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“But that’s all I can think about. You’re all I can fucking think about. Maiming your body in such a way that you’re branded as mine forever. I want to stand back when I’m done with you and watch your blood drip for me. Little one, I want to take you so fucking high that you beg for my blade. You take up every cavern in my brain. Every nook and fucking cranny is filled with images of you; filthy, depraved images that make my cock ache. You think I want this? You think I want to be here? You’ve done this to me! You’ve done this to yourself!”
His words have gotten louder as he’s gone on, but he lets go of my throat, forgetting me altogether. He’s pacing my room. But that’s when I see it. There’s a blade, and it’s haphazardly shoved down the back of his dark pants. Its steel gleams in the moonlight, promising pain. Promising an end.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice cracking.
He stops and turns, eyes taking me in, as if he’s sobered. As if someone’s doused him in cold water.
“Are you?” he asks. It’s almost so low I can’t hear it.
I nod rapidly.
“Or,” he says, “are you afraid of this?” He pulls the massive blade from his pants. When he moves toward me, he moves with purpose. There is a dominating presence about him, and I await his orders. To spare my throat, I’ll do just about anything. I still, as much as possible. When the cold, sharp tip pinches my neck, I stiffen, body shaking with fear as a whimper escapes.
“So, which is it? Are you sorry? Or are you afraid?”
He leans in, awaiting my answer, and my body heats again, betraying me and confusing me in one swift chess move.
“I’m afraid,” I finally admit.
He smirks. “That and aroused. I can almost smell it on the air, little one.”
His pet name for me coils thrill through me like those first few moments at the top of a roller coaster before the drop; before the descent that’ll pin your stomach in your throat.
I elongate my neck, pressing into his blade and faking nerves of steel. I’m getting fed up with being anxious. He snarls as I bare more flesh to him.
“Do it. If you’re going to kill me, fucking get it over with,” I tell him, venom oozing from my tone.
“And risk not getting to play with you first? What kind of man would I be if I did that, hmm?”
He skims the tip of the blade down my pulse point that’s battering the inside of my throat. My body wars with itself. It can’t decide if we want him to touch us, or if we want him to go away so that we can call the cops.
Ryker had me do a report on the stalker, but after they checked the perimeter, they’d acted like they didn’t believe me. And who would? Ryker’s police detail stayed a day, and then he’d sighted that the cameras would do their job. But somehow, he’s here, flesh and bone, and in front of me, and my system hasn’t alerted Ryker, despite the fact that he has the same app on his phone I do.
“Your heart is racing,” he whispers, leaning down and pressing his ear against my throat and dropping the blade down next to his side. I find a point on the ceiling and fixate on it, blocking out my body’s obvious response to his proximity.
But when his hand rises and rubs over my breast, his ear that’s pressed firmly to my throat surely doesn’t miss the moan that escapes. Or the way I arch toward him. The scene changes and he pinches my nipple between his fingers, causing me to yelp. He lifts his head, lips grazing mine.
“Do you feel that? That line you’re straddling between pain and pleasure. That’s what you make me feel.” He pinches again, and it leaves behind a sting. The pain swiftly melds into a primal desire deep in my belly, and I groan. My voice carries through the room, and it doesn’t even sound like mine anymore.
“Please,” I beg. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Any sane person would ask for their life. They’d ask to be left in one piece.
“Hide from me,” he says, backing away. His eyes are alight with something ominous and dark, but there’s also excitement in them. I think I can see arousal, too.
“What?” I ask, quirking a brow.
“Run. Hide from me, little one. Don’t let me find you!” he orders. “Because if I find you, you’ll regret it.”
Before I can even fathom the words or their meaning, my feet launch me into motion. My brain works to catch up, feeding me places in the house I might be able to hide.
The basement? No, I won’t have anywhere to get away if I need to. The attic is scary as fuck.
He’s scary as fuck!
My brain has a point. But it seems equally stupid to climb the squeaky ass stairs to the attic and box myself in that high up. My heart is racing as I look for somewhere to hide, and I’m getting frustrated. Too overwhelmed. Tears sting as I rush downstairs and shove myself into the closet by the front door and sift through thick blankets on hangers and jackets to get behind them. Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I flatten myself against the wall, trying to be as flush as I can.
If only I could turn invisible.
I can’t deny that part of me wants him to find me. The other part scolds that part for being a fucking moron. And around and around the two parts argue as I grow increasingly anxious.
