Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I drop the box as if it’s on fire when the lights go out.
My heart beats faster.
It’s just the lights.
Just lights.
It happens all the time. We don’t have a generator here, and wind speeds get out of control sometimes.
I swing my flashlight beam from my phone around the apartment. A smart, logical person would call the cops, but the last time I did that, I lived to regret it.
It’s why I work out so hard. It’s why I carry pepper spray in my bag and have memorized every self-defense move on the planet.
I don’t need someone to come and rescue me. I can do that for my own damn self.
I look at my phone, but there’s no new message from my stalker poser—whatever he is—so I toss it on the coffee table and stare at the stairs to the roof.
There’s no fucking way I’m going up there. Nope. Not gonna do it. Either this is all coincidence, or something’s gone terribly wrong. In either case, I’ll call a lawyer or whatever, but I need to have an actual story to tell them.
An online stranger flirted with me?
Someone I don’t know sent me a gift, when I get gifts daily from various sources, often not identifying the sender?
My security guy heard someone on the roof earlier?
Every fear is legitimate but sounds stupid. I need more to go on; I really do.
But isn’t this the type of logic that talks people out of making logical, reasonable decisions?
I send my online stalker a message.
What did you do?
No response.
I think about calling Reggie again, but I feel like a wuss. I can’t do that. I roll my eyes to myself and look back at my phone.
Still no response.
I will him to answer as my anger rises. How dare he play around with me like this?
Is he?
Now I’m furious. I open the door to the roof and holler up the stairs. “Hello? Who the hell is up there?”
Nothing.
I take the stairs two at a time and anchor my hands on my hips at the top. The light isn’t that great up here unless there’s a full moon, but right now, there’s a waxing crescent, the little sliver of moon casting hardly any light, so it’s dark.
I grip the phone tighter, my chest heaving. My mind screams at me to stop, to just call Reggie or leave it alone. But my body, my stupid, traitorous body, propels me forward.
I mentally go through self-defense moves if I need them.
“Who the hell is up here?" I bark into the darkness as I swing the light beam across the roof.
Silence. Then, as I take a step closer to the corner, a deep, low chuckle cuts through the night.
"That’s cute, little queen," a voice says, smooth and unhurried, with just enough of an accent to make my knees weak.
Oh god.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
My stomach drops, and I whip around, shining the beam where the sound came from. The flashlight shakes in my hand as the figure steps forward into the dim light.
I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t making shit up. He’s here, in the flesh, and I—I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I’m frozen in place like he’s waved a magic wand and incapacitated me.
He’s wearing the same black shirt from his videos, the tattoos winding down his forearms visible as he tucks his hands into his pockets. His mask is firmly in place, the black hollows of his gaze fixed straight on me.
"You," I hiss, my voice trembling with anger and… something else. "You followed me," I snap, trying to sound braver than I feel.
He cocks his head. "You invited me, little queen."
"You and I have very different interpretations of what ‘invitation’ means. I did not invite you.”
"Didn’t you?" His voice lowers as he takes a step closer. "All those messages, all those taunts. Testing me. Begging me to prove you wrong. Did you think I wouldn’t call your bluff?"
I backpedal, but he matches my movements, his steps slow and deliberate.
"You’re insane," I breathe out, but my voice has lost its bite. “If you hurt me—”
His words come in a rush, sincere and full of meaning, his hands splayed out in front of him like a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to hurt you. I told you that.”
Did he? His words are quiet, but they slice through me like the edge of his knife.
My back hits the wall, and I realize I’ve run out of space. He prowls toward me, and god help me—either I’ve watched way too many masked men videos, or he knows exactly how to play this because this feels like the most delicious foreplay I’ve ever experienced. There’s an electric current under my skin, a thrum of anticipation echoing in my chest as heat floods my core.
He moves with predatory, fluid grace, all muscles and sinew. Those videos didn’t do him justice—he’s strength and power personified, so much taller than I imagined, so much bigger, his shoulders blocking my view, and the mystery of the man behind the mask has my heart beating so fast I’m a little dizzy.