Page 7 of Depraved

But I suspect if I’d been strong enough, I would’ve done it myself.

I’ve murdered before. Some primal part of me will do anything to survive.

I shudder and curl into a tight ball.

I have no one to turn to, no one to talk to. There’s no way to purge the tumultuous emotions that ravage my psyche.

I glance at my phone where it rests on the coffee table.

The closest person I have to a friend is Amala, and she barely knows me. How could I even begin to tell her about my dead stalker? How could I tell her about my kinky affair with my online masked man? And the fact that I slept with our professor?

The only person I’ve been able to trust has been Rand. I didn’t even fully trust him when I knew him as Bones.

A stupid, weak part of me longs for his company. I want him to hold me and promise me that I’m not alone anymore.

We share so many clandestine secrets now: my depraved sexual predilections; my forbidden affair with him, my professor; and the fact that there’s a dead stalker in his house.

As though I’ve summoned him with my traitorous longing, a soft knock taps on my door.

I know it’s him.

I unlock my arms from around my knees where they’re pressed to my chest and trudge the short distance across my lounge.

When the door swings open, his dark eyes flare with something like relief, but his perfectly chiseled features are still drawn tight with anxiety.

“Karolina.” He rumbles my name.

My real name.

The sound of it makes my heart twist.

Not alone.

I shake my head slightly to clear it. I’m nowhere near ready to throw myself into his arms.

“You owe me an explanation.” I try to sound terse, but my voice is strained.

“That’s why I’m here. Can I come in? Please.”

I take a step back, giving him plenty of space to enter without brushing his body against mine. The slightest physical contact might break my resolve.

His eyes flick over me, noting my pebbled skin. I’m chilled down to my bones, despite the ambient temperature.

“I’ll make some tea,” he asserts. “You’re cold.”

I scoff. “As if you even like tea. You’re not British. That accent was fake.”

He winces. “Coffee, then.”

I shake my head again. “Explain. Now.”

His expression hardens to the stern mask that makes something distinctly feminine swoon inside me. I straighten my spine and resist it.

“Sit,” he commands, his tone dropping to that deep register that has me obeying before I can think better of it.

I drop down onto my sofa, relieved to allow my weak knees to give way. I’m still shaken after my stalker’s attack. I could’ve died only half an hour ago.

And that was mere hours after the man almost drowned me.