Page 1 of Obsessive Stalker

Prologue

Flashback: One Month Ago

Kristen

Damien walks in without a word,pulling a metal stool from the table where I’m seated. He clutches a rag in his hand, holding it to his still bleeding nose.

“I’m surprised the table isn’t upturned,” he mutters as he takes a seat across from me, voice muffled by the rag.

He trains his brilliant green eyes on me. The look is unnerving, the same way it felt before, before I even knew what a dangerous man Damien is.

I had my suspicions, of course. My intuition about people is usually correct.

“How did you know?” he asks me.

“Know what?”

“How did you know to be afraid of me?” he asks. “In the hall earlier. Before you knew who I was.”

I straighten, the plastic ties around my wrists digging painfully into the skin as I do so. The way that he’s looking at me has me wishing I could cross my arms over my chest, but my hands are bound behind my back, thrusting my chest towards him and leaving me defenseless. It feels vulnerable and uncomfortable…but there’s something else, too.

Something that I shouldn’t be feeling in a situation like this.

“You think I was afraid?” I ask calmly. “That’s cute. I wasn’t afraid. I just knew you were full of shit.”

“How?”

“Please. It’s not like it was hard. I grew up around money,” I say. “Even the wealthiest fund managers don’t dress like you. For a casual business conference, no less. Your watch alone is worth at least ten million. And I know your suit is in the four figures. A lowly advisor sent to scope out opportunities because his boss is too busy doesn’t dress that way. I figured you were bigger than you let on, a higher up…or you’re some kind of criminal here for the wrong reasons. Clearly it’s the latter.”

Damien tilts his head, his gaze like a hot laser, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his blood-stained oxford shirt as he folds his hands on the table between us, leaning forward.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“You saw our presentation earlier,” I snap. “You already know my fucking name.”

“Kristen Martinez-Redding,” he says, his voice like a caress wrapping the air around me. “Daughter of Martin Redding and granddaughter of the late Louis Redding.”

I stare at him.

“I wouldn’t expect a privileged princess like you to need funding for your app,” he muses. “Surely, your dear father can provide everything that you need.”

“I hardly speak to my family,” I reply. “And I certainly don’t ask them for handouts.”

He lifts his chin, an appreciative expression on his face.

“I love a self-made woman,” he says. “One who knows how to fight, too. How did you learn to throw a punch like that?”

“It’s a long story,” I reply. “Cut the binds on my wrists and I’ll give you another demonstration of my technique.”

Damien laughs heartily, standing and pushing the stool back underneath the table. The metal legs drag against the concrete floor, a shrill noise that slices through the quiet.

He walks slowly around the table, every step taking him closer to me until he’s standing directly behind me. He checks the ties around my wrists, adjusting them so that they’re not quite as painfully tight.

I shiver as his hands pull my hair back, smoothing it down with his palms before settling his hands on the tops of my shoulders.

I shouldn’t enjoy the feeling of his hands on me. He’s a bad man. A scary man. But my body defies my brain’s logic, my nipples hardening as his hand glides up my shoulder and to my neck. When his fingers gently grip my throat, my breath becomes shallow. Arousal pools between my legs. I press my thighs together as I squeeze my eyes shut.

I’m not sure whether I want Damien to take his hands off of me…or keep going.

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