Page 101 of Stalked
“But it doesn't change anything between us.”
I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle in the cheap motel room. “Doesn't change anything? I watched you torture someone, Vane. I heard you talk about killing him like it was nothing more than checking something off your to-do list.”
“Business is business,” he says flatly. “And my personal life is separate.”
“Not to me. Not anymore.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “I can't pretend I didn't see what I saw.”
His jaw tightens. “You signed a contract, Lia. You're mine for a year. There's no running from it.”
My breath catches in my throat. The Hunt contract. In my panic to escape, I'd forgotten the legally binding document.
“So what are you saying?” My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “That you'll force me to come back with you? That I have no choice?”
Something flickers across his face—doubt, perhaps, or regret. For a moment, Vane looks torn, as if warring with himself. The predatory confidence that usually radiates from him wavers, replaced by something almost vulnerable.
But just as quickly, it's gone.
“Yes.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I told you I wouldn't let you run again, and I meant it. Fifteen years was enough, Lia.”
“How did you even find me?” I ask, a sudden realization dawning through my fear. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I didn't even know myself until I hit the highway.
Vane's expression shifts, a flash of guilt crossing his features before his jaw sets again.
“Your phone is tracked,” he admits without a hint of remorse. “Lost signal about an hour ago when your battery died, but it was clear you were heading to Florida.” His eyes never leave mine as he adds, “And then I got an alert when you used your credit card here.”
I close my eyes, the weight of everything crashing over me. Of course he tracks me. I've known since I returned that his obsession runs deeper than normal. The apartment he could see into, the job he orchestrated, the way he always knows where I am—I'd accepted it all as part of loving Vane Blackwood.
But seeing him torture that man, hearing the satisfaction in his voice as he planned prolonged suffering... that's something else entirely.
“I knew you watched me,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “I even found it romantic in some twisted way. But killing people, Vane? Enjoying their pain?” My voice cracks. “That's not something I was prepared for.”
“Because you compartmentalize,” he says, stepping closer. “You want the obsession without the violence, the protection without knowing what it costs. I wasn't going to let you pick and choose which parts of me you get.”
The vulnerability in my chest expands, making it hard to breathe. “I don't know how to love someone who does what you do. I don't know how to reconcile the man who holds me like I'm precious with the one who cuts off fingers.”
“We're going back home,” Vane says, his voice gentling slightly. “We can figure this out together.”
“No.” I plant my feet firmly on the thin motel carpet. “I need time to think. Away from you.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “You don't have a choice, wildflower. Contract or not, you're coming with me.”
I shake my head vehemently, heart pounding against my ribs. “I'm not leaving my car here. I drove myself out; I'll drive myself back—if I even decide to come back at all.”
“My guys will pick it up tomorrow.” Vane reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys, and dangles them. The green Kawasaki key fob catches the dim light. “You're coming on the back of my bike.”
The casual way he dictates my movements, as if I'm just another possession to be handled, ignites something primal in me. Before I can think it through, I'm lunging for the door, shoving past him with all my strength.
I hear his curse behind me as I burst into the night air, my feet pounding across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The woods behind the motel beckon—dark, dense, a place to disappear. I'm running blindly, fueled by rage and fear, my breath coming in sharp gasps.
I've barely reached the tree line when strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet. I kick backward, connecting with his shin, but Vane doesn't loosen his grip.
“Let me go!” I scream, twisting in his arms.
He spins me around, backing me against a tree at the edge of the woods. His body presses against mine, pinning me in place as his breathing matches my own ragged pace.
“I love when you run from me,” he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my insides quiver despite everything. “Makes my dick hard, knowing I'll always catch you.”
My body betrays me instantly—heat pooling between my thighs even as my mind recoils in disgust. I hate this visceral response to him, this Pavlovian reaction that persists even now, knowing what he is, what he's done.
