Page 25 of Stalking the Bride

It readsOpen Me!in big black letters.

There’s absolutely no way I should touch this thing. I should be calling in an official bomb squad to come deal with this potential threat, but like the lunatic I am, I take out my phone and dial Belle instead. Of course it goes straight to voicemail.

“Shit!” I curse, tossing my phone to the floor. I gasp a painful breath and inspect the box, searching for any signs of a triggeror explosives. All I see, however, is a basic, brown cardboard box with no indication whatsoever of what it contains.

Don’t touch this, Conrad. You know better.

But I have to know. I can’t wait for the bomb squad.

It may be the stupidest thing I’ve done, but even as my hands tingle and burn, I reach out for the card and carefully set it aside.

Gently, I test the weight of the box. It’s got some heft to it, which is not good. That could mean explosives. If I open this, there’s a decent chance my life will be over. But if I don’t find Belle, I know for certainty I will not be able to go on living. And right now, the only clue I have to finding my angel is this box. So going against all my better judgment, I succumb to my manic desire and open the top flap.

The burst from within is deafening. I close my eyes and clamp my hands over my ears in a futile attempt to shelter myself from the blast.This is it, I think.It’s over. I expect to be thrown off my feet or to feel a scalding heat against my skin as a fireball sears through my flesh.

But none of that happens, and after a moment, I open my eyes to tiny pieces of colored paper raining down all around me, blue and red pigment powder staining my clothes, the bedspread, and even the ceiling.

“A confetti bomb…” I mutter, a smile dancing its way across my lips as my ears continue to ring. My phone vibrates from the floor. I instantly grab it up and see a text from Belle: a single winky-face emoji with the wordgotchabeside it.

“No way…”

Belle set the confetti bomb. She’s giving me a taste of my own medicine.

My phone vibrates again with a video message. My jaw drops at the thumbnail. Eyes wide, I press it and a video plays: me, standing at the bed, pulling open the box and the confetti bombbursting everywhere as I flinch, sure that my life was about to end. The footage shakes, and I hear giggles from a girl filming.

I whirl, pulse racing, begging to see Belle standing behind me. But there’s nothing. Empty space. An open door. I’m alone.

The audacity. The nerve. Belle, a civilian, managed to lose me at the pier, then found a way to slip back to the hotel and set a trap for me. She also managed to record me as it happened so she would always have proof of what she’s done.

What a naughty little girl. She deserves punishment–wonderful, sensuous punishment that makes her cheeks go red. Both sets.Just wait until I get my hands on you, little girl.I’m fuming inside that I’ve been made a fool of, but I also respect the hell out of her for what she’s done. Every second that ticks by, my love for her deepens. Grows into something all-encompassing. Swallowing me up. This goes way beyond the obsession I had when I was stalking her. Belle has become a drug, and I’m completely addicted. If I lose her, if I’m cut off from her, the withdrawals will certainly kill me.

Leaping into action, I race from the room and down the stairs. If she was filming me when that confetti bomb went off, she must still be close by. I need to find her and get my hands on her. Up her shirt, down her pants, through her hair, all over her soft skin. My need for her has reached an all-time high.

Of course I could be racing out into a fleet of police cars, but when I burst out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk, all I see is a couple walking their poodle. They glance back at me, throwing me an odd look, and that’s when I remember that I’m covered in blue and red pigment powder.

I smile to myself.

Belle didn’t call the cops. She pulled a prank on me.

She loves me. But first she’s making me pay for what I did to her.

“Belle!” I shout, racing through traffic to the park across the street. I’m nearly clipped by a truck and am vaguely aware of the driver shouting curses at me as I leap the low stonewall and land in the grass on the other side. “Belle, come out! I know you’re here!”

My voice echoes through the night, bouncing off trees, falling into silence. Shemustbe here. She wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble to just catch a ride back to her parents’ house or–God forbid–the manor.

I call her name again and start feeling dizzy when there’s no response. I press my palm against the trunk of a tree to steady myself and remain upright. My head aches, as though a pressure is growing and my skull is about to burst like Belle’s little trick bomb. I hear the steps of random people walking down the street behind me. Someone even calls out to me, asking me if I’m okay. I rudely wave him away before falling to one knee.

“Belle…”

My phone vibrates again, and I snatch it from my pocket, my hands shaking as I unlock it and see a picture message from Belle: a grainy zoom-shot of me, here in the park, my right knee pressed into the wet grass.

It’s like a spear of electricity straight to my heart, and I look up to see a vague flicker of moss green vanishing back into the shadows. Belle’s yoga pants.

Instantly, I’m on my feet and running, driven by pure adrenaline. I catch up to her in seconds, snatch her up in my arms, and press her up against the trunk of a tree. For a brief moment, her blue eyes threaten to devour me with their beauty. I simply cannot control myself and go in for the kiss.

I’m met with a fierce knee to the balls, which causes me to double over. But I tighten my grip on her and raise myself up to see her scowling at me. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man.

“It was you! There was no real bomb threat! This whole time it wasyou!”

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