Stained With You
Description
Ruth Allen thought she was running-from her obsessive ex, the guilt of her brother's death, the suffocating fame that came with painting grief for a living. But the true danger isn't behind her. It's already inside the house. Emmett Marshall is a scarred former FBI hacker with a taste for justice and new obsession. The first time he sees Ruth, something snaps loose in him. Not just desire. Ownership. She becomes his fixation, his redemption, his ruin. He breaks into her world piece by piece-watching her sketch, leaving her gifts, learning how she breaks... and what it takes to make her beg. She should hate him. She should run. But her body remembers what his hands did to her long before her mind catches up. And when she finds out the truth about her past-and Emmett's part in it-desire and danger collide in ways neither of them can control. This isn't love. It's twisted worship. And it's going to hurt.
Chapter 1
Aug 18, 2025
Ruth’s POV
The ocean used to save me. Now, it only knows how to take.
I stepped onto the porch barefoot, the wood groaning beneath me, and listened to the waves crash just beyond view—close enough to haunt, far enough to ignore.
I had only been in this house for three weeks. It sat on the edge of a town, clamped between dark forest and fields near the wild beach, the kind of place no one stumbled upon.
That was the point. I didn’t want to be found, especially not by my ex, Tyler.
He had started showing up too often, at my studio, at my shows, calling from new numbers every time I blocked him. The last straw was the night he waited outside my apartment, demanding that we “just talk.”
His version of talking was grabbing my arm and telling me I owed him a second chance.
The next morning, I searched for places to rent far from the city. This one popped up with a single photo and no description, and I signed the lease within the hour.
Today was the gallery visit I’d been putting off. My most famous painting, the ocean scene from the day my brother drowned, was being installed in a local exhibit.
I had kept that piece on my studio wall for years, like a wound I refused to let close. But now I am finally ready to let it go, hoping it would hurt less if it wasn’t staring back at me every time I passed it.
Driving to the gallery, I half-expected to feel pride. Instead, my stomach turned.
When I arrived, the place wasn’t ready. Crates lined the floor, lighting rigs still hung crooked, my piece hadn’t even been unwrapped yet. Beth, the curator, looked embarrassed.
“Our technician had an emergency,” she said. “We brought in someone local to help finish setup. He’s good, though. Works fast.”
I nodded and didn’t push, nothing was urgent anymore. I lit a cigarette and headed toward the back exit, climbing the stairs outside.
Halfway up, my phone rang. Tyler’s name lit up the screen again, I stared at it without answering. The step under my foot gave way slightly, and before I could catch myself, my body tilted back.
A strong hand grabbed my arm and pulled me upright. I looked up and saw a man, a tall one, broad shoulders, black jacket, black boots, and a black mask covering the lower half of his face.
His eyes were sharp and watching me carefully, almost too carefully, as if measuring how shaken I was.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and even.
I nodded, still catching my breath. He let go of my arm and stepped back, holding the door open. I moved past him, muttering a thank you.
The smell of pine and something faintly smoky lingered as he walked behind me.
Inside, Beth waved us over. “Perfect timing. Ruth, this is the help I mentioned.”
I turned to look at him again. The mask made it hard to read him, but I noticed his eyes flick down and then away quickly. He nodded at me, silent.
He went straight to work, and I watched from a distance. He handled the frame carefully, adjusted the lighting without needing direction, and checked the alignment twice.
His movements were exact, I couldn’t help watching. I wasn’t the type to be drawn in by looks, but there was something about the contrast, his size versus the gentleness in how he moved.
“Does he always work with the mask on?” I asked Beth quietly.
She glanced at him, then back to me. “He has facial scars. From something that happened a while ago. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
I nodded but didn’t say more. Yet I caught him looking at me again. This time, I held his gaze, but he turned away quickly.
He finished in under twenty minutes, then stepped back, eyes on the painting. I looked too. It had never looked better.
The lighting hit the surface in all the right places, pulling out every cold blue, every thread of silver. It made it feel alive again. I hated that it still moved me. I hated it more that he had done it so well.
“Thanks,” I said, walking up to him. He gave a short nod, then turned and left without a word. The scent of wood followed him out the door.
Beth said something behind me, but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I stood there, looking at the painting that had defined me, but all I could think about was the man behind the mask. There was something about the way he had seen me that made me feel more exposed than when the painting had first debuted.
He hadn’t said much, but it didn’t matter. I had the feeling he already knew more than he let on.
And I wasn’t sure if I felt watched or protected, maybe both. Either way, I knew it wasn’t the last time I’d see him.
Stained With You
30 Chapters
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