Make It Hurt (A Dark Stalker Romance), page 1
Make It Hurt
A Dark Stalker Romance
Stella Hart
Contents
Important Note
Content warning/triggers:
Prologue
Transcript – ‘After the Carver’ Episode 0.5: Teaser Episode
1. Kennedy
2. Kennedy
Partial transcript from ‘After the Carver’ Episode 1
3. Kennedy
4. ‘K’
Partial transcript from ‘After the Carver’ Episode 2
5. Kennedy
6. Kennedy
Transcript from ‘After the Carver’ Episode 3
7. Kennedy
Partial transcript from After the Carver: Special Announcement 1
8. Kennedy
9. Kennedy
10. Kennedy
11. Kennedy
12. Kennedy
13. Kennedy
14. ‘K’
15. Kennedy
16. Kennedy
17. ‘K’
18. Kennedy
Partial transcript from ‘After the Carver’ Episode 4 – Return of the Carver
19. Kennedy
20. Kennedy
21. Kennedy
22. Kennedy
23. Kennedy
24. ‘K’
25. Kennedy
26. Kennedy
27. Kennedy
28. Kennedy
29. Kennedy
Partial transcript from After the Carver: Special Announcement 2
30. Kennedy
31. ‘K’
32. Kennedy
33. Kennedy
Transcript from ‘After the Carver’ – Kennedy’s Return
34. Kennedy
Also by Stella Hart
Important Note
This book is recommended for 18+ readers. It contains very dark topics, heavy psychological traumas, and situations that some readers may find disturbing. A full list of trigger warnings is available on the next page.
Content warning/triggers:
Reader discretion is advised as this book contains:
Sexually explicit scenes
Serial killer
Stalking
Kidnapping
Home invasion
Drugging
Knife play
Primal play
Mask play
Blood/gore
Violent, graphic death
Loss of a parent (backstory)
Mention of suicide
Prologue
‘K’
Miles was crying again.
He was curled up in the far corner of the basement cell, knees hugged to his chest, shivering like a wet mutt. There was dried blood in the creases of his lips. He’d split them open two nights ago chewing on the end of a small, rusted pipe, thinking he could sharpen it into a makeshift blade to use on me. Ten out of ten for effort. Zero for creativity.
I leaned my shoulder against the iron bars, fingers tapping idly on the hilt of my knife.
“I’m cold,” he mumbled, not looking up at me. “And I’m so hungry. Please… I just want to go home.”
I didn’t respond. Just stared blankly at him. He was utterly pathetic and predictable. Guys like him always were, so unsurprisingly, he’d broken pretty quickly after I took him.
Having said that, his resistance had still lasted a little longer than I initially expected. But maybe that was on me. For some time now, my focus hadn’t been what it used to, because of her. The object of my obsession.
Kennedy Campbell.
I couldn’t stop picturing her in all the little moments she thought no one saw. Her pretty face lit by the glow of her laptop at two in the morning. The slightly off-center furrow between her brows when she was thinking too hard. The way her mouth twisted when she was pissed but didn’t want to say anything in case it caused trouble. The way she always chewed on her left pinkie fingernail when she was uncertain about something.
She probably thought no one ever noticed any of those things.
She was wrong.
Miles spoke up again, voice thin and reedy. “Please… I want to go home.”
“Yeah, you said that already. But you don’t really have a home anymore, do you?” I said. “You made sure of that a very long time ago. Ten years ago, in fact.”
He swallowed audibly. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’re doing this to me?” he asked. “I gave you everything you asked for.”
“You already know why,” I said, lifting a brow. “We’ve discussed it at length, haven’t we?”
“I just meant… I don’t know why you’re still keeping me here if you’re not going to kill me,” he muttered. “Please… just tell me something. Anything. I don’t even know how long I’ve been down here anymore.”
I tilted my head. “Does it matter?”
He finally looked up at me then. His eyes were big and glassy, like a deer that had just realized it was in the crosshairs.
“Please,” he croaked. “Just stop. Stop torturing me.”
I crouched down, resting my arms on my knees as I gave him the same look people gave to strays they were about to dump at the edge of the highway. “Lucky for you,” I said. “Tonight’s the big one.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’m letting you go.”
His whole body lifted with those four words, and hope flooded his face, quick and clumsy. God, it was almost sweet.
“You mean it?” he asked. “You’re… you’re really letting me go? After all this time?”
I nodded slowly. “Absolutely. You’ll be a free man soon.”
He started crying harder and laughing with disbelief at the same time. “Th-thank you. Thank you, thank—”
I held up a finger. “There’s just one catch.”
His hope died beautifully. Not all at once. No, it stuttered and choked, like an engine gasping for fuel. Then he was frozen, every muscle tensed, the way most people got when they realized the fine print had betrayed them.
