Page 106 of Stalked
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it's Vane, demanding I come back, invoking the contract that binds me to him for the next three hundred and thirty-nine days.
But it's Keira.
“Please tell me you're not somewhere doing something stupid,” she says without preamble.
I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Define stupid.”
“Running. Hiding. Thinking you can escape whatever mess you've gotten yourself into.” A pause. “I'm assuming this is about Vane?”
“I saw something tonight.” My voice cracks. “Something I can't unsee.”
“Violence?”
The casual way she says it makes me sit up straighter against the headboard. “You knew? About what they do?”
“Ace and Cyrus freelance for the Blackwoods.” Keira's tone gentles. “I knew what I was signing up for. Or at least, I thought I did. Reality hits different than theory, doesn't it?”
“I threw up.” The confession slips out. “After. I couldn't stop seeing?—”
“Where are you?”
“Ravenwood Inn.”
“Good. You're still in town.” Relief colors her words. “Meet me tomorrow? Coffee at Bean & Brew? Eleven?”
I glance at the digital clock: 4:47 AM. “That's in six hours.”
“Then you'd better try to sleep.” Her voice softens. “Lia? Running doesn't fix anything. Trust me on that.”
After we disconnect, I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the plaster. My phone buzzes again.
This time it is Vane.
Sleep well.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. The tears I've been holding back since he caught me break free, hot and fast, down my cheeks. I press my palm against my mouth to muffle the sobs.
This is worse somehow. This restraint, this evidence that beneath the obsession and violence, Vane understands exactlywhat I need right now. Space. Choice. The illusion of freedom even while wearing invisible chains.
He's learning me. Adapting and becoming the man who will make me stay.
And God help me, it's working.
I type out three different responses before deleting them all. Finally, settle on something simple.
You too.
The cursor blinks at me accusingly. Too cold. Too distant. Not what either of us needs right now.
I delete it and try again.
I'm okay.
Send before I can overthink it.
His reply comes instantly, like he's been staring at his phone waiting.
I know.
