Page 23 of Only for Him
He traded something holy for something profane and marked his territory the same way a predator might. He’s telling me thathe knows me—what I value, what I mourn, and what I can’t let go of.
And he’s promising me that this won’t stop anytime soon.
I want to scream, to punch the mirror, and to run until my legs give out. Instead, I reach for the rose, hand trembling. The petals are soft, almost velvety, and not a single one is bruised. The straight cool stem has been carefully clipped of all its thorns so that it won’t cut me when I pick it up.
He did this with deliberate care.
Eyes still burning, I lean against the sink. The anger is there, but it’s twisted up with something sharp and hot and dangerous.
Fear.
And the fear isn’t clean.
It’s laced with a sick, involuntary thrill. He got inside without a sound, left without a trace, and took the one thing I swore I’d never let go of.
My fist tightens. The petals crush and bleed onto my skin as I close my eyes and let the feeling eat me alive. Violation, terror, and a disgusting pulse of excitement flood my veins all at once. A hot and heavy shudder rushes through me
He wants a reaction. He wants to see what I’ll do.
Fine.
I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and make a beeline for the box in the living room. A second is all it takes to peel the cell phone out of Tupolev’s dead grip, and I find that it’s already on and fully charged. All it needs is a thumbprint to unlock.
“I wouldn’t put it past you to have gotten my fingerprint somehow,” I murmur, speaking to him like he’s right beside me. It feels like he is, a feeling both deeply violating and exciting in its derangement.
I press my thumb against the screen but it doesn’t unlock.
And that’s when I know what he wants me to do.
I reach into the box again and notice that my stalker gave Tupolev some fresh tattoos. Letters carved as neatly as the ones he left on MacDougal.
On left hand:He dared
On the right:to touch you.
If I didn’t already know how personal this was, that would have convinced me. My stalker saw Tupolev slap my ass, and that pissed him off.
The question is: did it piss him off on principle, or is it because he thinks that he’s the only one who gets to touch my body?
Something tells me it’s the latter.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, it sends a sick pleasure spidering across my nerves at the same time that my pride screams in protest.
Unlocking a phone with a dead man’s hands is certainly a novel experience. Whatever else I can say about him, my stalker is imaginative.
Ivan’s thumb unlocks the phone to reveal neither apps nor wallpaper nor any notifications. As soon as it unlocks, it starts vibrating with an incoming call from a private number.
My hands shake. Ordinarily, I might wonder how he knows that I just unlocked the phone, but I’m not stupid. Of course he knows. He’s been watching me. He’s still watching me. He has to be.
I rush to the window and look out.
The street is coming to life, but I don’t see him anywhere. I don’tfeelhim anywhere. And as crazy as it sounds, I know that I’d recognize him anywhere, even if he’s standing in a crowd at Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
I answer the phone.
“Good morning, little viper.” his voice is deep, low, and amused.
It vibrates with something I don’t want to name. Each syllable sends another shiver tingling down my spine until it pools somewhere deep inside of me.
