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I signed a 14-page contract without reading the fine print. I should have read the fine print. The listing promised great pay for "working with exotic creatures." What it didn't say was that I wasn't hired to care for the monsters behind those seven doors I was hired to breed with one. On day four they strapped me to a table and the man who hired me pressed a needle to my stomach. "You agreed to all of it when you signed," he smiled. "And I need your womb." They've spent years collecting from every species in this building, preparing for the one part they couldn't manufacture. Me. Every girl before me died, broke, or vanished. The only one trying to keep me alive is the very monster I'm meant to survive. ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— What did she really sign? Read Monstrously Yours Now!
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Her POV: I was just Lyla Monroe—quiet, overlooked, the secretary nobody took seriously. But in reality, I was actually Nova Kingsley 👑, heir to the Kingsley empire and I’m about to be married to the CEO I worked for: Luca Steele 💍 but he doesn’t know I was the secretary who worked for him. Neither of us wanted this marriage, arranged before we were even born, but fate doesn't ask for permission. Now I'm caught between duty, secrets, and the man whose cold stare once pierced through me—but whose touch now sets me on fire 🔥🥵. Chapter 1: Lyla Monroe “What the heck!?” His voice sliced through the room like a whip. I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks as every eye in the conference room swung to me. My hands trembled slightly around the coffee tray, but I held onto it like my life depended on it. Luca Steele stood at the head of the long glass table, tall, lethal, and entirely too composed for a man who’d just been drenched in a splash of boiling cappuccino. Steam still rose from his tailored black suit, but his steel-gray eyes were colder than ice. “You’ve worked for me for two years,” he said, each word slow, deliberate, laced with venom. “And you still manage to be a walking disaster. Fix it. Or quit.” No one dared to breathe. The coffee stain spread across the crisp white papers in front of him, slowly bleeding into confidential numbers and contract drafts worth millions. I scrambled forward, grabbing tissues from the tray, muttering apologies that sounded too small, too broken, too pathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steele—” “Sorry doesn’t clean Armani.” He stepped back, brushing off his sleeve with visible disgust. “And what the hell are you wearing?” I froze. His eyes dragged over me. Every inch. My oversized brown cardigan hung off my shoulders like a borrowed curtain. The faded blouse underneath clung to me awkwardly, a button missing near the collar. The olive-green skirt was too long, too wrinkled, and paired horribly with the scuffed, worn-out flats I’d owned since college. My foundation was two shades too pale. My lipstick was crooked. The jet-black wig I wore hung limply around my face, uncombed and clearly fake. And the massive round sunglasses I wore indoors? That was the final punchline. I was a caricature. And everyone knew it. Chuckles rippled softly across the room. “I’m not running a charity,” Luca said, cutting through the silence. “If you can’t show up looking like a professional, then don’t show up at all.” He didn’t wait for a response. He turned his back and walked toward the screen, launching into a presentation like I hadn’t just been stripped of every ounce of dignity in front of ten high-ranking executives. I stood there, cheeks burning, throat tight. And then I turned and walked out. