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Her father was my primary target before I caught sight of her a few weeks ago.
Since then, I’ve been fixated on her. Somewhere along the way, that fixation has morphed into something else. Something deeper. Darker.Vital.
I shake my head. Fuck it. It’s time to accept this thing. Do something about it.
“No. I want you to bring her to me. Today.”
* * *
Skye
My feet hurt.But it’s a pain I welcome.
Pain means I’ve given it my all. Pain means I’d been given another chance to do the one thing I craved above all.
Pain also means I’m exhausted enough to fall asleep tonight without tossing and turning, without nightmares or wondering whether I’m good enough. Whether I will ever get over my fear.
The nightmares started when Mom left, and they haven’t gotten any better despite years of therapy. But my other issue started long before then.
I’m beginning to accept that I’ll never get overthatone.
I sigh under my breath and hitch my backpack higher onto my shoulder.
I’m three blocks from home and although I know I shouldn’t, eating my feelings with a greasy pepperoni pizza and Netflix after I’ve showered is a temptation I won’t be able to resist.
Mrs. Olsteen will probably berate me if I put on another pound, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’m destined for Broadway anytime soon. Not with my unique set of issues.
So, hell yes to pizza and Netflix tonight—
My pleasant thoughts scatter and I yelp when a sleek black SUV brakes sharply next to me.
Tinted windows obscure the occupants from view, but the cold flare of panic tells me I’m the reason the vehicle stopped.
Self-preservation kicks in but I unfreeze a moment too late. The doors fly open and three giant men step out. Two remain next to the car but the tallest, meanest-lookingMen in Blackwannabe approaches me.
“Miss Michaels?” His voice is gravel-rough, as if he barely uses it.
“Y-yes?” I hate that my voice quivers, but I’ve led a sheltered life, my interaction with the opposite sex, minimal.
I was brought up mostly by nannies and went to an all-girls school. My parents allowed me to go to ballet school five blocks away only because the class was all female, as was the instructor, Mrs. Olsteen.
Before I turned nineteen two months ago, Dad’s old driver, Chez, was the only other male I interacted with when he ferried me to and from ballet.BeforeI finally put my foot down and advocated for my independence.
At first Dad refused.
We fought about it for weeks and at one point I feared it would permanently damage our already precarious relationship.
Then weirdly overnight, Dad gave in. No explanation. No warning. Just distractedly announcing over breakfast that I could start making my own way to and from ballet class if I wanted.
I suspected that whatever was on his mind had pushed him into letting me have my way more than my argument had.
Whatever the reason, the last month of freedom has been bliss, even though I hate the lingering stares I get from men when I walk to and from the dance studio.
I try to ignore it, but the way they check out my tits and leer at my ass whenever I wear my tights weirds me out a lot.
This guy isn’t looking at me like that, thank God, but his bulk and the intent in his eyes worries me all the same.
“H-how do you know my name?” I stammer.
