Page 80 of Stalker's Toy

The room spins slightly, and I clutch the duvet tighter around me, suddenly acutely aware of my nakedness beneath.

"Henrik," I start, my voice shaky, "what exactly happened? I... I can't remember much."

He shifts on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. "I had a bit too much to drink myself, if I'm honest. Thought it best to stay and make sure you were all right."

The explanation sounds plausible, but something doesn't sit right. I try to keep my tone even as I ask, "And Larsa? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Henrik assures me, his hand resting on my knee over the covers. "Sleeping it off in her room, I expect."

I nod, but my mind is whirling.

When did Henrik arrive?

Was he here when... no, that's impossible.

The Stalker couldn't have been here with Henrik in the flat.

Could he?

"I feel so out of it," I mumble, rubbing my temples. "Did you... did you see anyone else here last night?"

Henrik's brow furrows. "Anyone else? No, just you and Larsa. Why do you ask?"

I shake my head, trying to dispel the unsettling thoughts. "No reason. I just... It's all a bit hazy."

"That's understandable," he says, his voice soothing. "You were quite... enthusiastic last night. I stepped out to get some water and painkillers for you both, and when I came back..." His eyes roam over me, a glint of something dangerous in their depths. "Well, you'd decided clothing was optional."

My cheeks burn with embarrassment and confusion. "How... how long were you gone?"

"Oh, about twenty minutes or so,"Henrik replies, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just long enough for things to get interesting, it seems."

The look in his eyes makes me shiver, a mix of desire and unease coiling in my stomach.

Twenty minutes.

So much can happen in twenty minutes.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

The weight of Henrik's presence, the gaps in my memory, and the lingering sensation of... something else, all press down on me.

But through the haze of confusion and fear, one thing becomes clear—Henrik helped us last night, regardless of what else might have happened.

Henrik's expression softens, the dangerous glint in his eyes replaced by something warmer, yet no less intense.

He reaches out, his long, artist's fingers gently caressing my cheek.

The touch sends a jolt through me, equal parts comfort and electricity.

"Nattblomma," he murmurs, the Swedish endearment rolling off his tongue like honey.

His icy blue eyes lock onto mine, seeming to peer into the depths of my soul. "I'll always make sure you get home safe."

The tenderness in his voice contrasts sharply with the memory of his earlier, more predatory gaze.

I find myself leaning into his touch, craving the warmth and security it offers, even as a part of me recoils at the vulnerability.

My mind races.

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