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I can’t seem to get Willow out of my mind.
It makes sense, since I’m doing this because of her, but I’m not thinking about her being followed.
I’m thinking about her in our home. Standing in the shadows of the hallway, watching Malice as he fucked that woman in the living room.
I’m thinking about the heat I could feel coming off her small, delicate body, and the way I could see her pulse point flickering with every beat of her heart.
It makes my cock harden in my pants just picturing it.
I’ve never slept with a woman before. Never wanted to. I can deal with my body’s needs just fine on my own. There’s something simple and uncomplicated about jerking off, following the motions and doing the things I know for sure work for me. I can make myself orgasm easily enough, and there’s nothing random or illogical about my process.
I’ve never desired a woman before. Never craved one. Malice brings random women home often, and Ransom always has ladies staring at him with lustful expressions on their faces. But I’ve been content to stick to my routines, never feeling like I’m missing out on anything.
Until now.
Willow makes me want something that no one else ever has before.
Giving in to a sudden urge, I switch away from the images of the possible stalker on my main screen, cutting over to the camera feed from Willow’s apartment. There’s a burning need under my skin to see her, and I let that impulse take over for a moment, flipping through the different feeds until I find her.
It’s dark in her apartment, and she’s in bed, asleep. I toggle the right camera to zoom in on her face, taking in the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, the way her lips are slightly parted.
She looks soft and comfortable, her sleep unbothered by nightmares or unsettling dreams, despite the night she had.
I click to zoom in even more, but I’m already at the limits of the camera. Frustration rises inside me, because it’s not enough. I can see her just fine, but it’s not close enough. It’s notrealenough.
I want to be there in person, to see her face and smell her light, floral scent. I want to hear the little sighs she makes as she breathes. All those little things that the camera can’t pick up.
For a moment, I sit still, my hands clenched into fists, trying to ride it out. But the compulsion has a hold of me, and now that I’ve fixated on wanting to see her, I can’t get it out of my head.
The camera in the living room needs to be adjusted, I think.Or I need to add another one.
When Willow started to pack up her apartment into boxes, I didn’t notice them at first because of the angle of the camera I placed in the living room. If I had seen them, maybe we would’ve realized earlier that there was something wrong, some upheaval in Willow’s life.
It’s a flimsy excuse, but it satisfies the logical part of my brain. Decision made, I get up from the desk and go to my closet, grabbing a small bag of tools. Then I pad downstairs to the garage and slide into my car, pulling out and navigating the streets with quick efficiency until I reach Willow’s apartment.
I haven’t been here since I installed the cameras that first night—not in person, anyway—but the routine is the same as it was then. Her lock clicks open under my tools, and the familiar sound soothes something in my brain.
I creep into her apartment, closing the door behind me, and scan the living room, searching for the perfect place to put another camera. I finally settle on hiding one near the corner by the TV, which will give me a more complete view of the room. With my task complete, I could leave… but instead, I follow the path I know by heart to her room.
She’s sleeping deeply, the bedroom quiet except for the soft sighs of her exhales. Clearly, she’s gotten hot in her long-sleeved shirt and pants because she’s kicked the covers off of her in her sleep. Her shirt is riding up, showing off a stretch of her skin.
I take in the sight of that stretch with an odd sort of hunger, devouring it with my eyes. She’s pale and pretty, and there’s a little freckle right where her waistband meets her stomach.
On one side, there’s a stretch of scar tissue, and I lean in closer to get a better look at the marks. They’re deep and old, healed already, but the kind of scars that will never go away. I study them for a bit, trying to create some sense of order out of them. Trying to find a pattern in them that will explain their origin or why they’re there.
But there’s nothing.
No matter how many times I run my eyes over the marks, they stay the same. Purely chaotic. Just like this girl.
So why do I like them?
Why do I likeher?
Chaos sets my teeth on edge. It makes me feel like there’s a swarm of angry wasps rattling around in my head. Usually, the only thing for that kind of feeling is to start counting or to find some routine that takes my mind off whatever kicked my world off its axis.
But right now, I just wantmoreof that chaos, and it’s an odd feeling.
I jerk my eyes away from her body and step away from her bed altogether, looking around the room.
