Page 25 of Stalk Me

Instead, I sit on the edge of her bed, close enough to touch and imagine the feel of her soft skin beneath my palms. In my mind, I trace the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. I picture her eyes, green-gold like rare jewels, darkening with desire as I taste her lips, her neck, and the valley between her breasts.

My free hand reaches for her water bottle on her nightstand. Cold, half-full liquid. I angle my cock, leaking over the opening, and continue to stroke. Faster now, harder, imagining her mouth wrapped around me, her hands urging me on.

My gaze never leaves her face as I spill into the water, marking it with my release. Mine. The word pulses through my brain, a primal beat. Her eyelids flutter, and her lips part, my seed mixing with the water.

I put the bottle back exactly as I found it, my heart hammering. Her chest rises and falls, and her breathing is undisturbed. With my touch, I guide her nightgown back into place, covering her shoulder and restoring her to her previous state of innocence.

Sofia is mine now, and I burn with the knowledge that soon, she’ll belong to me completely—mind, body, and that brilliant, defiant soul. The prospect of her consuming my release sends a final tremor through me. I button my pants, smoothing my clothing.

Moving away from the bed, I look at her sleeping form. She stirs, turning onto her side, and for a moment, I think she’s waking. But then she settles her breath evening out once more.

I leave her bedroom, my footsteps silent, a ghost’s exit from her life, for now.

11

NIKOLAI

The detailed report on my tablet makes my jaw clench as I stare at the photos of the mangled car wreck that claimed Sofia’s foster parents’ lives two years ago. The investigator’s findings show that brake lines are cleanly cut and staged to resemble an accident. Professional hit.

I consider the sealed adoption records hidden behind layers of bureaucracy that even my connections can’t penetrate. Yet. Three investigators work from different angles, but Sofia Henley’s origins remain a mystery.

Through the tinted windows of my car, I watch her emerge from her brownstone, wrapped in a cream cashmere coat. She pauses to adjust her boot, and I drink in the graceful arch of her neck, the way the morning light catches in her honey-blonde hair.

“Sir, the background check revealed unusual gaps in her childhood medical records,” my head of security murmurs from the front seat. “And her adoption file was sealed by direct order from?—”

I raise my hand, silencing him. Sofia’s walking her usual route to the coffee shop on 7thAve. Like clockwork, she’llorder her cappuccino and extra shot, then spend twelve minutes reading the news on her phone before heading to the gallery.

My Sofia is so precise and controlled. Every detail of her life is mapped out in my files—her shopping habits, evening runs, and the wine she prefers.

But those sealed records taunt me. Someone went to great lengths to hide her true identity. The same someone, perhaps, who ordered the hit on her foster parents.

“Keep digging,” I order. “I want everything. Every detail of her past, every secret.” My eyes never leave her image on the screen.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours since I last spoke to her after the break-in. The surveillance videos tell me she’s recovered well, but it’s not the same as seeing her in person.

I tap my leather-gloved fingers against the car door. “Park around the corner. I’ll walk from here.” Anton parks and allows me to get out. I button my coat, stride around the corner, and down the street to her usual coffee shop.

The bell chimes as I enter. The rich aroma of fresh espresso fills the air, and she is perfectly poised at her usual corner table, cappuccino untouched as she scrolls through her phone.

Her reaction to my approach is instantaneous—her head lifts, and those mesmerizing green-gold eyes narrow in a display of defiance that amuses me. “Mr. Ivanov.”

“Sofia. What a pleasant surprise.” I gesture to the empty chair across from her. “May I?”

She sets down her phone, lips pressed into a thin line. “Is it really a surprise?”

“I was in the neighborhood?—”

“Don’t.” She leans forward, voice dropping. “Ever since we met, black cars have been following me. Men in suits watchingmy gallery. My phone acting strange.” Her fingers curl around her cup. “I’m not stupid, Nikolai.”

The steel in her voice sends a thrill through me. I shed my coat and take the seat anyway. “Have you been researching me?”

“Trying to. Most records are mysteriously incomplete or sealed.”

“Like your own?”I ask.

Her jaw clenches, and a flash of fear enters her eyes. “So you’ve been digging too.”

“I prefer to know who I’m dealing with.”

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