Page 1 of Savage Stalkers
Chapter One
Silas
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The pounding from the next room blasts through my focus like a jackhammer. I grit my teeth and try to concentrate on the screen, but the sound drowns out everything else.
Why do they need to fuck like it’s an Olympic sport?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The pen twitches between my fingers, bleeding black ink onto my notes. I shove my chair back from the desk so hard the wheels screech.
Those two have the worst fucking timing. Of course they pick now, when I have important shit to do, to turn their bedroom into a damn construction site.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My jaw aches from clenching my teeth so tightly. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes as I take a deep breath, but all I see are stars.
The noise doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder—more frantic—like they’re competing in some twisted endurance contest.
I pull up the camera feeds, my fingers moving across the keyboard in a practiced sequence I could do blindfolded.
Living room, empty. Kitchen, empty. Her bedroom—there.
Skye lies curled on her side, arms wrapped around that ridiculous body pillow like it’s the only thing keeping her safe. Her breathing is deep and even, one bare shoulder peeking out from under the covers. I lean back in my chair, the knot in my chest loosening.
She’s okay. She’s safe.
My gaze drops to the timestamp in the corner: 12:47 a.m. When did I last check? Forty-three minutes ago. Before that, thirty-six minutes. I have alerts set to detect motion and sound, even to detect a change in the lighting, but I still cycle through the feeds every half an hour or so, sometimes more often.
The folder on my desktop labeled “Security Protocols” contains the forty-seven entry points I’ve mapped out for her building. Window access, service entrances, ventilation systems, and emergency exits that don’t quite latch properly. I update it weekly, sometimes daily, when building maintenance changes something. Not because I plan to use them, but because I need to know how someone else might get to her.
Thud, thud, thud.
I storm into the dingy hallway of our temporary apartment and barge into their room, slamming the door with enough force that it ricochets off the wall.
Zay, who is holding the headboard as Kain smashes into him, notices me walk in and smirks. “Your dick hard? Come to join in?” Zay teases, but he knows I have better things to do than join them.
“I’m going to fucking murder you if you don’t shut the fuck up,” I snap as I pull the switchblade from my pocket and flick it open.
“But I’m too pretty to die,” Zay mocks.
Lifting my hand from my side, I throw the knife, and it sails through the air and embeds in the wall above Zay’s head. “Next time I won’t miss, asshole.”
I turn my back and leave as their laughter rings out from behind me. Zay’s voice carries down the hall—something about me being “wound tighter than a cock ring.” It’s followed by Kain’s chuckle and the sound of skin slapping skin.
This is how it always goes. I lose my shit, and they push back just hard enough to remind me they’re not afraid of me. Then they go back to whatever they were doing like nothing happened. The knife will stay in the wall above Zay’s head. He’ll leave it there as proof that he can get under my skin without breaking a sweat.
Kain’s the one who keeps us grounded, as much as three criminals can be. When I spiral too deep into surveillance mode, or when Zay’s mouth goes off, Kain steps in with his calm, calculated violence that reminds us both why we listen.
Zay feeds off chaos like it’s oxygen. The louder I get, the more he fucking smiles. The angrier Kain becomes, the more he jokes. It’s like he’s hardwired to find the button that will set us off, then he smashes it repeatedly to see what happens.
I need control like most people need air to breathe. It makes living with these two a special kind of torture.
I walk back into my room and sit at my desk, then do a double take when I find her bed empty. Jerking forward, I make my fingers fly across the keyboard, cycling through every camera feed. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room...
There—the kitchen. She stands at the counter barefoot, an oversized shirt barely reaching her thighs as she stretches for a glass from the cabinet.
