LITTLE MONSTER
ROSE
The room was dark
Not the darkness of poverty or neglect—this was curated darkness. Intentional. A single pool of amber light from a vintage floor lamp, the rest swallowed by shadow. The chaise lounge was the color of spilled merlot, upholstered in plush mohair. The walls were papered in charcoal damask. The air smelled of tuberose and something sharper underneath—power, maybe. Or rage dressed up as control.
The figure who walked in didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t need to. She moved through the darkness like she owned it, because she did.
Her hair was auburn—not the flat orange-red of drugstore dye, but something richer. Mahogany shot through with copper, cut in layers that moved when she breathed. Expensive layers. The kind you get when you’ve stopped counting what things cost because you’ve earned every dollar yourself. She wore latex pants that hugged her legs like a second skin, a red peplum top that nipped in at her waist and flared at her hips, and heels that could double as weapons.
Her lips were red. A glossy, dangerous red. The kind of red that saidI know exactly what I’m doing and you’re going to pay for it.
The snarl on those lips was a work of art.
Rose Castellano—though no one in this room would dare call her that—lounged on her chaise, her long legs crossed at the ankle, her body arranged with the careless precision of a woman who knows she’s being watched. Because she was.
On the screen before her, Ethan kneeled.
He was thirty-seven years old. A hedge fund manager. Married to a blonde Pilates instructor named Jessica who didn’t know where he was right now. His apartment was a glass-walled monument to his own success—floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen he’d never cooked in, a bed he’d shared with his wife exactly twice in the last year. And there he was, on his knees on the imported Italian stone, cock leaking in his hand, eyes wet with desperation.
“Look at you,” Rose purred.
Her voice was velvet wrapped around a blade. Soft. Warm. Deadly. The kind of voice that made men forget their own names.
“So fucking pathetic. Already dripping for me and I haven’t even started yet.”
Ethan whimpered. Actually whimpered. The sound was high and thin, like a dog that had been kicked too many times and kept coming back for more.
“Please, Rose…”
She let the silence stretch. Let him sweat. Let him wonder if he’d crossed a line he didn’t know existed. Then—
“Address me correctly, wallet.”
The correction was instantaneous. “Miss Rose. Please, Miss Rose.”
“Good boy.”
She leaned forward. The movement was slow, deliberate, designed. It gave him a perfect view of her full breasts, the low-cut peplum top and hints of black lace doing nothing to hide the dusky peaks beneath. Ethan’s cock twitched in his hand. A bead of pre-cum rolled down his knuckles.
“Now,” Rose said, settling back against the cushions, “send the first tribute. Five hundred dollars. Right now. For the privilege of looking at me.”
His hand shook as he reached for his phone. She watched him fumble with the screen, watched his fingers slip on the passcode, watched the exact moment the transfer went through. The notification pinged on her laptop a few seconds later.
Five hundred dollars. The cost of a nice dinner. A pair of shoes. A car payment. His.
Now hers.
Rose smiled slowly. The kind of smile that made men forget their wives, their morals, their self-respect.
“Such a good little pay pig. But that’s not enough tonight.” She uncrossed her legs. Let him see a flash of black lace. Let him hear the whisper of her thighs sliding apart. “I want more.”
Ethan made a sound like he’d been punched.
“Send another thousand. And stroke that worthless cock while you do it. Slowly.” Her voice dropped, hard and cold as a slap. “If you come without permission, I’ll drain you dry and block you. You’ll never see me again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Rose.”
“Then do it.”
He stroked himself. Slowly. His eyes were fixed on the screen, on the dark shadow between her thighs, on the curve of her waist, on the smile that promised nothing and threatened everything. The money transferred. Rose watched the notification appear with the satisfaction of a cat watching a mouse run directly into its mouth.
