Page 2 of Claimed By My Stalker

“You should rest for a few more days. You’re in no condition to get up and wander about," he says again. “I’ll make sure everything you need gets to you.”

“What are you? A King?”

He shrugs.

“Still, you can’t tell me to stay bedridden.”

“I’m only looking out for you," he says with a half smile.

I scoff. “Why are you doing that? Who are you anyway?”

He looks past me like I didn’t just ask him some serious questions. “The bullet hardly grazed your side, it could have been worse.” His Italian accent has such a musical tune, a song to my ears. I could listen to it all day.

Without warning he stops talking, much to my disappointment, and finally places his palm on my forehead, feeling my temperature. Another chill goes down my spine at the sensation of his warm hand on my troubled head.

“Look, I appreciate the help but obviously you’re no doctor. I should be in a hospital, receiving proper treatment.”

“You’ve gotten all the proper treatment you need.”

“I don’t believe you, I still feel terrible.”

“You will heal from a bullet wound in a day or two. Besides, if you go to the hospital the doctor is going to ask questions he has no business knowing the answer to. A foreign girl who’s been shot is going to have a lot of people asking things.”

I shoot him a suspicious look. “I don’t know why I got shot. Do you? If a doctor wants to know why I have a bullet wound, I would be happy to help. I want the perpetrators brought to justice.”

“Trust me, that’s only going to make things worse…”

“Who pulled the trigger?”

He doesn’t answer that.

“Who got the bullet out?” I ask.

“As I said, you were only grazed by it.”

“So, you brought me here to get treated by a quack? I could sue you for that, do you have a license to practice?”

He suppresses a chuckle. “I’m not a doctor Carrie”

“Then who is?” I exclaim. Exerting my voice sends a few coughs from my throat. That’s when I realize he called me by my name. “Carrie? Did you just call me Carrie? How do you know my name?”

What else does this man know about me?

I’ve always been wary of strangers due to past experiences but something about him is almost forcing me to let my guard down. I stare at him intensely as my heart rate increases. From the corner of my eye I can see the door, closed but it’s hard to tell if it’s locked. Besides, I can’t run away even if I want to. Not in this condition.

“I looked through your passport, and saw your details in it. It is one of the few things I recovered from your bag. You can go ahead and sue me, but you are going to have to do that in good health.”

Despite having never seen this man before there’s a sense of familiarity I can’t put my finger on. It feels like I’ve known him all my life but there’s no point asking him if we’ve met before because I know we haven't.

“Why do I have a feeling you had something to do with me being shot? Did you pull the trigger and bring me here instead of a hospital because you felt guilty and wanted to stay out of trouble?” I blurt out.

"Whoa, you got me," he responds mockingly with his hands raised in resignation. Without a follow-up statement, he gets up and proceeds to change my drip bag.

This man either owes me an apology or I owe him a thank you for saving my life. It is one for the other and the difference between them is an uncrossable valley.

A middle-aged woman in an apron strolls in carrying a tray of pills, syringes, bandages, and a glass of water. Her presence relieves me to now know the door has been unlocked the whole time.

“Stupefacente! She’s awake, thank goodness!”

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