Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 78: Just Who Is Bad Wolf?

June – POV

The morning air bit through the city haze, but I didn’t flinch as I stepped outside Nate’s apartment.

He stood in the doorway, coffee in one hand, the other tucked in his hoodie pocket like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. That crooked, boyish smile was still plastered on his face—the kind that probably made girls hand him their hearts on paper napkins.

"I could drop you off," he offered. "At your place. Or... wherever."

Sweet. Thoughtful. Dangerously decent.

But I didn’t need decent right now.

"I’ll be fine," I said, brushing past him with a half-smile. "Thanks for the coffee, though. And the discount therapy pitch."

He chuckled, scratched the back of his neck. "Still stands."

I took his number when he held it out. Smiled again. Said I’d call.

I lied.

As the cab pulled away and the city rushed past my window, something in me shifted. It was subtle at first—like the click of a gear slipping into place.

Maybe it was the lack of chaos, or maybe it was the afterglow of a night where no one screamed, bled, or begged for mercy.

But I knew one thing with terrifying clarity:

I was done surviving. It was time to start living.

When I got back to the motel, I didn’t even pause. Packed my bag, zipped it closed like sealing off a version of me I was done with. Tossed everything that smelled like fear and blood and indecision.

It was time to take my damn life back.

"I’m getting a degree," I said aloud, just to hear the conviction in my own voice.

My voices piqued at it.

I snorted.

A degree. A career. Hell, maybe even an apartment with windows and a cat that didn’t talk back.

I’d use my bastard adoptive father’s money to fund the life he never wanted me to have.

"Hire a bodyguard," I muttered, scribbling notes into my phone. "Someone discreet. Ex-military, maybe. Hot. Tatted. Low-profile."

Someone like badwolf? Maybe.

I rolled my eyes. "He’s a fantasy. Not real life."

Still, I couldn’t stop the heat that crept into my thoughts at the memory of him—how his hands had known exactly what to do, how his voice had sounded like gravel and honey in the dark.

Whatever.

I checked out of the motel, climbed into another cab, and directed the driver to what used to be the Matthews’ estate.

Or what was left of it.

Ashes. Smoke.

Neighbors with sad eyes and nosy questions.

Apparently, Justin had taken the liberty of faking my adoptive parents’ deaths—and burning the house down to sell the story.

Honestly?

Good fucking riddance.

If I never saw those walls again, it’d still be too soon.

I kept my head down. Nodded solemnly. Whispered thanks for their condolences.

Inside, the voices cackled.

I let them talk.

They were part of me. Always had been.

But they didn’t control me anymore.

That’s the difference now—I listen, but I choose what I do with their words. They don’t drive the car. I do.

After finalizing a few documents, I signed the inheritance papers. The Matthews fortune was mine now—every blood-stained penny of it. And I wasn’t going to waste a second wallowing in guilt. I’d use it. Invest it. Grow it.

Build something no one could take from me.

I rented a sleek suite overlooking the city skyline. Glass walls. Black marble counters. A bed like a cloud.

A new beginning.

And not just metaphorically.

The moment I flopped onto the mattress, my phone buzzed.

A message.

Red Bull Club.

Encrypted. Discreet. Familiar.

Session request: BADWOLF. Confirm?

I stared at the screen, heartbeat skipping like a kid playing hopscotch.

A part of me hesitated.

But not because I was scared.

No.

Because this wasn’t about forgetting.

This wasn’t running from pain.

This was celebration.

I’d won. I was alive. I was free.

And I needed someone who could feel that with me—someone who wouldn’t treat me like glass.

Someone who knew how to burn without destroying.

Badwolf wasn’t Justin.

But maybe that was the point.

Justin had chosen to drown in his darkness.

And I was choosing to rise.

I tapped "Confirm" and smiled—wide and wicked.

The voices purred.