“Mmm, that’s better. Look how fast you obey when your cock is throbbing.” She laughed softly—cruel and sweet at the same time, a sound she’d perfected over years of practice. “You work so hard for all that money. All those hours. All those deals. And you just hand it over to me like the desperate little bitch you are.”
She tilted her head. The auburn layers shifted across her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed in the amber light.
“Another two thousand. Now. And tell me what you are while you send it.”
Ethan’s voice cracked as he typed. “I’m your pathetic cash slave, Miss Rose. Your worthless pay pig.”
The money hit her account.
Rose let out a pleased little moan. It wasn’t real—none of this was real—but it was loud enough for him to hear, and that was all that mattered. The sound went straight to his cock, which was now purple and straining and leaking steadily onto his floor.
“Good boy. Now edge for me. Bring yourself right to the brink… but don’t you dare come.” She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m going to drain you completely tonight. Every last dollar in your account is mine. And you’re going to thank me for it while your cock leaks like a broken faucet.”
Ethan was shaking now. His whole body trembling. His hand pumped desperately, his eyes glued to her, his mouth hanging open.
“Miss Rose… please… I’ll send everything…”
Rose laughed, low and delighted. “Oh, I know you will, baby.” She paused, letting his ragged breathing fill the quiet room as he dangled on the edge of release and ruin.
Then: “Now send ten thousand. Prove you belong to me.”
He did.
The session broke an hour and forty-five minutes later.
Ethan was stripped of forty-three thousand dollars and sobbing with gratitude. Rose had let him come eventually, after he’d emptied his checking account, after he’d promised her his next bonus, after he’d thanked her for the privilege of being destroyed. She’d watched him spatter across his floor with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary.
Then she’d closed her laptop. The screen went dark. The studio went quiet. Rose packed her things, slipped out of her lethal heels, locked the heavy doors of her rented workspace, and walked out to her car.
Sitting alone in the vehicle, she didn’t feel satisfaction. She didn’t feel disgust. She didn’t feel much of anything at all. That was the point.
She never fucked the men. Never touched them. Never let them within a hundred feet of her body. She didn’t want their hands. She didn’t want their mouths. She didn’t want anything from them except their money and their submission and the look in their eyes when they realized they’d give her everything for nothing in return.
She would never touch another man. Not because she was waiting for one. Not because she believed in love or second chances or happy endings. She’d stopped believing in all of that four years ago, on an airport floor, with two suitcases and a stolen necklace and a phone that never rang.
She’d stopped.
The drive to her apartment took twelve minutes.
Her patisserie occupied the ground floor of a converted warehouse in the arts district—all exposed brick and steel beams and display cases full of cakes that looked like architecture. The bakery was closed now, the lights dimmed, the cases empty. The sign on the door read CASTELLANO PATISSERIE in gold leaf lettering. Below it, smaller:By Appointment Only.
She’d built this. All of it. The bakery. The client list. The reputation. The side business that paid for the workspace, the fine things, and the private school tuition she was already researching for a child who was barely three years old.
She’d built it alone.
Rose parked in her reserved spot and took the private elevator to the top floor. The doors opened directly into her apartment—a sprawling loft with fourteen-foot ceilings and exposed beams and a wall of windows that looked out over the city skyline. The kitchen was professional grade, all gleaming copper, deep quartzite countertops, and appliances that cost more than most people’s cars. The living room was filled with leather and dark wood. There were fresh flowers on the coffee table. Peonies. Her favorite.
And in the corner, curled up on a miniature wingback chair that had been sized specifically for her, was Luna.
The babysitter, Sarah, was seventeen years old and already a better baker than most professionals three times her age. Rose had found her two years ago, working the counter at a grocery store bakery, decorating sheet cakes with frosting roses that looked like they’d bloomed on the cake itself. She’d hired her on the spot. Now Sarah apprenticed in the kitchen four days a week and watched Luna on the nights Rose needed to... work.
