Page 69 of Look What You Made Me Do

Inching my fingers higher, I explore his narrow hips, his navel, and the ropes of muscle that outline his torso. It’s wild that anyone could be this hot in real life. Lucas might be an asshole, but his body is a work of art—all tanned skin and hard muscle, dusted with flecks of delicate blond hair. And I’m betting he has the same fat percentage as a slab of marble.

Biting my bottom lip, I continue my study of this exceptional specimen, my fingertips sliding over his skin, causing goosebumps to erupt in their wake. His nipples tighten, and his head moves a little, a faint moan escaping from his parted lips.

I pause, watching him. It’s too early for the drug to have worn off, but then again, I just kinda guessed on the dosage. So I wait a few seconds, and when he doesn’t move again, I carry on with my exploration.

My hand travels across his collarbone, over the swell of his muscular bicep, then down his arm to the mess of boho surfer bracelets he always wears. I’m looking at each one individually, wondering if they have some kind of special meaning when Inotice something on the inside of his wrist, partially covered by the bracelets.

It’s a scar—a single red line that starts at the base of his palm and runs upward about three inches. I’ve seen this scar before. On Gabriel. And on the masked man…

No.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I drop his hand like it’s radioactive, scrambling off the bed. What the fuck…? I stand there staring at him, trying to make sense of what I just saw, but I can’t.

How can two people have the exact same scar?

No, no, no.

I feel nauseous, and my mind fights against what I already suspect. Lucas is my stalker. I mean, it makes sense. He knew Gabriel’s nickname for me, they have the same coloring, the same build, and now the scar…

With my mind a jumble, I do the only thing that makes sense—I look for irrefutable proof to confirm my suspicions.

In a frenzy, I search through everything in Lucas’ room—his desk, his drawers, his cabinets. I finally find what I’m looking for in his huge walk-in closet. Shoved on a bottom shelf next to his shoes is a black gym bag.

Pulling the bag out into the middle of the closet, I unzip it carefully. Right off the bat, I see a knife, a leather lock-picking case, a black ski mask, and zip ties. Everything my stalker used to get into my apartment and subdue me…

Standing abruptly, I try to pull in a breath, but it feels like a ten-ton weight is sitting on my chest. I can’t expand my lungs. It feels like a panic attack coming on.

Could Lucas really do something like this?Why?

My mind is swirling around that thought, trying to make sense of what I just saw, when I hear something out in the bedroom—aclicklike a window closing.

Oh, my God. Is awake? Already?

Ziping the bag quickly, I shove it back onto the shelf, then make my way back to the bedroom. It’s dark and there’s a gentle ocean breeze drifting in from the open patio door. That definitely wasn’t open before. Maybe the wind blew it open?

From where I’m standing, I can see Lucas lying in the same position I left him in, so I move closer, swallowing past the knot of fear that’s lodged in my throat. I’m terrified. This is so fucked up. But as I get closer, I can see Lucas is now unconscious. His head is turned toward me, eyes closed, mouth open slightly.

But on his chest is a white flower.

I stare at it, blinking, convinced I’m seeing things. Stepping closer, I reach out and pluck the fragrant bloom off his chest.

Gardenia.

The same flower my stalker left for me. Buthow?

A million questions race through my mind, but before I can even isolate one, a warm puff of breath brushes across the shell of my ear. Ice-cold fear trickles down my spine, and I can’t move. I’m trapped inside my own body.

“You still smell like gardenia,” a voice whispers harshly, smoothing my hair over my shoulder. I feel cold steel pressed against my neck. “Did you miss me, Pretty Thing?”

Swallowing, I gather every last ounce of strength I have and turn my head, confirming what I already know. There’s a dead man holding a knife to my throat…

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