The clock hadn’t even struck 11, but I was already at the bar near the Red Bull Club, swirling a whiskey neat between my fingers. The amber liquid burned its way down my throat, warming me just enough to steel my nerves. Tonight wasn’t just about escape — it was about reclaiming control, even if only for a few hours. The session with BadWolf was set for 11:30, but I showed up early. I needed to feel alive, to drown out the sinister whispers clawing at the edges of my mind.

The bar’s dim light flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced like the voices inside my head — always lurking, always sinister, always watching. I tried not to think about Justin, or the mess he left behind. Tonight was about me, about celebrating the dark chorus, the end of my scary tuesdays and thursdays.

I took another slow sip and scanned the room, the low hum of conversations mixing with the clink of glasses. I hoped BadWolf wasn’t too worn out. I wasn’t planning on sleeping anytime soon. I needed this session to be brutal, to shake me from the inside out, to make me forget the chaos long enough to breathe.

The clock ticked closer. My heart drummed a slow, steady beat. Tonight, I’d celebrate the end of my monster in my own way.

********

I was already waiting when he walked through the door.

Badwolf.

That name, that presence—no one else moved through these shadowed halls with the same brutal grace. He carried himself like a predator, every step measured, every breath heavy with promise and danger.

Even through the mask, I could feel the electricity crackling off him.

The moment he stopped in front of me, the air shifted. No words. No hesitation. Just the silent agreement that this was ours—our secret ritual of escape.

Then he started to undress.

He didn’t say a word. Just undressed—slow, deliberate. Watching him strip always ignited something wild inside me. The way his hands peeled off his clothes like he was revealing a secret, teasing the shadows from his skin.

When his pants hit the floor, my eyes caught him—hard, thick, undeniable. Every time, it’s like the first time. His cock commanding attention even before he touched me.

He climbed onto the bed like a predator. His fingers found my skin instantly—light at first, teasing my ribs, my neck, then sliding lower, tracing the fragile curve of my waist. I shivered under his touch, caught between wanting to run and desperate to drown.

Then he pulled down my bra, exposing my breasts to him. The moment his mouth closed around one nipple, I gasped, lost in the sharp pleasure of his lips sucking and biting. His hand pressed and pinched the other breast, rough and sure, making me writhe, arching back like I couldn’t get enough.

His breath hot against my skin, he moved from one side to the other, worshipping me. I was soaked, trembling beneath his fingers when he reached that sweet spot, teasing it until my hips jerked involuntarily.

His low groan vibrated against me, sending fire straight through my core.

Then he gripped my hips hard, pulling me to the bed’s edge. I caught my breath when he pressed against me—bare skin sliding over bare heat—and finally, when he pushed inside, the sound I made was raw, unfiltered.

He started slow, long strokes that made my toes curl, my breath hitch like I couldn’t catch it. But the rhythm in his chest took over soon, pounding faster, harder.

He took me hard, fast, like he was drowning in this as much as I was.

My body moved instinctively, rising to meet every thrust, every deep plunge that left me gasping. His fingers dug into my hips, my thighs, even my jaw, marking me—claiming me—as if to leave proof I was his escape.

Then—just when I thought I couldn’t take more—he slid a finger inside, curling, stretching, teasing that fragile place until I shattered. My body clenched around him, my scream torn and raw, like some dark wound ripping open.

Something fierce snapped inside him too. I felt it. His release hit so violently it knocked the air out of him—and when he collapsed over me, breath ragged, sweat slicking our tangled skin, I wanted more. More of that chaos, that desperate madness.

He flipped us over, pulling me back onto him, making me ride until my legs gave out and my mind blurred. But even then, he wasn’t done.

Without a word, he bent me over the side of the bed, hands gripping my waist like he was trying to break me open. This time, slower—deeper—crueler. His thrusts were sharp and demanding, a dark promise whispered in every movement.

I cried out again, this time feeling every broken piece of me melt beneath his fierce devotion.

Who was this man behind the mask? The one who tore me apart and put me back together in the same breath?

I didn’t know.

But I couldn’t stop wanting him.