Page 62 of Stalker's Toy

We chat for a while longer, Larsa filling the silence with idle gossip about our classmates and professors.

I try to focus, to engage in normal conversation.

But my thoughts keep drifting back to Henrik.

To his hands, his eyes, the way he makes me feel so alive.

"Earth to Mia," Larsa says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Where'd you go just now?"

I blink, forcing myself back to the present. "Sorry, just thinking about a piece I'm working on."

She eyes me skeptically but doesn't push it. "Well, I should get going. There’s a party going on later and you’re coming. I’ll meet you back at the flat in an hour, and you’d better be ready. Thanks for the coffee date—we should do this more often."

"Yeah," I agree halfheartedly. "We should."

Larsa gathers her things and heads out with a cheerful wave.

I fish some cash out of my wallet and leave it on the table for the waitress.

I linger a moment longer, staring into the dregs of my coffee as if they hold the answers I'm seeking.

The walk back to my flat feels longer somehow.

Each step is a battle between my rational mind and the craving that gnaws at my insides.

I need to go back there, though, and I need to go now.

Ever since the other night my heart hammers in my chest with every step I take.

It’s a mixture of fear and excitement, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I make my way to the building, and then get into the flat I share with Larsa.

I toss my keys on the hook and sigh heavily, kicking off my boots and heading back to my room.

I tear my thoughts away from Henrik as I stand in front of my closet, fingers trailing over the various fabrics.

Larsa asked me to go to that party… and well I don’t really go to them, ever.

I should go.

I should be a ‘normal’ woman at university for once in my life.

Tonight's party demands something special, something that will help me shed this restless energy coursing through my veins.

My eyes land on a black corset-style crop top, its lace detailing, intricate, and delicate.

Perfect.

I slip it on, relishing the way it cinches at my waist, accentuating my silhouette.

Over it goes a sheer, long-sleeved mesh top with subtle spider web embroidery—a nod to the darkness that always seems to cling to me.

For the bottom, I choose a high-waisted, pleated mini skirt in deep burgundy.

The color reminds me of dried blood, of passion, of the fire that still haunts my dreams.

I layer it over fishnet tights, the diamond pattern a comforting familiarity against my scarred skin.

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