Secrets of the Outlaw: A Stockholm Syndrome Romance

PROLOGUE

ANYA

The room was suffocating, thick with an air that clung to my skin, taunting me with a heat that felt both foreign and familiar.

Shadows danced across the walls, flickering in the low, muted glow of a single bulb that buzzed somewhere above.

I couldn’t remember how long it had been.

Days?

Weeks?

Time slipped away in here, swallowed whole by the walls that seemed to press in on me with every breath.

The chains were loose enough now—he no longer needed them.

I didn’t try to run.

I hadn’t tried in a long time.

He was there, always, his presence filling the space with a quiet dominance.

I could feel his eyes on me, studying the curve of my back as I knelt on the cold, stained floor, my hands resting limply on my thighs, head bowed.

My hair fell like a curtain around my face, hiding the tears that had long since dried, the whimpers I’d learned to suppress.

“You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”

His voice slithered across the room, thick and dripping with false tenderness.

The kind that made my skin crawl and burn with something I no longer understood.

I had once called it fear.

But now… now it was something different.

Something darker.

I shuddered as his hand traced the back of my neck, fingers curling possessively into my hair.

My body tensed but didn’t pull away.

I couldn’t pull away.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, the words like a brand, searing into my soul. “Every inch of you, every thought in that pretty little head of yours—mine.”

I hated that his touch had become so familiar, that the once unbearable feel of him against me had blurred into something I could barely distinguish from my own need.

A need I didn’t want.

A need that had twisted and distorted inside me until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

My body obeyed even as my mind screamed, rising to its feet at his silent command.

His hand slid down my back, tracing the lines of my skin as if marking territory that had long been claimed.

There was no hesitation in his movements—no rush.

This was a ritual, one he had perfected over months of training me into submission.

I wasn’t who I used to be.

She was gone now—lost in the haze of his whispers, his touch, his control.

His hand slid lower, gripping my waist with a bruising force that sent a tremor through my body.

Not pain.

Not anymore.

Just sensation—hot, raw, and merciless.

He guided me closer to the bed, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, “Tell me what you are.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as my lips parted, the words slipping out in a voice that wasn’t my own.

“I’m yours.”

It wasn’t a lie anymore.

And when he pushed me down onto the bed, pressing his weight against mine, the world outside faded.

There was only him.

Only us.

Twisted.

Broken.

Bound together by a darkness that I could never escape, no matter how much I wanted to.

Because part of me didn’t want to anymore.

And that part scared me more than anything else ever could.

1

ANYA

It had been a normal day, or so I thought.

The sky was overcast as I walked down the narrow street, the cold breeze biting at my cheeks.

I remember checking my phone, the screen bright against the darkening sky.

I was running late.

Again.

Work had drained me like it always did, but I didn’t mind.

I liked being busy.

I liked the feeling of being needed.

 The city buzzed around me, cars honking in the distance, people rushing past on their way home.

I thought I was safe.

I thought I knew where I was going.

I didn’t see the van until it was too late.

It happened so fast.

One moment I was walking, and the next, hands—strong, rough—grabbed me from behind.

A scream clawed at my throat, but no sound came out.

My bag hit the ground, my phone sliding across the pavement. 

I kicked, twisted, but the grip on me tightened, suffocating, pulling me toward the dark mouth of the van.