Stalked By My Boyfriends Best Friend

Meeting Her

The following trigger warnings are present in this book.

A range of B*SM, Blood Play, Body fluids play, Breath Play, CNC, Cheating, Choking, Coercion, Exhibitionism, Forced Or**sms, Humiliation/degradation, Kidnapping, Knife Play, Masked men, None s*xual objects used for s*x, Obsession, Org*sm denial, Praise Kink, Primal Hunting, Pros**tution, Raw s*x/no condom, Snowballing, Somnophilia, Spanking/Impact play, Stalking, Swallowing bodily fluids, Unaliving

This is a very dark book.

Dante’s POV

1 year earlier

I sit in the dark office, glaring at the phone. The silence feels suffocating, but I prefer it that way. I’m hiding, and I know it. Today, of all days, I’ve told everyone to handle things on their own. No one dares ask for my help—they know better than to cross me on this date.

At least, I thought they did.

The knock on the door makes me groan.

“What?” I snap, my voice harsher than I intend.

The door creaks open, and Callum steps in with his usual calm, carrying a small box.

“I know what today is, Dante. But I also know you,” he says, placing the box on the desk between us.

“I don’t need to see it,” I mutter, staring at the darkened room. “I trust he’s dead and handled.”

Callum nods. “He’s done. As for the woman—Sasha’s looking after her. Doctor’s stitched her up, but she’s causing a scene. Refuses to work here.”

Of course. I let out a deep sigh.

“Tell Sasha to send her in,” I say, flicking on the light, the sudden brightness making me squint.

Callum nods and turns to leave, but stops at the door. “Justin’s been calling. Says you didn’t show last night. He’s expecting you tonight.”

I clench my jaw. “You know last night was impossible with what went down. This takes priority. Justin’s ‘fun’ can wait.”

“Just passing the message, boss,” he says with a shrug, heading out.

The room feels colder when I’m alone again. I glance at the phone, tempted to turn it on, but I don’t. Not yet.

Moments later, there’s another knock. Sasha steps in, leading a girl I had expected to jump at the chance to work here. “Mr. Ainsley, this is Pixie,” she says, stepping aside.

Pixie’s eyes flick to me, wide with uncertainty, like a rabbit ready to bolt. Her dark hair is cleaner now, and she’s wearing joggers and a vest, but the bruises and cuts still mar her skin. She’s been through hell, and it shows.

“It’s safe. I just want to talk,” I tell her, softening my voice. She hesitates, but finally takes the seat across from me. Sasha closes the door quietly behind her.

“You’re refusing to stay and work here. Why?” I ask, genuinely puzzled. After what she went through, I thought she’d be eager for the safety we offered.

Pixie straightens, but there’s defiance in her voice. “I work for myself, on the streets. I make my own rules, do what I want, when I want.”

I nod, taking it in. “I’m sure Sasha explained that you’d have the same freedom here. The money from drinks and the club covers everything else. You keep what you earn. So, the real reason?”

She hesitates, her guard slipping. I lean forward, sensing the truth buried deep beneath her bravado.

“You got lucky last night,” I say quietly, but firmly. “That guy could’ve killed you. How do you know next time won’t be worse?”

Her lip trembles, and tears well up in her eyes. She tries to hold it together, but I see it—the fear. And beneath the fresh bruises, I notice the older ones.

“Who is it?” I ask, my voice lowering. It’s not just about survival for her—someone else is pulling the strings.

Her breath catches, and she shakes her head, refusing to answer. “It’s... it’s not someone I can name. I’m sorry. Thank you for what you’ve done, but I have... other things to consider,” she says, her voice laced with fear.

“Like what?” I press. “What’s more important than your own safety?”

She meets my eyes, and her answer shocks me. “My son!” she shouts, her voice raw and desperate.

That changes everything. I sit back, processing. A child complicates things, but not in a way that can’t be handled.

“You’re in the hospital right now,” I say, formulating a plan on the fly. “That’s your story. Stay here tonight. Tomorrow morning, you lead us to whoever’s holding you down. We’ll get your son and bring you both back here. Safe.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off, raising a hand. “Think about him. This is your chance to get out, to keep both of you safe. Whoever’s controlling you, they won’t touch you again. I swear it.”