“I’m going to release you into the woods,” I said, voice smooth as silk. “And then I’m going to hunt you.”
His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Just air.
“If you make it out of the woods, I’ll actually let you go. Scout’s honor.” I smiled coldly. “But if you don’t…”
I let the lingering silence finish the sentence, because fear lived longer in the blanks.
The truth was: Miles wasn’t getting out of these vast woods. He’d never, ever escape me. But it made the whole thing much more entertaining to let him think it was a possibility. Added some spice. And tonight, the woods were extra dark. More of a challenge for me. More fun.
Still…
Even in this moment—knife in hand, adrenaline humming—I found my thoughts drifting. Wondering what she was doing right now. Wondering if she felt safe, or if she had some sort of sixth sense about what was coming her way soon.
I yanked Miles outside by the chain wrapped around his ankle. He was too weak to walk as fast as me, but I didn’t mind. I’d always been a patient guy.
The trees greeted us like sentinels; tall black shapes in the moonless night. I stopped at the edge of the clearing and crouched down beside Miles to unhook his chain.
“Run,” I whispered, voice low in his ear.
He hesitated.
“Go on,” I said, giving him a little shove. “You’ve got a ten-second head start. Make it count.”
To his credit, he stumbled to his feet. His legs wobbled like twigs in a stiff breeze, but he ran anyway. Or at least tried to.
I waited.
Ten…
Nine…
Eight…
I didn’t count aloud to taunt Miles. That would feel tacky in a moment like this. Instead, I watched him disappear into the trees. Listened to his wheezing breath and the crack of branches under his feet.
Then I finally started walking. Not fast. No need. He was already tiring himself out.
I followed the sound of his panic. The broken rhythm of his footfalls and the frantic rustle of leaves. I could see his shape now, stumbling over a low shrub.
Then I was on him.
I yanked him back by the collar of his shirt, and he screamed like an animal caught in a trap. I let him go, and he fell on his ass with his arms out, sobbing and begging in the same breath. “Please, I—I did what you said! I ran! You said I was free!”
“Only if you made it out of the woods,” I reminded him, stepping closer. “But come on, Miles. You knew you wouldn’t. You knew this had to happen.”
He shook his head, lips trembling, trying to form some final argument.
I raised the knife and smiled.
Transcript – ‘After the Carver’ Episode 0.5: Teaser Episode
[Intro music: low piano over wind and faint static, growing slowly louder then fading under speech]
FREYA:
Hey everyone, and welcome to After the Carver, a podcast about what’s left behind when the violence ends, but the story doesn’t. I’m Freya Landis.
KENNEDY:
And I’m Kennedy Campbell.
FREYA:
Just a quick heads up: this isn’t actually our first official episode. It’s just a quick teaser to announce our intentions for the show and give you all a little background before we release it properly.
KENNEDY:
Episodes 1, 2, and 3 drop tomorrow evening at 7:30 Eastern, and we’re really
FREYA:
We sure are. We’ve been working on this for quite a while now, haven’t we, Ken?
KENNEDY:
Yeah, we have. To be honest, we actually went back and forth for a while on whether we should do this show, but in the end, we felt like we had to. Because it’s personal. For both of us, as born-and-bred Corwin Bay girls. But especially for me.
FREYA:
You see, Kennedy’s father, Mark Campbell, was one of thirteen people brutally murdered ten years ago by the man now known as the Corwin Bay Carver. The case shook our city to its core. And then it went cold.
KENNEDY:
Before we go any further, for those who haven’t heard of the case before, here are the basics.
FREYA:
Thirteen people were taken. From their homes, their workplaces, even a grocery store parking lot in one case.
KENNEDY:
After each disappearance, the local police received a riddle. And when they solved them, they led to specific locations in the vast woods surrounding Corwin Bay.
FREYA:
That’s where the bodies were found. Or what was left of them.
KENNEDY:
Dismembered. Scattered across the ground. Barely even recognizable as human remains. In five cases, all they found was blood, because predators had already gotten there.
FREYA:
Thirteen victims. Then nothing. No more disappearances. No more riddles.
KENNEDY:
Just silence… and a whole lot of questions no one could answer. Not the police, not even the FBI. The case stalled, and the Carver vanished.
FREYA:
He was never caught. And maybe he was never even finished.
KENNEDY:
Maybe. There are a lot of theories out there. Some people think he died. Some think he just stopped. Others think he moved overseas to commit his crimes so far away that no one would ever notice the connection. But in the end… no one knows the truth, except the Carver himself.
FREYA:
Over the next few episodes, we’re going to dig deep into the case. Who the victims were. What connected them. The suspect list. What the police might’ve missed or ignored. What’s been uncovered since the investigation quietly fizzled out.
KENNEDY:
We’ll also be exploring tips and theories sent in by listeners via the email address on our website, so please don’t hold back. We want to hear from you, because it’s not just the two of us. We want this project to belong to the community in the end.