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, I collapsed into the farthest stall. My hands gripped the toilet seat as sobs wracked my chest. Quiet, sharp, hopeless sobs. I didn’t even care about the coffee anymore. Or the cardigan. Or the snickers in the room. I was just so… tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of working ten times harder just to be invisible. I reached into my purse for tissues and caught my reflection in the mirror through the gap in the stall door. God. I did look awful. The glasses had fogged up from my breath. My mascara was smudged beneath the frames. And the wig—it sat like a lifeless animal on my head, tangled, greasy, and suffocating. I buried my face into my hands, trying to breathe. Then—my phone buzzed. LUCA STEELE. I swallowed hard. I wiped my face with toilet paper, fixed my lipstick with shaking fingers, tucked a strand of wig behind my ear, and inhaled once. Twice. By the time I stepped out of the stall, the tears were gone. The mask was back. I walked through the hallway, the same hallway I walked every day, except now it felt like a spotlight was burning holes in me. Two interns passed by, whispering a little too loudly. “She looks like a blind clown.” “I heard she lives in her car.” “She probably has blackmail on him. No way Steele keeps that thing around otherwise.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t break stride. I never did. Luca’s office loomed ahead, the frosted glass doors tall and foreboding. I stepped in without knocking. He didn’t look up. His office was cold, like everything else about him—monochrome, sharp lines, minimal furniture. But he was the only part of the room that radiated heat. Not warmth—heat. Intensity. Luca Steele, age twenty-nine, CEO of one of the most ruthless corporate empires in the world. Jet-black tousled hair. Perfectly sculpted jawline. That expensive three-day stubble that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. And those eyes—ice-colored and emotionless.They’d never softened. Not once. I handed him the corrected reports in silence. He barely acknowledged me. “Get me Victoria Ames on the line. And fix the deck from slide 8 onward. It’s sloppy.” “Yes, Mr. Steele.” I turned, heading for the door. My phone rang. I paused, glanced at the screen. Unknown Number. “Hello?” I whispered. A soft voice crackled on the line. “Hi, this is Carla from the reception desk. There’s… um… there’s a man here to see you.” My stomach tightened. “A man?” I said, confused. “Who?” She hesitated. “He gave his name. Said you’d recognize it.” I waited. “Jonathan Kingsley.” Why did she say she was tired of pretending? And who was Jonathan Kingsley? 🤔 Read Behind the Lies—I Was Always His to find out now! ❤️🔥
Quiet Pages
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„Du warst so ein braves Mädchen. Jetzt komm.“ Er hat nie nach Bildern gefragt. Hat mir nie seinen Namen gesagt. Er hat mir einfach nur gesagt, was ich tun soll—wie ich mich berühren soll, wann ich aufhören soll, wie ich atmen soll. Und ich habe zugehört. Jedes einzelne Mal 😮💨. Ich sollte doch klug sein. Kontrolliert. Perfekt. Aber unter seinem Befehl war ich nichts als Verlangen und Hitze und Bedürfnis. Er ließ mich mich sicher fühlen im Loslassen. Bis zu dem Tag, an dem ich meinen bewerteten Ordner öffnete und mein Höschen zwischen den Seiten fand… und aufsah, nur um meinen Professor dabei zu erwischen, wie er mir zusah, während ich zerbrach 🔥. Kapitel 1 [Sichtweise Sophie] „Ahh…“ Das Geräusch entweicht meinen Lippen, bevor ich es zurückhalten kann. Ein Stöhnen. Sanft. Getimt. Abgemessen. Fast wie ein Reflex. Nicht, weil ich etwas fühle. Nicht, weil ich es will. Sondern, weil ich es soll. Ethans Gewicht drückt auf mich, seine Brust feucht an meiner, seine Stöße mechanisch wie ein Körper im Autopilot. Er beginnt immer langsam, als glaube er, es würde sich zu etwas aufbauen – tut es nie. Der Raum ist dunkel, aber ich halte die Augen offen, fixiere den Deckenventilator über uns, während er knarrend langsame Kreise dreht. Ich versuche, die Umdrehungen zu zählen. Alles, um mich zu erden. Ich denke nicht an Ethan. Ich denke an meinen Vibrator – den rosafarbenen, den ich in meiner Sockenschublade verstecke. Ich denke daran, wie es sich anfühlt, wenn ich es selbst mache. Wenn ich die Kontrolle habe. Wenn niemand über mir keucht, als würde er eine Stechuhr bedienen. Ethan stöhnt, tief und müde, und verlagert sein Gewicht. Missionarstellung. Immer Missionarstellung. Er versucht nie etwas anderes. Ich kenne diesen Rhythmus wie meine Westentasche. Quarterback-Rhythmus. Vorhersehbar. Alles Kraft, keine Finesse. Früher war er der Goldjunge unserer Highschool – Letterman-Jacke, Grübchenkinn, stolze Eltern auf den Tribünen. Und ich war wohl das kluge Mädchen, das an seinem Arm gut aussah. Wir sind seit der elften Klasse zusammen. Damals schien das genug. Gewollt werden. Ausgewählt werden. Aber jetzt? Jetzt liege ich reglos da, starre ausdruckslos, während er sein Ding macht, in dem Wissen, dass ich nicht kommen werde. Wieder einmal. Es ist seit Jahren so. Ich will schon seit einer Weile mit ihm Schluss machen, aber er ist so… vertraut. Seine Stimme, seine Hände, sogar der Geruch seines Parfums – irgendwas von Axe, immer ein bisschen zu stark. Ich hasse Veränderungen. Schon immer. Aber heute Nacht versuche ich es. Ich umfasse sein Kinn und spüre, wie sich dort Schweiß sammelt. „Schatz, kannst du... ein bisschen härter?“ flüstere ich. Er antwortet nicht. Bewegt sich einfach weiter, wie ein verdammtes Metronom. „Was, wenn wir...“ Ich winde mich unter ihm, winkle meine Hüften an, versuche, ihn zu lenken. „... es mal von hinten versuchen?“ Er hält inne. Nur für einen Moment. Dann, mit einem kurzen Schnauben: „Nein. Warum an etwas rütteln, das funktioniert?“ Mein Magen zieht sich zusammen. Funktioniert für wen? Ich beiße mir auf die Lippe, bemühe mich, nicht zu seufzen. „Klar. Ja.“ Ich versuche, die Stimme in meinem Kopf zum Schweigen zu bringen. Die, die ihn immer mit den Männern in den Büchern vergleicht, die ich heimlich unter der Bettdecke lese. Bücher, in denen das Mädchen gegen die Wand gedrückt wird, immer wieder heftig kommt und dabei seinen Namen keucht. Wo Kontrolle eine Waffe ist und Hingabe verdient werden muss. Ich sage mir, ich soll aufhören, diesen Mist zu lesen. Diese düsteren Liebesromane sind Fantasie. Fiktion. Sogar gefährlich. Aber Gott, wenigstens lassen sie mich etwas fühlen. Ich presse meine Hand gegen seine Brust, um ihn zu stabilisieren. Er grunzt, genervt. „Was jetzt?“ Ich zögere, bevor ich schließlich sage: „Was, wenn du... mich würgen würdest?“ Er hält inne. Eiskalt. „Also, nicht fest“, füge ich schnell hinzu, meine Stimme ganz klein. „Nur ein bisschen. Das ist so ein Ding. Manche machen das manchmal...“ Schweigen. Dann verzieht sich sein Gesicht vor Ekel. „Was zum Teufel stimmt nicht mit dir?