Page 39 of Untamed

My stomach churns. It’s not signed, but it doesn’t need to be.

What’s his name?

“Um, excuse me.” I’m talking to dead air like a psycho, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

It’s ridiculous. But this feeling, the same one I got at the gym, is prickling the back of my neck and won’t go away.

My eyes flick to the corners of the room, to the window, even to the tiny blinking light on my laptop.

He’s been watching me. I know he has.

“Do you think this is a game?” I say out loud, again to no one.

What am I doing?I rub my temples. I’m losing it.

I pace the small space of my apartment, my steps muffled by the worn rug. He’s been watching me—closely enough to know my weak spots, to anticipate that I’d be drawn to the camera like a moth to flame.

I should call the police. I should burn the thing and be done with him.

Instead, my fingers itch for the leather strap.

The thought makes me nauseous, and I push the chair back violently, sending it scraping across the floor. The sound jolts me, grounding me, and I take a shaky breath. This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay.

But damn it, if there isn’t a part of me—small, treacherous—that feels seen.

I stare at the camera, daring it to reveal the secrets it carries. What’s on the film? What has he captured?

Some modern photographers don’t use a dark room anymore, fully embracing the lure of digital art and eschewing the older methods. But me… I love it.

It takes less than five minutes to load the film into the developing tank, my hands working on autopilot, movements honed from years of practice.

Until the first image appears.

It’s me.

Walking down Melrose, oblivious that I’m being watched.

Me, sitting on a park bench, scrolling through my phone, completely exposed.

Me, entering my apartment building, keys in hand, shadowed by the late afternoon light.

I slam my fists against the table, the developing solution splashing over my hands as I head to use the bathroom. Surely he hasn’t set up a camera inthere.

But when I get to the bathroom, the glaring, flickering fluorescent lighting reminds me that this is the worst part of this apartment. A cramped space with tiles that perpetually feel damp and a shower curtain that clings to my skin no matter how hard I try to avoid it. It’s a good thing I’m barely five feet tall because anyone bigger than me wouldn’t even fit in that shower.

I hung up a framed print of a sunlit forest on the wall, a hopeful touch, but even that can’t mask the reality of rust-stained fixtures and a cracked mirror.

God, I hate this place.

I flick off the light and march back to my room, coffee in hand, and check my messages.

I have a few choice things to say.

Sure enough, Shawn’s back at it again, and there are… wait. I blink. I look again.

That’sfour times as manynotifications as I normally get on one of my posts.

I stare, my eyes wide, as I flick open the app. My jaw unhinges.

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