Page 96 of Stalker's Toy

"Pain," I whisper. "Despair. The feeling that the world is burning around you and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

"You speak from experience," he observes, his voice gentle.

I nod, unable to form words for a moment.

When I finally speak, my voice is barely audible. "It's for the upcoming art show. I think... I think it's a good representation of those emotions. Something that will resonate with people."

Henrik's hand finds mine, his touch grounding me. "I have no doubt it will be powerful,Nattblomma. Your ability to channel such raw emotion into your work is... extraordinary."

His words warm something inside me, a flicker of light in the darkness I usually inhabit. "Thank you," I murmur, squeezing his hand.

Henrik takes a turn off the main road, pulling up to a quaint pub nestled between two Victorian-era buildings.

The worn wooden sign above the door reads "The Broken Quill."

"I thought you might be hungry," Henrik says, his icy blue eyes fixed on me. "This place has character... and excellent shepherd's pie."

I nod, suddenly aware of the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. "I could eat."

We step out of the car, and I'm immediately enveloped by the crisp night air, carrying hints of rain and distant chimney smoke.

Henrik's hand finds the small of my back as we enter the pub, and I can't help but lean into his touch.

Inside, the warmth hits me like a wave.

Dark wood paneling lines the walls, adorned with faded paintings and antique mirrors.

The low hum of conversation mingles with the clink of glasses and the crackle of a fireplace in the corner.

We settle into a secluded booth, the leather seats creaking softly beneath us.

A server appears, and Henrik orders for both of us without asking—normally, I'd bristle at that, but there's something intoxicating about his quiet confidence.

As we wait for our food, I study Henrik's face in the flickering candlelight.

There's a shadow there, a hint of something pained behind his carefully controlled expression.

"Tell me something about yourself," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "Something real."

Henrik's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of vulnerability. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey before speaking.

"My wife, Anastasia," he begins, his voice low. "She died in a car crash three years ago."

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air between us.

I resist the urge to reach for his hand, sensing there's more he needs to say.

"It was... it was my mother's fault," Henrik continues, an edge of bitterness creeping into his tone. "They had an argument. Anastasia left the house in a rage, distracted. If my mother hadn't—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

I find my voice, soft in the dimness of the pub. "You blame your mother for her death?"

Henrik nods, his eyes distant. "I harbor a lot of resentment. It's... complicated. Anastasia and I, we had plans. A future. Children." His laugh is mirthless. "I thought she was the one I'd build a life with, but..." He trails off, taking another sip of whiskey.

My heart aches for him because his mother isn’t the one at fault.

No, that would be me.

My heart races, each beat a thunderous reminder of the secret I carry.

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