Pixie hesitates, torn between her fear and the promise of freedom. Finally, she gives a reluctant nod, standing to leave. But before she reaches the door, she turns back.

“People say you sell women. That you’re a pimp, taking their money. Clearly, that’s not true. But why do you care? About us, we're seen as nothing, hookers, lower than lower?” Her voice is quieter now, almost vulnerable.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “It’s personal,” I say, not offering more. “The men here, they’re not watching to make sure you’re working. They’re here to protect you. To make sure no one touches you without your consent. If you get an uneasy feeling from anyone, tell them straight away.”

She nods slowly, understanding more than I expected. Without another word, she leaves the office, and I’m left with the silence again.

This time, I pick up the phone, turn it on, and walk out. There’s still more work to be done.

I step out of the car, taking a deep breath before heading into Justin’s place. He’s someone I’ve known since we were kids, a constant in my life. While our worlds couldn’t be more different—me running clubs that cater to dark desires behind closed doors, and him working in promotion, surrounded by bright lights and clean-cut office types—we’ve always been close. Still, I don’t understand why he’s been riding me so hard, hounding me like I didn’t have bigger problems to deal with.

Last night was his birthday, and I was supposed to be there. But then I got the call. The deputy, or “Deputy Prick” as I like to call him, told me about a woman who’d been beaten badly, left on the street. For a moment, I was paralyzed with fear, thinking it was one of my girls. But no—it was someone from the street, someone who wasn’t under my protection yet. He suggested I offer her a place, and that was that. Justin’s birthday quickly became a distant memory.

As I walk into his place, the party is already in full swing. People are everywhere, laughing, drinking, the usual scene. Suddenly, someone stumbles into me, and without thinking, I reach out and steady her.

And that’s when I see her.

For a split second, the world around me vanishes. Dark hair falls in waves around her flushed face, and her blue eyes lock onto mine. It’s like I’ve been hit by a truck. My chest tightens, heat surging through me. Who the hell is she?

Women don’t get a reaction from me—hell, nothing does these days. I’m numb inside, dead even. But her? She’s got me on fire with just one look. I can’t tear my eyes away as she regains her balance, straightening up.

Then, Justin’s arm pulls her back from me, snapping me out of the trance.

“Luna,” Justin says with a grin, holding her close. “This is Dante, an old friend.”

I’m still staring at her, speechless, as he introduces us.

“Dante?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in recognition. “As in the Heaven and Hell Club?”

I nod, and her gaze shifts. Her eyes fill with disgust, and the hit is sharp, unexpected. Damn. I’ve never cared what anyone thinks of me—not in this life, not with the sh*t I deal with daily. But her? For some reason, her opinion cuts deep, and I hate that it does.

I rub my face, trying to shake it off, but all I can smell is her. That brief contact, her scent still clings to me, driving me insane.

“So you two are friends, right?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound normal. Justin laughs, pulling Luna in closer and planting a kiss on her lips.

Sh*t. This is bad. Really f*cking bad.

I can’t stay here. Pulling out my phone, I head for the door, hitting Jamie’s number. He answers on the second ring.

“Dante. Everything okay?”

I walk out into the night, breathing in the cool air, trying to clear my head. “I think I’ve got another obsession,” I mutter.

There’s a pause on the other end before Jamie, my long-suffering counselor, speaks. “You know how to handle those.”

“Yeah, but this one is... different. It’s a person,” I admit, my voice trailing off. This is uncharted territory. My obsessions have always been things I could manage—work, control, power. I know how to compartmentalize them, how to distance myself. But her? I don’t know how to shake this feeling.

“Same rules apply, Dante,” Jamie says in his calm, measured tone. “Keep your distance. If you feel it pulling you in, redirect. Focus elsewhere.”

I nod, even though I know it’s useless. This is different. This obsession isn’t something I can just walk away from.

Hanging up, I take a deep breath and step back into the party. It’s foolish to go back in, but I’m drawn to her. I can’t stop myself. I stand at the edge of the room, watching her move. She’s dancing now, lost in the music, completely unaware of the storm she’s kicked up inside me.

She hates me, I can see it in her eyes. But I’m obsessed with her.

How the f*ck is this supposed to work?