Page 1 of My Masked Stalker
1
KILLIAN
Iexhale slowly, my gaze through the scope hardly wavering with the movement. Adjusting the zoom, I check again that my target is still in his bedroom, behind closed curtains. Fucking pedophile could do me the favor of having to take a piss or maybe a nice sip of milk straight from the carton like the savage he is.
I’ve been perched on this rooftop for hours, watching, waiting. It’s late August, and the New York City night air offers little escape from the humidity. Sweat slides down my jaw, getting absorbed by my black turtleneck. Still, I don’t move. This fucker dies tonight. I haven’t disappointed a client yet, and I’m not about to start.
Light flares to life to the left of my crosshairs, the glare catching my attention. Too far away to be Petrov’s place. Must be the apartment next door. Sighing, I move my sight, taking quick stock of the situation, my finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard.
Fluttering curtains. Condensation rolling down the windowpane. The flicker of a TV out of sight. A perky ass in gray sweatpants.
I lift an eyebrow and pan up. There’s a swath of golden skin between the waistband of the sweatpants and the white crop top, then honey blonde hair, loose and swaying with the woman’s steps. Boris Petrov might be sleeping like the soon-to-be-dead, but his neighbor is up, getting that drink.
I must be supremely bored, because I follow her movements to the fridge, where she takes out a pitcher of what looks to be lemonade. When she reaches up to grab a glass, her shirt rides up, exposing more of her back. No tattoos, just smooth skin. I lick my lower lip, wordlessly commanding her to turn around like a goddamn pervert.
I’ve seen my share of human depravity through windows. Moments people wouldn’t want anyone else to see. Never once have I let myself get distracted. Until now. Until her.
She finally turns, and I groan low in my throat, grateful to whatever bastard deity made her ditch the bra tonight. Jesus Christ. I tear my gaze from her tits—reluctantly—and land on her face.
“Shiiiit,” I drawl quietly. Soft lips, pert nose, and the biggest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen. I can’t tell the color from here, but they’ve got me locked, even across the street. She swipes away the bangs sticking to her forehead with the back of her hand and raises the glass of lemonade to her mouth with the other. I chew on the inside of my cheek, watching her throat work as she swallows. A drop of sweat travels down the front of her neck, disappearing into her cleavage.
“God damn, sweetheart, where did you come from?”
She looks to be in her mid-twenties, so about a decade younger than me. Younger than what I usually go for—I prefer them jaded and disillusioned, not looking for attachments with men like me, but experienced and confident enough to know what they want in the sack.
For a second, I forget Boris Petrov exists, my finger tightening on the guard—amateur mistake.
My jaw ticks. Distraction gets men killed. But fuck it.
Tapping my earpiece twice in quick succession, I open a call to my tech-wizard business partner.
“Is it done?” Ethan says in greeting.
I clench my jaw. “I’m about to go in and do it close range. Getting a cramp in my ass. But dear old Boris isn’t why I’m calling.”
“What then?”
My eyes are locked on my new target, and she’s infinitely more pleasant to look at than the Russian chomo.
“You still have the building info?”
“Do I still have the fucking building info,” Ethan mutters to himself. “Of course I have it, job’s not done yet, is it? What do you need?”
Ignoring his rambles, I get to the point. “Apartment left of Petrov’s from my vantage. Who’s in it?”
I can hear the keyboard clacking as Ethan’s fingers fly over it, pulling up the answers I need. Three tours together, and the sound became as familiar as my own breathing.
“Apartment twelve B. That’ll be… Oh, she’s cute.”
My left eyelid twitches.
“Name, not opinion, asshole,” I grit out.
Ethan’s quiet chuckle sounds in my ear. “Touchy, touchy. Name’s Emily Lane. Twenty-eight, unmarried, kindergarten teacher. No record, not that that’s a surprise. Owns the apartment outright.”
My brow furrows at that last bit of info.
“Owns an apartment in this city on a kindergarten teacher’s pay?”
