Page 7 of Wicked Pursuit

Still no response.

“Coward,” I mutter. I tell myself what I’m feeling is relief, not disappointment.

My phone rings.

I stare at it blankly for a beat too long. At the UNKNOWN flashing across the screen. He’s... calling me. I lift my phone to my ear cautiously, as if he might somehow physically reach through it. “Hello?”

“Are you trying to provoke me, Red?” His voice is deep and filled with gravel.

Gods help me, but it sends a shiver that isn’t entirely fear down my spine. “That’s not my name.”

“Isn’t it? It’s the one you gave last night.”

I lift my glass to my lips and pretend my hands aren’t shaking. “Is that you, baby? I didn’t catch your name last night. On purpose. Learn to take a hint.”

He laughs, low and mean. “No, Red. You didn’t have sex with me last night. But you won’t get a chance to fuck that piece of shit ever again.”

I set my glass down too hard, spilling whisky. “Wow, big talk for a coward who won’t actually face me.”

“I’ll see you when I’m good and ready, Red.”

“That’s not my name,” I repeat.

“Sure it is. You’re Little Red Riding Hood, wandering off the path and away from your protective family.”

I lick my lips. “I suppose that makes you the Big Bad Wolf.”

“Sure.” Another of those menacing chuckles. “I can’t wait to eat you right up, bite by bite.”

“Why wait?” Even as I speak, a little voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me to shut the fuck up and call my parents. But I don’t hang up. I don’t call for help.

I just stroke a finger down the barrel of my gun and relish the adrenaline surging through me. Maybe I am a fool, after all. There’s no other explanation for me leaning back against the couch and letting my voice go soft and croon. “I’m right here, all alone and helpless. Come get me.”

He snorts. “And have you shoot me the second I walk through the door? I don’t think so.”

I jerk straight. How the fuck does he know I have a gun nearby? “Are you watching me right now?”

“I wouldn’t be a very good stalker if I weren’t.”

I curse and surge to my feet. “You know what happens to the Big Bad Wolf in that fairy tale? He dies.” The curtains are mostly closed, but I snap them all the way shut.

“Am I peering through your window?” His voice lowers even more, gaining an edge. “Or am I already in your apartment?” He hangs up.

True fear overtakes me. I shove my phone in my pocket and snatch the gun. He’s not here. He can’t be. Surely he wouldn’t be that reckless...

I take a deep breath and down the rest of my glass of whisky. If he’s here, I’ll deal with it. Simple. End of story. I may be a sheltered mafia princess, but Iama mafia princess, and I have the training to match. I’m not helpless. Da made sure of that.

I’ve been in my living room and kitchen. This apartment is bigger than it has any right to be, courtesy of Dad refusing to allow me to pay for it. He wanted me in a good part of town, and while my pay from bookkeeping for the family business is solid, Luke’s income isn’t much, even with the recent job change. There’s no way we could afford this place on our own. I think it bothers Luke that we take a handout from my parents, but letting them pay our rent is better than the alternative—Dad and Da coming in weekly to ensure nothing horrific has happened. I know for a fact they have an in with the building’s security and keep tabs on me. It goes with the territory.

I hold the gun loosely at my side as I check the bathroom and wrench the shower curtain back. No stalker hiding there. Of course. That would be cliché. Next is the laundry room. Also empty. This is bullshit. He’s bluffing. Probably. Hopefully. As much as part of me relishes the confrontation, I’m not a total fool. Egging on a stalker is a bad idea. It only ends in one of two ways.

Either I kill him.

Or he kills me.

The fear shadows my steps, still in the driver’s seat. Words are on the tip of my tongue, the temptation to call out, as ifthat’sever a good idea. The bedroom suite is the last place left to check. I find myself holding my breath as I ease open the door. At first glance, the bedroom looks exactly as I left it this morning: The bed is unmade on my side. My shoes, tossed off last night, are in proximity of the walk-in closet.

Except there’s one difference.

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