How many times has he replayed that scene? How many times has he touched himself to it? What sounds did he make when he came? Did he groan or growl? Did he break with my name on his lips? If he did, which one?
The neon butterfly smirks at me, mocking me with its silent glow. Then the mask vanishes, but the smirk stays, one I’m so irritably familiar with. Tristan’s.
No. My eyes twitch as I shake the intrusive flickers of his face off my head.I won’t go there.I reprimand myself as if masturbating to a killer is acceptable but to my bodyguard is an unforgivable sin.
Frustration huffs out of my lips. If I crave a villain, why do I not stick to the harmless ink-on-paper kind? If I desire a hero, why do I not rely on fiction to deliver one who isn’t morally gray?
But it’s not about the choice between villains and heroes. The truth is, I’m tired of fantasies. What I crave is something real. Butterfly Man is real. Tristan is real.
Jacob is real, too. Why is he not an option? He’s good, handsome, sexy, gentleman on the street, freak in the sheets and has proved he’d do anything—
“Don’t stop.” A strained whisper rips the silence as shadows congeal and take form beside me.
A gasp rips out of my throat as my heartbeat bursts my chest. Eyes wide, I jolt to open the lights, but forceful weight pins me to the mattress. Arms flailing, I open my mouth to scream.
My voice clashes against a firm grip unheard. The scent of leather fills my nostrils, and my wrists are squeezed together above my head. I kick as hard as I can, but my strength is nothing against the weight rendering me immobile.
My eyes squint to adjust to the dark in hopes of making out any details about him. A shadow around his head. A hoodie perhaps. His face and figure are a silhouette of black. I can’t see the glint of his eyes or the outline of his features. There’s only a flicker of a color where his breaths come out. He must be wearing a mask. Butterfly Man’s mask. Exactly how I’ve pictured him, except the butterfly isn’t glowing.
“No, darling. No kicking, no screaming, none of that,” the voice rasps, low and gruff and menacing, but, a part of me notices, it doesn’t threaten me, not outright anyway. “You’ll be a good girl for me and stay quiet. No need to tell anyone our little secret. I’m not here to hurt you. I never will. You know that. But I won’t hesitate to hurt anyone who stands in the way between us, like those bodyguards…”
Panic floods my system as the reality of the situation crashes over me. He’s here. Butterfly man has found a way to break into my house again. That breath I’ve heard… He’s been here in my bedroom all this time, watching me, and now, he’s pinning me down to my bed in the middle of the night, threatening to kill anyone I ask for help. Shuddering, I try to lie very still.
“Good. Now, if I take my hand off your mouth, do you promise not to scream?”
How can I make that promise? I should scream. I should fight.
His fingers tighten around my jaw, stabbing and smothering. Then a click echoes above my head, and cold metal scrapesagainst my flesh. It’s a gun. He has a gun in the hand holding my wrists. “Do you?”
Frantically, I nod. It’s best to play along for now, to pacify him. When the protagonist is more clever than strong, this is how they outwit the antagonist. I turn into an easily squashable little mouse to get Butterfly Man to show off his power. Then I find a chink in his armor, a flaw to exploit, or a need I make him believe I’ll fulfill.
All I need is time.
Soon enough Tristan will spot Butterfly Man on the cameras. My bodyguard will assess the risks and come with enough men and firepower to save me without getting caught in the crossfire. No one should die tonight. Neither Tristan and his men nor my stalker.
Not yet.
“Good girl.” He releases my face but keeps his gloved hand near my throat.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. They collide with the calm and steady exhales seeping out of him. “There are cameras in the room. They can see you, and they’ll come in any second now.”
“No, they can’t see us, darling. All that’s playing on their monitors is you alone in this bed, sound asleep.”
Cold sweat trickles down my back. “You hacked it?”
“And your knight isn’t the one standing outside your door either. He’s out, leaving yourprotectionin the hands of his team. So don’t worry, darling. No one will interrupt our time together tonight.”
Oh God. Tristan isn’t here, and the rest of my bodyguards think I’m sleeping safely in my room. The only way to get help is to scream, and someone will end up dead.
“Even if they could see me, they couldn’t stop me,” he whispers, the bed sinking on either side of me, and the weight on top of me shifts but not enough for me to move. I think about wriggling my way out of bed anyway. Blake’s gun is in my dresser drawer. If I get to it, I—
Swiftly, as if my stalker could read my mind, he cages my thighs in between his knees, killing my plan. “No one can stop me from having you, Reagan.”
I curse the way my name sounds so sinful and sacred all at once on his tongue. His words are marred by the darkness his soul embraces so willingly, dangerous and toxically alluring. His voice, a deep, velvety timbre, wraps around my heart and squeezes ever so gently.
“Reagan,” he repeats, as if savoring the sound, the air between us thickening. “You’ve been a very, very naughty girl.” He switches the gun from the hand holding my wrists to his free one. “A date with another man when I move heaven and earth, delivering the souls that have wronged you to their hell? And this bullshit you had him say to the whole country? Do you know what happens to naughty girls like you?”
“You’re angry,” I breathe.
