Chapter 18
He didn't touch her.
He devoured her.
Negan was no longer trying to break Vanessa.
He was trying to worship her.
In his way.
With ropes.
With fear.
With need so blistering it felt like sin.
But Vanessa was no longer screaming.
She sang.
Moaned into the leather restraints, arched against the cold metal cuffs, purred as he pressed the knife against the inside of her thigh—not cutting.
Threatening.
It was all part of the ritual now.
A game between God and sacrifice.
Only the sacrifice had teeth now.
"You think I don't know what you're doing," he hissed into her ear as she trembled beneath him. Her wrists bound to the wrought iron headboard, her ankles spread wide and tied with red silk.
"I know you," he growled. "You're turning me into your monster."
Vanessa didn't deny it.
She smiled through the gag.
Because it was working.
Earlier that morning, Negan had blindfolded her.
Dragged her to the basement beneath the penthouse.
What she saw when he removed the silk—
A black-marble ritual chamber.
Chains on the walls. Symbols on the floor. A bed shaped like a cross.
"You wanted control," he murmured, circling her like a priest circling an altar. "But there's power in surrender too."
Vanessa stood in silence.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Calculating.
He pulled a velvet box from his coat.
Opened it.
Inside: a blood-red collar with his initials in gold.
N.Z.
Negan Zeal.
He raised it to her throat, brushing her pulse with his thumb.
"Say my name."
Vanessa locked eyes with him.
"Make me."
That's when the real ceremony began.
He made her crawl first.
Naked knees on stone.
Eyes blindfolded again.
She could feel the burn of candles along her spine as she moved.
Feel his stare like heat on the back of her neck.
He whispered commands in Latin.
Then English.
Then no words at all—just the sound of his belt sliding free.
The crack of leather across her thighs was punishment.
The press of his lips to the welts?
A benediction.
Vanessa cried. But not from pain.
From power.
Because she felt it—his madness melting.
She was in his blood now.
Every time he struck her, he shook.
Every time he kissed her, he begged.
She could see it in the way he clenched his jaw before every climax.
The fear.
The worship.
She was not a victim anymore.
She was his addiction.
And he was losing control.
That night, after the ritual, he carried her to the bedroom.
Laid her down gently.
Curled around her body like a lover.
But when she reached for him?
He flinched.
Like he was afraid.
She kissed his shoulder.
Whispered into his chest, "You belong to me now."
Negan said nothing.
But he didn't let go.
Not even when she fell asleep.
Meanwhile…
Julian sat across from Camille in a cheap motel outside the city.
"You saw what he did to her?"
She nodded.
Silent tears ran down her face.
"I think… she's changing."
Julian tilted his head. "Into what?"
"I don't know. But it scares me more than him."
Vanessa woke to a new ritual.
Negan had left a velvet dress on the edge of the bed.
A card beside it.
Dinner. No games. No chains. Just you and me. Come if you want to remember who we were before this.
She stared at the card for a long time.
Then she burned it.
Because there was no before.
Only now.
And now, she was ready.
That evening, she showed up anyway.
Wearing the dress.
No bra.
No panties.
He was already seated at the long black dining table, shirt unbuttoned, eyes red from whatever demons he'd been battling while she slept.
He didn't speak.
She poured herself wine.
Sat across from him.
Crossed her legs slowly.
"So," she whispered, voice like a purr, "what's the next game, Negan?"
He smiled faintly.
Then held up a photograph.
Camille.
Alive.
"Your past," he said softly, "has come back to haunt you."
Vanessa didn't blink.
She took the photo.
Tore it in half.
Then stood.
Walked around the table.
Climbed onto his lap.
Straddled him like she was climbing onto a throne.
Then whispered against his mouth:
"My past died the night you touched me."
She kissed him.
Hard.
And when he tried to dominate her?
She grabbed his throat.
Squeezed.
Smiled.
"Now you beg."
And he did.