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He waited until all the lights inside were extinguished. Waited longer until the cabin was swallowed by the inky blackness of the night. He waited until the only sounds were the whisper of the wind rattling through the leaves overhead and his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Only then did he push himself out of his prickly shelter, his every movement precise and controlled as he expertly navigated the dense undergrowth.
The moon hid behind thick clouds, casting everything into an even deeper darkness. It didn’t matter to him—he knew these woods like the back of his hand, knew each treacherous root and low-hanging branch that dared to obstruct his path.
It took only minutes to reach her doorstep, his gloved hand ghosting over the handle. Locked, of course. She had three locks, he knew, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He pulled out a lock pick kit from his pocket. He’d honed the skill over years of practice and had her locks opened in minutes.
The interior was as he imagined— quaint and claustrophobic, with an unmistakable feminine touch. The scent of her hung heavy in the air, a mix of vanilla and something uniquely Veronica. He breathed it in greedily. The smell was intoxicating, overwhelming his senses until he could taste it on his tongue.
His pulse quickened as he made his way to her bookshelf. The stacks of novels with candy-bright covers made his lips curl. He’d expected better from her than cheesy romantic comedies.
But there was one shelf with darker covers, the titles in sharper fonts. And one book hadn’t been pushed in all the way so that it was even with the others. He pulled it out and traced the spine as she had.
The Shadows Within by Connelly Davis.
He exhaled a quiet laugh.
It was perfect.
He slid the book back into place and moved deeper into the cabin.
Her scent became stronger, more pervasive as he neared what must be her room. The door was slightly ajar. He peeked inside, careful not to make any noise. Not that it mattered. She was an insomniac, but he knew once she finally passed out, she was a heavy sleeper.
The room was small and cozy, dominated by a queen-sized bed with rumpled sheets. Her sleeping form was just visible under the covers, rising and falling gently with every breath she took.
He paused in the doorway, his heart pounding with anticipation. He wanted to go to her, to touch her. Yet, he knew better. It was not the time. He needed to remain patient, to wait for the moment when everything would be perfect.
He turned away from her room and prowled through the rest of her tiny cabin. A small stack of pictures caught his attention, resting on a coffee table in her living room. They were mostly old photos of her and a man who looked enough like her to be her father. The younger Veronica had a radiant smile that seemed foreign to the woman he had been watching religiously.
In one picture, she was wearing a cap and gown, standing next to a different man. Or, boy, really. Floppy dark hair, dark eyes, a wide grin aimed at the camera, his arm slung around Veronica’s shoulders as if he had every right to touch her. The neat writing on the back of the photo said, Veronica and Connelly, graduation, 2012.
Connelly?
Like the author of that book?
A surge of possessiveness swept over him, and he shoved the picture away, spilling the rest of them onto the floor.
Nausea crept up his throat as he stared down at the scattered photos. The bastard was in almost all of them. Another photo was more recent—Veronica seated with Connelly, both in Air Force blues, their heads tilted towards each other as they laughed at an inside joke. The chemistry between them was palpable, even in a static image.
Had they been lovers?
The thought filled him with a fury so intense he felt sure he would combust. He crumpled the picture in his fist. After a few deep breaths, he stuffed it into his pocket. He couldn’t leave it behind now, or she’d realize someone had been in her space.
He’d overstayed his welcome.
He methodically returned the other photos to the exact place he’d found them on the coffee table, then scanned to make sure he hadn’t left anything else of himself behind.
At the last moment, he walked back to the bookshelf and grabbed the book. Taking it was a risk, but he had to know more. Had to understand what drew Veronica so fervently to it, what tied her to this Connelly guy.
And if stealing the book made her uneasy, made her think she wasn’t alone, all the better. That just made this little game of theirs all the more thrilling.
chapter three
Connelly Davis stared at the blank computer screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’d been sitting at his makeshift desk in the cabin for hours, the cursor blinking tauntingly on the empty page. His gaze strayed to the lush redwoods just outside his window. The tall trees were shrouded in mist, their ancient branches casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. It was the kind of atmosphere that had always inspired his best work, but today, it only seemed to mock him.
Connelly closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair. Three months at this secluded cabin on the California coast, and he had barely written a chapter. The acclaimed horror writer who had chilled readers with tales of demons, possession, and things that went bump in the night was facing his own worst nightmare…
Writer’s block.
He tapped the keyboard, attempting to start a new paragraph, but the words felt hollow, the sentences disjointed.