FREYA:
That’s right. And, full disclosure, because I want to keep things honest: I’m hoping Kennedy’s personal connection to the case will help us get the initial attention and buzz we need to get things going. But I also think her connection to it will keep us grounded. Remind us what’s at stake. Because this isn’t just some urban legend we’re dissecting. It’s a wound our city still hasn’t healed from.
KENNEDY:
I’ll be honest too. I really didn’t want to do this podcast at first. Because the true crime world… it can be ugly, even exploitative. People often forget that these were real human beings. So victims get reduced to tropes, tragedy gets flattened into content, and trauma becomes entertainment. I know because I’ve experienced it firsthand, unfortunately.
FREYA:
Yup, that’s something we’ve talked about a lot. I remember when I first approached you about doing this, your kneejerk reaction was ‘hell no!’.
KENNEDY:
Yeah. There’s just such a fine line between shining a light and setting up a circus. I didn’t want to exploit my dad’s death—or anyone else’s—to rack up downloads or make money.
FREYA:
I already know the answer to this question, but for our listeners: what changed your mind in the end?
KENNEDY:
Honestly? The thought that someone out there might know something. These podcasts can really make a difference when they’re done right. We’ve seen that in so many other true crime cases. They can stir things up. Get people talking. Get them remembering. And maybe that’ll be enough to crack something open in this case.
FREYA:
To finally get answers and justice for the families of the victims.
KENNEDY:
Exactly. Because the Carver didn’t just take lives. Like you said earlier, he left a massive wound in our city. Everyone tried their best to get on with their lives once it became apparent that he was done with his killing spree, but things could never really go back to normal after it happened.
FREYA:
Yup. Ten years later, and it still feels like we’re living in the Carver’s shadow, waiting for… well, we don’t even know what, exactly. So… here we are. Two friends. One cold case. And ten years of silence we’re about to break.
KENNEDY:
We’re not cops, and we’re not journalists. We’re just here to ask questions and hopefully get people talking, because someone out there still knows the truth.
FREYA:
And if he’s listening—
KENNEDY:
Good. Because we haven’t forgotten you, or what you did. And we’re not just after answers. We’re after you.
FREYA:
As Kennedy mentioned earlier, we’ll release our first three full-length episodes tomorrow night. So, if you’re ready to hear the story of the Corwin Bay Carver, told by the people who lived it, join us then.
KENNEDY:
This is After the Carver. Thanks for listening.
[Outro music: soft and cold, fading to static, then silence]
1
Kennedy
“Tell me what you’re so afraid of, Kennedy.”
Dr. Jacob King leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded like he was settling in for a story. I knew that look. It was the same one he’d given me a dozen times over the last few years. Calm and open, but sharp. He didn’t miss much.
I knew from past offhand comments that he was in his late thirties, but he could pass for younger if he wanted. He was tall with sharp features softened by kind brown eyes, and just enough dark stubble along his jaw to make him look rugged. His thick brown hair always looked like he’d run a hand through it two seconds before I walked in; effortlessly messy but still intentional.
I’d heard the whispers from other girls on campus. Everyone thought he was the hottest therapist in the student health center, and apparently, some students had faked panic attacks just to get a free session with him.
They weren’t wrong in their assessment of him. He was an attractive man, and I’d be lying if I said I’d never noticed the muscles straining against his button-down shirts. But I wasn’t here to simper over a sexy guy. I was just here for therapy.
“I think you already know what scares me,” I said. “I mean, we’ve talked about it a lot, right?”
“We’ve certainly explored many subjects over the last few years,” he replied, nodding slowly. “But here’s the thing: I can tell when a patient is holding out on me. And you definitely are.”
His tone was gentle, but there was steel underneath. He didn’t want to let me sidestep this.
“I only know what you’ve told me. And to be fair, you have told me a lot,” he continued, lifting a palm. “But I can sense it, Kennedy. There’s something else you’re afraid of. Something you haven’t said out loud after all this time. And that really worries me.”
I shifted on the couch, fingers twisting in my lap. I hated that he was right.
“I normally wouldn’t be this blunt, because I completely understand why people hold out sometimes. In fact, it’s probably the most common issue a therapist will face with patients,” he added. “But this is your last session. You’ve mentioned that you probably can’t afford regular therapy now, and our college-sponsored program only lasts for three months post-grad. You graduated back in May, so that means today’s it.”
“Unless you decide to start giving everyone free sessions out of the goodness of your heart,” I said with a sheepish half-smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.
I always did this when things started getting serious. Dr. King had explained many times that it was a defense mechanism. Something that distracted me from the discomfort of vulnerability. From the parts of myself I didn’t want to look at too closely, and from the truths I still couldn’t say out loud.
