Page 110 of Stalker's Toy

I shiver at his touch, equal parts thrilled and terrified. "You captivated me, Mia. I had to knoweverythingabout you."

I gesture weakly at the drawer full of photos. "This... this is more than just getting to know someone, Henrik. This is stalking. It's obsession."

A slow smile spreads across his face, and there's a glint in his eye that sends a chill down my spine.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, my dear. But tell me—doesn't a part of you love it? The idea that someone finds you so fascinating, so irresistible, that they'd go to such lengths?"

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words stick in my throat.

Because he's right.

As much as I want to be repulsed, there's an undeniable thrill coursing through me.

The dark, twisted part of me that's always craved connection preens under his intense focus.

I pull away from Henrik, my mind reeling.

The drawer of secrets lies open behind me, its contents spilled across the pristine floor of his office.

My past, laid bare in black and white.

With trembling hands, I gather the scattered papers and photographs.

Each image, each document is a piece of my fractured history.

Foster home reports.

School records.

Police reports.

It's all here, meticulously organized and annotated.

"How..." I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "How did you get all of this?"

Henrik watches me, his ice-blue eyes unreadable. "I have resources, Mia. When something... or someone... interests me, I pursue it thoroughly."

I shuffle through the papers, my heart racing.

A photograph of me at sixteen, sullen and withdrawn, stares back at me.

Next to it, a handwritten note: 'Prone to nightmares. Possible PTSD from fire incident.'

"This is... everything," I whisper, more to myself than to Henrik. "My whole life..."

He takes a step closer, and I instinctively clutch the papers to my chest.

"Why?" I demand, my voice stronger now. "Why did you want to know all of this about me?"

Henrik's expression softens, but there's an intensity in his gaze that makes me shiver. "Because you fascinate me, Mia. Your pain, your strength, your art... I needed to understand you."

I shake my head, torn between disgust and a perverse sort of flattery. "This is invasive. It's... it's stalking."

"It's devotion," he counters, his voice low and fervent. "You're not just my muse, Mia. You're my obsession."

My mind races.

Does he know about Anastasia?

---