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"Fuck," I hissed, my cigarette tumbling to the ground, a smoldering casualty of this fucked-up encounter. I strained against the bindings, but they only tightened, digging into my flesh with every futile twist.
"Easy, Celeste. You're not ready to see me. Not yet." The voice was a dark caress, a whisper of danger that sent shivers down my spine despite the anger boiling in my veins.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I spat out, my heart hammering in my chest like it wanted to burst free and flee the scene without me. "Tying me up like some damsel in a fucking B-movie? You've got another thing coming, buddy."
"Shh," he hushed me like he was calming a fucking spooked horse, his breath hot on my ear. It was condescending, unnerving, and inexplicably... intimate. His presence loomed over me, unseen yet unmistakable. "The game's just getting started."
"Game? This isn't some twisted foreplay, asshole. And I'm sure as hell not playing." My words were laced with venom, yet somewhere deep inside, curiosity gnawed at me. Who was this guy who dared to push me so far?
"Patience," he murmured, and I could almost hear the smirk in his tone. "You'll get your answers. But for now, let's keep a little mystery between us, shall we?"
"Keep your fucking mystery," I growled. Why did every part of this sick scenario feel like something ripped from the pages of my darkest sketches?
A fresh wave of panic surged through me as I realized the gravity of the situation. But as I stood there, pinned between the cold wall and the heat of my unseen captor, something weird short-circuited in my brain. The fear that should've been flooding my veins got all tangled up with this...thrill. Sick, right? Here I was caught in a real-life horror show that was doing confusing things to my pulse.
"Invite me into your house, Celeste." His voice was low, almost gentle, but it held an edge of steel that made me want to both knee him in the balls and lean back against his strength.
"Invite you?" I choked out a laugh that sounded more hysterical than I intended. "You're out of your goddamn mind."
"It’s the only way to keep you safe," he insisted, and I could feel the vibration of his words against my neck. This guy was definitely not your garden-variety stalker. He had rules. Rituals. And apparently, a fucked-up sense of chivalry.
"Safe from what? You?" I shot back, trying to sound tough, despite the shiver that betrayed me. "Because let me tell you, buddy, bondage isn't exactly my go-to for a sense of security."
"Trust me, Celeste. I'm not the one you need protection from," he pressed, his breath brushing against the shell of my ear, sending a shockwave straight to places that had no business waking up right now.
"Ha! Trust you?" My laugh was sharp, bitter. "I don't even know you, creep. For all I know, you're the kind of psycho who keeps toenail clippings as souvenirs."
“Guess you'll have to take the risk," he drawled.
What the hell was wrong with me?
"Fine. Whatever. Come by and pick up your fucking 'World's Worst Stalker' award anytime," I spat, the words tasting like acid and arousal in my mouth. "Just let me go me and get lost."
His arousal was palpable, a dark energy that fed the twisted part of me I kept hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and brushstrokes. This game, this dangerous tango of wills, was it leading me down a path from which there was no return?
"Say it clearly, Celeste. I need to hear you say it," he demanded, voice rough like gravel and just as uncompromising.
"Fine! I give you permission to enter my house." The words fell from my lips, heavy with a mix of resignation and a sick, forbidden excitement. The air between us crackled with the power of the admission, sealing some unspoken pact.
No sooner had the invitation left my mouth than his presence vanished, as if he were nothing more than a figment of my overactive, fucked-up imagination. But I knew better. He was real—too real—and now he had an all-access pass to my life.
With my wrists finally free of the ropes I spun around to find nothing but empty space where he'd stood. Not even a goddamn shadow remained. How the hell did he manage that? Was he some sort of magician-stalker hybrid?
The alley was silent except for the distant sounds of the city—a car alarm, the faint echo of music spilling from the bar. I rubbed my wrists, the ghost of the friction reminding me of the very real danger I had just flirted with.
Great job, Celeste. Invite the creepy-ass stalker home. What could possibly go wrong? I scoffed at myself, the bitterness coating my tongue like the ash from my abandoned cigarette. This wasn't just about being watched anymore; it was about control, and I had a sinking feeling I'd just surrendered more of mine than I could afford to lose.
With a shaky exhale, I pushed off the brick wall and headed back toward Inferno's flickering sign, my mind racing with what-ifs and maybes. I was walking into a storm, armed with nothing but defiance and the foolish hope that I could somehow navigate through the darkness that followed me.
I stepped back into the pulsing heat of Inferno, my ears instantly assaulted by the throbbing bass of some pop song remixed into an epileptic beat. The carefree energy grated against my rattled nerves. I needed a drink, maybe several, to take the edge off and quiet the alarm bells clanging through my whiskey-soaked brain.
Wading through the sea of writhing bodies glittered in body paint and rainbow mesh, I caught a few lingering stares from nearby people. I probably looked like I'd just stumbled out of a back-alley rave gone wrong. Or seen a ghost. If they only knew how close to the truth that was.
I claimed the last empty barstool, gesturing for the bartender's attention. He sauntered over, his gaze boldly appraising me in a way that might've been flattering if my skin didn't still crawl with the memory of those phantom restraints.
"Rough night?" he asked, nodding at the angry red welts circling my wrists.
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "You could say that."
