Chapter 19
Negan had never been afraid of fire.
Until now.
Because Vanessa had become it.
She stood before him in the red silk robe he'd given her two nights ago, but there was nothing submissive left in her. Her eyes gleamed like sharpened glass. Her smile held secrets he hadn't given her. And her silence?
It was louder than any scream.
She was building a trap.
Not with chains.
Not with blood.
With intimacy.
That terrified him more than the knife he kept under his pillow.
"You sleep lightly," she said one night, watching him from the shadows. "But you dream loudly."
He turned in bed, staring at her.
"How would you know?"
"I don't sleep."
Her voice was flat. Cold.
Untouchable.
Vanessa became the ghost in his house.
She moved through the penthouse like smoke, appearing in rooms without sound.
Reading his books.
Drinking his wine.
Touching his things.
But never touching him.
Not unless he begged.
And she let him.
The first time she took him in the shower, she said nothing.
She undressed in front of him, slow and cruel.
He reached for her—she pulled back.
"Sit."
The word snapped like a whip.
He obeyed.
She stepped into the steam.
Straddled him on the marble bench.
Then leaned forward, brushed his lips with hers, and whispered:
"Do you even know what it means to be owned, Negan?"
He growled—tried to flip her.
She slapped him. Not hard.
But with precision.
Dominance.
His eyes widened.
And then—he moaned.
Because he liked it.
She didn't need rope anymore.
She had psychology.
She left his favorite meal untouched on the table for two days.
Then cooked herself something decadent—and fed it to him from her fingers while he sat naked on the floor.
He asked her, "Why are you doing this?"
She leaned down.
Kissed his jaw.
"Because you taught me how."
Negan began to spiral.
He still punished her.
Still whispered dark threats into her hair.
Still bound her wrists with silk on nights when he needed to feel control.
But it wasn't the same.
Because she was always watching him.
Calculating.
Manipulating.
She liked it now.
And he hated how much that excited him.
One night he woke up sobbing.
He didn't even know why.
Vanessa sat at the edge of the bed.
Naked. Composed.
Watching him fall apart.
He reached for her.
She allowed it—for a moment.
Then climbed into his lap.
Wrapped her legs around him.
Pressed his mouth to her breast.
And said, "Let it out."
Negan wept into her skin.
Because this was no longer his game.
He was the pet now.
The slave.
But Vanessa wasn't finished.
She had one final move.
One final key to the lock he'd never let anyone touch.
His mother.
He kept a photo of her in a drawer.
Vanessa found it.
Recognized the look in her eyes.
The same madness that shimmered in Negan's.
She dressed like her the next morning.
Same style.
Same red lipstick.
Negan froze when he saw her.
His hand shook around the coffee cup.
She walked up.
Stroked his cheek.
And whispered, "Tell me what she did to you."
He snapped.
Grabbed her.
Threw her against the wall.
"Don't you ever—"
She kissed him.
Hard.
He shoved her away—then pulled her back.
Tore the robe from her body.
Fell to his knees.
Buried his face between her thighs like a starving man.
And whispered into her skin:
"I hate you. I hate you so much."
She cradled his head.
"I know. That's how I know it's love."
Outside, the storm raged.
But inside, Vanessa smiled.
Because now?
She didn't need to escape.
She had already won.
He didn't realize it yet—but he was hers.
Body. Mind. Soul.
And she was just getting started.