Tonight, Sarah had Luna on her lap. The baby—no, not a baby anymore, a little girl, a person with opinions and preferences and a laugh that could crack Rose’s heart right down the middle—was flipping through a pop-up book about woodland creatures. A paper owl sprung up from the page, and Luna smacked it with her palm, delighted.
“Boo!” she shrieked. “Boo, Mama!”
“Owl,” Sarah corrected gently. “That’s an owl, Luna-bug.”
“Boo.”
Rose stepped out of the elevator, and Luna’s head whipped around. Her face—that perfect, round face with the dark curls and the serious eyes and the mouth that was just learning how to smile—split into a cackle of pure joy.
“Ma-ma!”
The sound hit Rose in the chest. Every time. It didn’t matter how many sessions she’d done. How many men she’d drained. How many walls she’d built around herself. That sound—her daughter’s voice, calling for her—shattered all of it.
“Hi, baby,” she breathed. “Hi, my little ladybug.”
She crossed the room and scooped Luna out of Sarah’s lap. The girl came willingly, her small arms wrapping around Rose’s neck, her soft cheek pressing against Rose’s shoulder. She smelled like baby shampoo and buttercream and something indefinably hers.
“Ma-ma,” Luna said again, more firmly this time. A statement, not a request. A declaration.
“Yes, baby. Mama’s here.”
Sarah gathered her things. Rose paid her in cash—more than the going rate, always more—and walked her to the elevator with Luna still attached to her hip.
“Same time Thursday?” Sarah asked.
“Maybe. I’ll text you.”
“You always text me.” Sarah grinned. “See you Thursday, Rose. Night, Luna-bug.”
“Boo!” Luna yelled at her retreating back.
Rose laughed. She couldn’t help it. The sound surprised her every time—her own laugh, rusty from disuse, pulled out of her by this tiny person who thought owls were called “boo” and measuring cups were the most fascinating objects in the universe.
After Sarah left, Rose locked up. She checked the security system. She checked it again. The habit was four years old and she’d never broken it—deadbolts, cameras, motion sensors, a panic button wired directly to a private security firm. She’d bought the building specifically because it could be fortified. Because no one was getting in unless she let them in.
Because no one was ever going to hurt her or her daughter. Ever. Again.
She carried Luna to the bathroom and filled the tub. Bath time was sacred. Luna splashed with the enthusiasm of a tiny dolphin, soaking Rose’s latex pants and the bathroom floor and the towel that was supposed to prevent exactly this. Rose didn’t care. She watched her daughter’s face—those dark, serious eyes that crinkled at the corners when she laughed, those curls plastered to her forehead, those small hands slapping the water—and felt something crack open inside her chest.
“I love you,” she said. It came out fierce. Almost desperate. “I love you so much, my little ladybug. You know that? Do you know that?”
Luna looked up at her. Her expression was solemn. Then she smiled—a real smile, the one that showed all four of her tiny teeth.
“Mama!”
“Only yours,” Rose whispered. “Mama is only yours. Always. No one else’s. Just you and me.”
“On’y,” Luna repeated. A new word. A gift.
Rose’s eyes burned. She would not cry. She had not cried in four years, and she was not going to cry now, sitting on her bathroom floor in three-thousand-dollar latex pants with her daughter splashing bathwater in her face.
“Only,” she agreed. “Now hold still, little monster. We have to wash those curls.”
Tank you naughty man why did you do this, why did you leave her? I’m not going to hate him for it or at least not yet until I find out more. Rose is pretty ruthless draining men’s bank accounts. Ok they give the money willingly but still,she doesn’t seem bothered about doing it.
my his this scene was intense
I am so ready for Tank's story 🥳 He has always seemed like a rock to me-strong, steady and almost impossible to read- and after being such a mysterious presence throughout the previous three books. I can't wait to get inside his head 😁 Honestly, this chapter was incresibly intense. That scene with her as a dominatrix, surrounded by those walls, was unforgettable. I do think Thank needs to suffer a little bit 😈