Page 2 of Obsessive Stalker

“You know what I’m going to do with you after this is over?” he asks me, his voice a deep but quiet rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

Without even raising his voice, he’s terrifying.

Chewing my tongue in my mouth, unwilling to give this man even a hint of the fear that I’mverymuch feeling right now, I shake my head.

He leans down so that his face hovers over my shoulder, his hot breath in my ear as he whispers the next words, his lips brushing against my cheek.

“I’m going to take you home with me,” he says.

“No.”

The word exits my lips automatically. Fear and lust combine, making my brain foggy, my body buzzing with need even while my mind is screaming for safety, trying to form a plan of action, some way to get out of this impossible situation.

When he lifts his hands from me, I want to groan in disappointment. Exhaling slowly and opening my eyes, I watch as Damien crosses the room to the door. Before he opens it, he turns to look at me.

Even with his face stained with blood, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

“Believe me, pet,” he says with a smile. “Once you see what I have planned for us, you won’t want to say no. I’ll get a yes from you. I wouldn’t touch you otherwise.”

“I hate you.”

I’m not sure why these words spring forward as the retort of choice. There are a dozen other options.Fuck you,for example. OrPlease let me go, I promise I won’t tell anyone about the kidnapping if you let me go.

Instead, those three words spill over my lips, hurtled across the room at Damien as though I expect their impact to result in some sort of pain for him.

But of course, it doesn’t. He just smiles, and I can see in his eyes that he feels it, too. The lust. The magnetic pull. The…spark.

All of the things I shouldn’t be feeling, he feels them too.

“Hate me for now,” he replies. “But as you already know, love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I’d rather have you hate me than feel nothing at all. Make no mistake, you belong to me now. Try to escape, and I’ll hunt you down. I don’t mind a game of chase. But trust me kitten…run away from me and I’ll enjoy every second of punishing you for it.”

1

Kristen

I wakeup from my dream drenched in sweat. Getting out of bed, I run to the bathroom where I pat myself dry with a towel and pee. Then I wash my hands, splashing some water on my face and looking at myself in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me is someone I hardly recognize. I’m still getting used to my new hair. After bleaching it blonde all my life, the deep auburn color that my mother’s hairdresser applied to my strands earlier this week still feels like it belongs to a stranger.

The detective assigned to my case thought it would be wise to disguise myself as best as possible. It’s been over a month since the kidnapping and I’m still staying in my parent’s vacation home, a massive twelve bedroom home right off of Lake Tahoe.

With its beautiful view of the lake, its luxurious bathroom featuring a clawfoot soaking tub, and the large flatscreen television in the living room with access to seemingly every show and movie ever made, the house has everything I could ever need. Which is fortunate, because I’m still not allowed to leave.

Groceries are delivered every Monday. And every Friday night, my mother comes by with burgers and fries from a nearby restaurant. She says she’s coming by because she’s worried about me, but I know her too well to believe that.

After asking me how I’m feeling and pretending to listen to my answer, she inevitably asks about the day of the kidnapping, pressing me to recount every last detail of my encounter with Damien Barlowe.

Today is no different. I take my time eating the burger even though I’d like to scarf it down; I’ve never been comfortable eating in front of my mother, who’s been fixated on my weight since as long as I can remember. When I was younger she would push diets onto me. I tried everything. Slim Fast shakes were a staple in our home, so much that I can’t even think about the chalky brown texture of the low-carb mixture without wanting to gag.

Any time I eat with her, she raises her brows, and I know what she’s thinking but won’t dare to say to me aloud to me anymore, now that I’m a grown woman.

“Are you sure you want to eat that?”

The sentence echoes between my ears every time I sit down to eat anything especially indulgent. Birthday cake is permanently ruined for me, thanks to the way that she would cut me a very thin slice of it while giving my friends more generous portions. Now a grown woman, I mark my birthdays with apple pie from my favorite bakery instead.

Even though I hardly speak to my mother anymore - especially before the kidnapping - her voice is always with me, as is her critical eye.

I’m surprised she even agrees to bring me burgers, though I see the gesture as another sign that my mother’s true reason for being here every week, driving in from the Bay Area when she’d much rather spend her time at the country club, or attending the many Friday night events she’s invited to by her circle of wealthy friends.

---