Page 6 of Claiming Sarah

I approach Mr. Martin’s head, cupping the mice in one hand and squeezing his mouth open with another. His struggles renew, face jerking side to side. I don’t wait for an opportune moment, tossing one of the mice down.

Sheba strikes and Gerald screams. Mouth stretched wide, teeth buried in Mr. Martin’s face, she closes the lower half of her mouth, swallowing the mouse. She undulates, retracting her teeth, and her long tail forms a barrier bracketing his head. Her slitted pupils focus on the remaining portion of her meal.

With a wink and a smile, I drop the other one into Mr. Martin’s open mouth. Quick as ever, Sheba shoots into theopen cavern, chasing the mouse, tail disappearing the farther she slithers down his throat. His entire body jerks up and down, eyes leaking blood. Maybe in another life, he’ll think twice before touching what isn’t his.

Paralyzed with a snake and mouse sliding down his throat, wide, terror-filled eyes latch onto me, silently pleading for mercy.

“Show no mercy.”

I close his mouth for him, using a free hand to snatch up a blade. If possible, his eyes widen further. It’s possible for Sheba to bite her way out, but that’s no way to treat a treasured pet. I’ll have to cut my girl free. Starting at an approximate point below the sternum, I slice down, cutting through the material of his shirt. His naked flesh wasn’t something I wanted to look at for a week straight, so I’d left him clothed.

Pale flesh glows, beckoning my blade. My eyes land on the bulge in his throat. No, it’s best I start there. With the paralytic venom, he shouldn’t feel a thing. Positioning the tip of my blade below the chin, my hand applies pressure, blood welling from the cut. Holding his head steady with my free hand, I cut straight down, pressing deeper when I don’t immediately see muscle and sinew.

When the rippling column of his throat is visible, I lessen the pressure on the scalpel’s sharp edge. It appears I’ll have to get my hands dirty. Discarding the scalpel, I shove one hand inside the deep cut, trailing a finger down, following the trail of Sheba’s tail until I reach her head. I punch through the thin barrier separating me and my beauty, letting her twist and slither up my hand, sliding along my forearm. After she coils most of her tail around my arm, I lift my hand free of Gerald Martin’s esophagus.

Her tongue flicks out, silently admonishing me. She’s right. That was a cruel punishment for her. Now she’s coated in blood, scales in need of scrubbing. I don’t spareMr. Martin another look, striding out of the room with Sheba slithering around my neck. After I’ve cleaned my beauty, it’s time for me to capture a raven.

SARAH

I have a stalker, and I’m pretty sure his first initial starts with Z. Nibbling my lip, I stare at the unopened box in my palm. It’s small. My thumb rubs back and forth across the decorative cardboard. The stalker—or secret admirer since they haven’t left threats at my door, just unwanted gifts—has dropped off a package on my doorstep every day for the past week. Ever since I kissed Z in the darkened hall of Louie’s Bar. Taking a deep breath, I nod to myself, deciding to rip the proverbial band-aid off.

One flick of my thumb sends the lid popping off, falling in my lap. Jumping to my feet, trembling hands drop the box. An innocuous key rolls across the floor. The key to my backdoor. I thought I’d misplaced it. The receipt for the new lock and key rests on my bedroom dresser on top of the unopened box, forgotten in the whirlwind of events that’s happened in the past week.

Dr. Moore’s wife reported him missing. No one has heard from Dr. Anders. The ever-present feeling of being watched daily, heightens my paranoia and night terrors. Each morning, I wake up with a scream trapped in my throat.

Z. It has to be him. He watched me at the bar. Sitting down and pressing my fingers into my closed eyes, I think back over the past month, inspecting each interaction I hadwith strangers. But I work in a fucking hospital. I see strangers every day. Was he a patient of mine?

The temptation to call the police grips me, but I have zero evidence aside from a hunch and a lone message that says, “This is Z,” after I gave him my number. Stupid, stupid, stupid move, Sarah, I admonish myself, hands slapping my forehead.

Maybe I can text him and ask him to leave me alone. Or?—

Before the thought can fully form, my hand snags my phone, pulling up the text message from Z and typing two words. Only after a moment’s hesitation do I press send. If he responds—No, I shake my head, changing my thought pattern.

If things escalate then I’ll contact the police and inform Natalia I’ll need to stay with her until my “admirer” moves on to someone else.

5

SARAH

ZAIDEN

I know.

She knows. Her one word message played endlessly in my thoughts all day since receiving it. Now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the time for action. To take. Like a moth to a flame, my eyes find her.

Her voice sounds like music and her laughter is like trickling water, soft and whimsical. She turns, waving at a coworker, dark hair blowing across her face. Slender legs stride away from the automatic glass doors of the hospital. She’s walking toward me, head down. I wonder what she’s thinking as she speeds away from her place of employment, keys jangling in her hands.

“Take. Take. Take.”

For once, the voices are correct. Tonight is the night I take Dr. Bell. Excitement thrums through me, flooding my limbs with adrenaline. I’m not just excited to have her atDaniel’s Manor. I’m excited about the chance to observe her up close and personal for as long as I want. It took a month of preparation, but her room is ready.

Blood rushes to unexpected places as I stalk toward Dr. Bell’s stooped figure. Perhaps she keeps her head down in the vain hope of evading predators. But everything about Dr. Bell calls to me, her faint vanilla scent wafting on a gentle wind. It makes my mouth water.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” I call out, pausing in a darkened section of the parking lot, hoodie covering my head. Before she turns around, I yank the edges forward, ensuring it fully obscures my mask. Dr. Bell turns a cautionary glance my way without stopping.

“If you need help, the hospital is right behind you. I’m sorry, but I’m off the clock,” she says. I sway to the side, her voice striking out like a physical touch, caressing my senses. I think I could fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I say, words crawling from a dry throat. I turn as if to leave, striding toward my pickup. Her relieved sigh floats to me, the wind acting as a messenger. My lips curl upward, leaning my body against the hood of my car, facing the hospital.

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