“, sagt er scharf, zieht sich mit einem schmatzenden Geräusch aus mir zurück und rollt sich von meinem Körper, als wäre ich ansteckend. Ich blinzele ihn an, wie vor den Kopf geschlagen. Meine Hände tasten hektisch nach dem Laken, bedecken meine Brust, obwohl wir das schon hundertmal gemacht haben. „Ethan—“ „Du hast gerade echt die Stimmung gekillt“, sagt er und greift nach seinem Handy auf dem Nachttisch. „Willst du jetzt beim Sex misshandelt werden? Jesus, Soph.“ „Ich habe nicht ‚misshandelt‘ gesagt“, murmele ich. „Es ist... es ist nur so ein Kink, weißt du. Es ist nicht so—“ „Oh, also stehst du jetzt auf so abgefuckten Scheiß?“, unterbricht er mich und steht auf. „Was, willst du jetzt, dass ich dir ins Gesicht schlage? Dir in den Mund spucke? Soll ich dich gleich noch eine verdammte Schlampe nennen?“ Die Vorstellung, dass Ethan das wirklich mit mir macht, hat mich gerade feucht werden lassen. Scheiße. „Das habe ich nicht gemeint“, flüstere ich und schrumpfe in mich zusammen. Meine Wangen brennen. „Gott, deshalb schaue ich keinen Porno mit dir“, schneidet er mich ab und beginnt auf und ab zu gehen. „Du bekommst diese Ideen in deinen Kopf von TikTok oder irgendeinem billigen Schmuddelbuch, von dem du denkst, ich weiß nicht, dass du es liest, und plötzlich soll ich was—dich dominieren?“ „Ich...“ Ich klammere mich fester an das Laken. „Ich komme in letzter Zeit selten, Ethan. Ich dachte vielleicht—“ „Wow.“ Er wirbelt herum. „Also ist das jetzt meine Schuld?“ „Nein! Ich habe nicht—“ „Du hast Probleme“, fährt er mich an. „Vielleicht solltest du mal darüber nachdenken, warum du überhaupt auf so einen Scheiß stehst.“ Die Worte treffen wie Eiswasser. Ich sitze da, nackt und bloßgestellt, und sehe zu, wie er seine Boxershorts vom Boden aufhebt. Sein Rücken ist mir jetzt zugewandt, die Schultern angespannt, voller verletztem Stolz. „Ich stehe auf gar nichts“, sage ich, kaum hörbar. „Ich versuche nur herauszufinden, warum ich nichts fühle.“ Er erstarrt mitten im Schritt und seine Stimme wird gefährlich leise. „Nichts?“ Ich sollte zurückrudern. Mich entschuldigen. Es wieder gut machen wie immer. Aber irgendwas reißt in mir. „Nichts“, wiederhole ich, diesmal lauter. „Drei Jahre, Ethan. Die letzten verdammten drei Jahre habe ich es nur vorgetäuscht, weil du mich nie gefragt hast, ob es mir überhaupt Spaß macht.“ Langsam dreht er sich um. Sein Gesicht ist ein Sturm. „Also hast du mich die ganze Zeit belogen?“ „Hast du dich selbst belogen?“, schieße ich zurück und überrasche uns beide. „Hast du wirklich geglaubt, diese kleinen theatralischen Stöhner wären echt? Dass ich jedes Mal exakt nach zwei Minuten wie ein Uhrwerk komme?“ Sein Kiefer arbeitet. „Du benimmst dich wie eine Zicke.“ „Nein, ich bin ehrlich. Endlich.“ Ich stehe auf, halte immer noch das Laken fest. „Weißt du, woran ich denke, wenn wir Sex haben?“ Er antwortet nicht. „An meine Einkaufsliste. An meine Soziologie-Hausarbeit, die ich bis Montag abgeben muss. Ob ich das Glätteisen ausgemacht habe.“ Meine Stimme wird stärker. „An buchstäblich alles, außer an dich!“ „Fick dich, Sophie.“ „Hast du schon. Wie immer schlecht.“ Die Stille dehnt sich zwischen uns wie ein Abgrund. Er starrt mich an, als hätte ich einen zweiten Kopf bekommen. Als ob das Mädchen, das jahrelang nachgiebig und lieb war, plötzlich Fangzähne hätte. „Weißt du was?“, sagt er und zieht sich seine Jeans an. „Du hast recht. Das ist total beschissen. Wir sind total beschissen.“ „Endlich etwas, worin wir uns einig sind.“ Er schnappt sich mit scharfen, wütenden Bewegungen seine Schlüssel von meiner Kommode. „Ruf mich nicht an.“ „War auch nicht vor.“ Die Tür knallt so heftig zu, dass meine Bilderrahmen klirren. Wird sie jemals jemanden finden, der wirklich weiß, was sie will? 🤔 Lies Bitte härter, Professor, jetzt! 🔥
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