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"Fuck you," I muttered under my breath, a toast to the invisible menace who held my life in his sadistic hands. "Fuck you and your sick games."
But relief is a fickle bitch, isn't it? The buzz of my phone shattered the fragile peace, a text message lighting up the screen like a beacon of doom.
Watch your back, Celeste. If Gavin touches you, I swear I'll rip his fucking finger off and give you a taste of what real punishment feels like.
The words on the display seared into my mind, and I could almost hear the stalker's voice, low and menacing.
Wouldn't that be a treat?
I scoffed, the bitter humor failing to mask the ice in my veins. An image flashed before my eyes, the absurdity of it mingling with an undercurrent of dread.
Double penetration with severed body parts—is that supposed to scare me or turn me on?
Both
The stalker replied instantly, as if he'd heard my thoughts.
Remember, Celeste, every inch of you belongs to me now. Don't make me remind you.
Fuck off.
I snapped back, defiance rearing its head even as I hugged myself, the chill in the room nothing compared to the cold clasp of fear around my heart.
I sat there, naked in more than one sense, my skin marred by his initials—a brand of possession, a claim I couldn't scrub away. The city lights of Chicago twinkled mockingly outside my window, a world away from the darkness that enveloped me.
Betrayal looks good on you, sweetheart.
He added, his words a poisoned caress that made my skin crawl.
Revenge will look even better.
The promise of more twisted encounters hung between us like a guillotine blade, ready to drop. What would happen next? Hell, even I didn't know. But one thing was for sure: my relationship with my stalker was far from over, and the streets of Chicago were about to get a whole lot darker.
Chapter 9
Celeste
The morning light sliced through the blinds and stabbed me awake. I groaned, my head pounding like a jackhammer at a concrete convention, and for a wild second, I wished I could sink back into the darkness. But there it was—rearing its ugly head—the memory of last night.
"Shit," I muttered to myself, wincing in pain stretching out on the tangled sheets that were the only witnesses to my latest fuck up. My skin tingled with the ghost of his touch, the sensation both thrilling and terrifying. It felt like I was playing with fire, and not the cheap candle wax kind you find in those vanilla scented BDSM starter kits. No, this was the inferno that promised to consume everything.
I rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would somehow erase the images flashing through my mind. The stalker. My stalker. The one I had recklessly invited into my life with a photo—a damn photo that should’ve stayed buried in the 'never send' pile of my gallery.
"Brilliant move, Celeste," I chastised myself, sarcasm dripping from every word like acid. "because being an emotionally guarded artist isn't cliché enough, right? Gotta add 'potential victim in a psycho-thriller' to the resume."
But oh, the fantasy of it all—it had been intoxicating, the idea of being wanted with such intensity that someone would cross lines just to get close to me. And I had played along, willingly stepping into the role of the prey, thinking I could control the narrative. Isn't that what I did with my art, after all? Shape reality to match the chaos of my inner world?
Except paint doesn't send you creepy-ass messages and watch you sleep, you idiot. The reflection staring back at me from the mirror across the room seemed to agree, her eyes dull with the weight of what I'd done.
"Fuck," I sighed, pushing myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. It was like I was caught in some twisted dance, toes flirting with the edge of a cliff while my body swayed closer and closer to the drop.
Consent. The word felt foreign in my mind. I had consented to this game, hadn't I? Signed up for the adrenaline rush, the danger, the raw edge of desire that cut a little too deep. In the dim light of my bedroom, surrounded by canvases that screamed of my need to be seen, to be understood, I finally got it—I wasn't just flirting with disaster; I was fucking it, no protection in sight.
And now, as the sun dared to brighten the room, mocking my choices with its cheery rays, I realized how utterly screwed I was. Living out your darkest fantasies was supposed to be empowering, a reclaiming of the shadows that haunted you. Instead, I was left wondering if those same shadows might swallow me whole.
Welcome to the clusterfuck that is my life. Population: me, my stalker, and a whole lot of bad decisions.
The brush in my hand was a traitor, quivering like a damn leaf with every stroke. I smeared the crimson paint across the canvas, a feeble attempt to channel the chaos inside me into something beautiful, something that didn't scream Celeste Holloway, you've royally fucked up.
