our place isn’t much. Just a two-bedroom box with creaky floors, walls so thin you can hear the neighbors’ conversations—whether you want to or not. The late afternoon light streams in through the large window behind her, casting a warm orange glow over everything, making the old gray couch and chipped coffee table look almost cozy. Almost.

“I’ve written everything else, Jen,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair, letting it creak beneath me. “Nothing works. People don’t want to read my books, no matter what genre I try.”

“Maybe,” Jenni says, raising an eyebrow as she scrolls through her phone, “because you keep bouncing around genres. You ever think of sticking to one for more than, I don’t know, two months?” She laughs, but it’s more like a taunt than a suggestion. “You need to pick a lane, Alissia.”

“There’s nothing wrong with writing multiple genres,” I argue, folding my arms. “It’s not like my stories are bad. People just don’t… connect with them.”

“Right,” Jenni says, rolling her eyes. “Because it’s the readers, not the fact that you’re all over the place. Comedy one day, dragons the next. And now, dark romance? Come on.”

I frown, but she doesn’t let up.

“You know what you need?” she says, setting her phone down and turning her full attention on me now. “Research. Real, gritty, get-your-hands-dirty research. You’re writing about stalkers, murderers, Mafia bosses, right? You can’t just pull that out of thin air.”

I snort, shaking my head. “What am I supposed to do? Go ask a stalker or Mafia Don to spill their darkest secrets? Maybe get inside the mind of a serial killer while I’m at it?”

Jenni’s grin spreads wide, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Exactly.”

For a second, I laugh with her, but then… the idea starts to settle in. What if I could get real information? It’s crazy, sure. But… it’s also kind of brilliant. My heart races as the pieces begin to form in my mind.

“Wait, what if… what if I don’t just get information for the dark romance?” I say, sitting up straighter. “What if I write about them? Like… a whole book from their point of view. Not their names, obviously. But something like Behind His Eyes: The Truth of a Working Serial Killer.”

Jenni stops laughing and stares at me like I’ve completely lost it. “You’re joking, right?”

I’m not. Suddenly, I can see it—each twisted, shocking story playing out in my mind. A collection of dark, raw narratives that people would have to read.

“You’re insane,” Jenni says, shaking her head, though I can see the faintest hint of interest in her eyes. “You think you can find real criminals and get them to tell you their life story?”

“It’s unique,” I insist. “And no one’s ever done it. People would be hooked. I tell them I'm doing research for my dark romance, which I am. Then I use everything in another book as well.”

Jenni smirks, pushing herself up from the couch and crossing the room toward me. “I’ll give you this—it’s bold. But you’re going to get yourself killed. Who are you going to find to tell you their darkest secrets, hmm? A stalker? A murderer? A Mafia boss?” She shakes her head, chuckling. “You’re mad.”

“Maybe,” I say, standing up, the spark of determination burning hotter in my chest. “But maybe madness is exactly what I need.”

She can't deny this is an epic idea.

“This is downright crazy! Go to a sex shop, test out some toys, and use them in your story! I didn’t actually mean go and ask a serial killer for their secrets!” Jenni laughs, the kind of laugh that bubbles out of her, half amused, half horrified.

But crazy works. “Crazy is the thing that pulls people in,” I say, my excitement building. “Imagine it, I could promote the book with ‘Researched by following a real-life serial killer.’ You know I’m right.” God, this is it. This is exactly what I need.

“Okay, Nova,” Jenni mocks my pen name, rolling her eyes as she smirks. “What happens if they agree, and then just kill you because you’re so stupid to fucking try it?” She throws her arms in the air like I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have.

“Then I die, and you can sell billions of copies of the story after you write how a foolish author agreed to meet a serial killer for research,” I declare, grinning as we both start laughing.

“I keep everything, right? I don’t have to hand off any of the money for selling the story of your tragic demise?” she jokes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I needed a laugh, thanks for that.”

“Jen, I’m serious,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m doing it.