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He taunted.
Bring it on, asshole.
I shot back, defiance surging through my veins. If it was a war he wanted, then a goddamn war he'd get. But not at Gavin's expense. No, I'd find a way to shield him from the crossfire, even if it meant walking straight into the lion's den myself.
A bead of sweat trickled down my temple as his words flashed on my phone screen.
Someone has to pay, Celeste. And unfortunately for you blood's the only currency I deal in."
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a manic energy bubbling up from my core. "Okay, you twisted psycho," I muttered under my breath, tapping out my response.
Let's play your sick fucking game, then.
If it was blood he wanted, I'd find a way to draw it without spilling Gavin's.
Stalker says.
I typed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I’ll do whatever you command for the next ten messages. But you say 'stalker says' first, or no dice.
Silence stretched on for an eternity, the ticking of the clock above my mantelpiece sounding like a time bomb counting down to my undoing. Then the three dots appeared, taunting me, and finally his message:
Stalker says—game on.
"Fuck me sideways," I whispered, adrenaline surging through my veins. This had to be the most insane thing I'd ever done—and considering my life lately, that was saying something.
My phone vibrated again, and I almost dropped it in my rush to read his first demand.
Stalker says, get naked.
I glanced around my studio, a sickening cocktail of arousal and revulsion churning in my stomach. My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my shirt, fingers fumbling as I pulled it over my head.
"You're a sicko," I breathed, balling it up and casting it aside. My bra followed, revealing my large, aching breasts that were already tipped with hardened nipples. I couldn't deny the thrill that curled through me as I slid my black lace panties down my trembling legs, leaving me in nothing.
I nervously snapped a picture of myself in my birthday suit. The camera click sounded like a gunshot in the silence. "You wanted a show? Now watch closely, stalker."
My thumb hovered over the send button, and for a split second, I wondered if this was truly it—the point of no return. With a snarl, I mashed the button. I was tired of being the victim. If I was going to hell, I'd drag this bastard down with me.
Your move, puppeteer.
I texted, baring my teeth at the silent phone. Let him pull the strings; I'd find a way to sever them, one by one.
Stalker says perch on the edge.
It was like a command from the devil himself. I bit down on my lip, tasting blood as I positioned myself on the arm of the sofa, that familiar ache building with every second. My body was a traitor, responding to the twisted game with a shameful eagerness.
Stalker says film it.
Came the next message, and I begrudgingly obliged, my hands shaky as I propped up my phone. This wasn't just about Gavin anymore; this was a perverse dance for survival, each step choreographed by a madman.
Good girl.
He praised through message. With each passing moment, my apartment, once a sanctuary filled with canvases and dreams, morphed into a stage set for my humiliation.
Stalker says pick up the kitchen knife.
The cold handle sent an involuntary shudder through me as I gripped it. The thought of what was coming next made me want to vomit – or maybe it was the fact that some sick part of me didn't entirely hate it.
