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The man keeps walking forward into the mist and stops, back to me.
Then out of the fog comes a shadow, a tall man in a long coat.
The two of them have a conversation, lit by the fog lights from the car.
The tall man keeps looking my way, and it’s then that I know for sure it’s the man I saw under the streetlight in Upper Haight.
My stalker.
But when he starts striding toward me, his coat flowing behind him, followed by my driver, that’s when I realize the truth.
And the truth feels like horror.
In the wavering headlights his face comes into focus.
The face that once took my breath away, that compelled me to follow him like a hound after a scent.
My stalker is the sexy-suit man.
They are one and the same.
How could I have been so stupid?
How could one person give me such separate feelings, fear and terror in one version of him, and desire and lust in the other?
It doesn’t really matter now though.
The lust and desire are gone.
All I feel is fear.
He walks toward the car, eyes on me the whole time as if he can clearly see me, his strides elegant and powerful, like a panther. The graceful walk before they pounce.
I’m trapped in the back of the car, beaten, the driver offering me to him like freshly caught prey.
Is there a point where I’ll chew my own leg off to escape?
He stops outside the back window, crouching forward, hands on his thighs, peering in at me.
His gaze meets mine and I don’t think I can move, even if I wanted to, even if I had a plan. His expression is darkening by the moment, his bright blue eyes turning cold, dark arched brows furrowing together in a hard line.
Suddenly he opens the door, as if it’s been unlocked this whole time, and every part of me wants to jump back but I can’t move, my limbs frozen in place like the nerves aren’t communicating with my brain.
He comes halfway inside to look at me, and the closer he comes, annoyance flitting over his brow, the less I can breathe, like my lungs have stopped working too.
He frowns at my face, meets my eyes for a moment with an expression I can’t read, then ducks out of the car.
“Disgraceful,” he says to the driver, eyes cutting into him. “I specifically said not to touch her.”
His voice makes my body erupt in goosebumps—a low, rich baritone with an elegant edge and a slight British tinge that sinks into me like a shot of strong alcohol. Completely at odds with the rest of me that’s high on adrenaline, trying to battle through the constant fear.
“I had to,” the driver mumbles. “She tried to attack me, crash the car. Look.” He points to his eye.
“There’s nothing there,” the stalker says calmly. “Anything else go wrong?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir? Oh, Ezra, you’re finding your manners again. Why did I think I could send a boy to do a man’s job?”
Ezra. Okay, so the driver has a name. That’s helpful.
Although what’s not helpful is the fact that they’re using names, no masks, nothing to disguise themselves. Which means no matter what they have planned for me, whether beating me up is on the menu or not, they definitely don’t intend to let me live.
“Sorry,” Ezra says, even though he doesn’t sound like he means it.
My heart sinks, down, down, down.
They’re going to kill me here, aren’t they?
The stalker turns his attention back to me.
Stares at me.
Eyes so hypnotic that I can’t look away.
What do you want with me? I ask in my head.
A corner of his mouth curls up, as if he heard my thought.
“Are you sure it’s her?” Ezra asks.
He nods slowly, the abbreviated smile staying. “I do now.”
Then he leans into the car, large hands reaching for my bare thighs, his skin cold as it makes contact with mine, then quickly heating up. “I just don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.”
I try to yelp, to scream, to make some kind of sound, but it’s caught in my throat, and as he grips my thighs, his fingers powerful and bruising my tender flesh, I’m still completely powerless.
He moves me so that I’m twisted around, facing him, though without the full backrest, I’m slumped forward.
He reaches out and puts his hand at the back of my neck, holding tight, cold and hot, my skin feeling like I’m jumping from ice water into a fire. He makes me keep my head up, makes me look at him.
“Lenore,” he says, staring deep into my eyes, and my name sounds like silk on his lips, and I hate that it makes me feel that way. I hate this man, hate what he’s going to do to me, hate that he’s going to take me away from everything I know and love, hate that he’s going to ruin me first before he deprives me of life.
