The windows of my house tremble from the power of thunder rolling across the skies. Lightening strikes in the distance, illuminating the night. In that small moment, the few seconds of blinding light showcases the man standing outside the window. Watching me. Always watching me.

I go through the motions, just like i do always. My heart skips a beat and then palpitates, my breathing turns shallow, and my hands grow clammy. It doesn't matter how many times I see him, he always pulls the same reaction out of me.

Fear.

And excitement.

I don't know why it excites me. Something must be wrong with me. It's not normal for liquid heat to course through my veins,leaving tingles burning in it's wake. It's not common for my mind to start wondering about things I shouldn't.

Can he see me now? Wearing nothing but a think tank top, my nipples poking through the material? Or the shorts I am wearing that barely covers my ass? Does he like the view?

Of course he does.

That's why he watches me, isn't it? That's why he comes back every night, growing bolder with his leering while i silently challenge him. Hoping he'll come closer, so I have a reason to put a knife on his throat.

The truth is I am scared of him, Terrified, actually.

But the man standing outside my window makes me feel like I am sitting in a dark room, a single light shining from the television where a horror flick plays on the screen. It's petrifying, and all I want to do is to hide, but there is a distinct part of me that keeps me still, baring myself to the horror. That finds a small trill out of it. It's dark again, and the lightning strikes in the areas further away.

My breathing continues to escalate. I can't see him, but he can see me. Ripping my eyes away from the window, I turn to look behind me in the darkened house, paranoid that he's somehow found the way inside. No matter how deep the shadows go in Parsons Manor, the black and white checkered floor always seems visible.

I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandparents had built the three-story Victorian home back in the early 1940s through blood, sweat, tears, and the lives of 5 construction workers.

Legends says-or rather Nana says-that the house caught fire and killed the construction workers during the building structure phase. I haven't been able to find any news article on the unfortunate event but the souls that haunt the Manor reek of despair.

Nana always told grandiose stories that wrung eye rolls from my parents. Mom never believed anything Nana said, but I think she just didn't want to.

Sometimes i hear footsteps at the night. They could be from the ghosts of the workers who died in that tragic fire eighty years ago, or they could be from the shadows that stand outside my house.

Watching me.

Always watching me.

Sometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—thoughts no sane daughter should ever have it.

Sometimes, I’m not always sane.

“Addie, you’re being ridiculous,” Mom says through the speaker on my phone. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her. When I have nothing to say, she sighs loudly. I wrinkle my nose. It blows my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet can’t see her own flair for the dramatics.

Just because your grandparents gave you the house doesn't mean you have to actually live in it. Its old and would be doing everyone in that city a favor if it were torn down.”

I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward and trying to find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car.

How did I manage to get ketchup up there?

“And just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean I can’t live in it,” I retort dryly.

My mother is a bitch. Plain and simple. She’s always had a chip on her shoulder, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

“You'll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly inconvenient for you to come visit us, won't it?”

Oh, how will I ever survive?

Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still make an effort to see her once a year. And those visits are far more painful.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the P. I’m over this conversation. My patience only lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother. After that, I’m running on fumes and have no desire to put in any more effort to keep the conversation moving along.

If it's not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find something to complain about. This time, it’s my choice to live in the house my grandparents gave to me. I grew up in Parsons Manor, running alongside the ghosts in the halls and baking cookies with Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I refuse to let go of just because Mom didn’t get along with Nana.

I never understood the tension between them, but as I got older and started to comprehend Mom’s snarkiness and underhanded insults for what they were, it made sense.

Nana always had a positive, sunny outlook on life, viewing the world through rose-colored glasses. She was always smiling and humming, while Mom is cursed with a perpetual scowl on her face and looking at life like her glasses got smashed when she was plunged out of Nana’s vagina. I don’t know why her personality never developed past that of a porcupine—she was never raised to be a prickly bitch.

Growing up, my mom and dad had a house only a mile away from Parsons Manor. She could barely tolerate me, so I spent most of my childhood in this house. It wasn’t until I left for college that Mom moved out of town an hour away. When I quit college, I moved in with her until I got back on my feet and my writing career took off.

And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really settling in one place.

Nana died about a year ago, gifting me the house in her will, but my grief hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Until now.

Mom sighs again through the phone. “I just wish you had more ambition in life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in, sweetie. Do something more with your life than waste away in that house like your grandmother did. I don’t want you to become worthless like her.”

A snarl overtakes my face, fury tearing throughout my chest. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck off.”

I hang up the phone, angrily smashing my finger into the screen until | hear the telltale chime that the call has ended.

How dare she speak of her own mother that way when she was nothing but loved and cherished? Nana certainly didn’t treat her the way she treats me, that’s for damn sure.

I rip a page from Mom’s book and let loose a melodramatic sigh, turning to look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the tip of the black roof spearing through the gloomy clouds and looming over the vastly wooded area as if to say you shall fear me. Peering over my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees are no more inviting—their shadows crawling from the overgrowth with outstretched claws.

I shiver, delighting in the ominous feeling radiating from this small portion of the cliff. It looks exactly as it did from my childhood, and it gives me no less of a thrill to peer into the infinite blackness.

Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The congregation of trees separates this house from the rest of the world, making you feel like you’re well and truly alone.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re on an entirely different planet, ostracized from civilization. The whole area has a menacing, sorrowful aura.

And I fucking love it.

The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look like new again with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all sides of the structure, climbing towards the gargoyles stationed on the roof on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the windows is chipping like cheap nail polish. I'll have to hire someone to give the large front porch a facelift since it’s starting to sag on one side.

The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass nearly as tall as me, and the three acres of clearing bursting with weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have settled in nicely since it’s last been mowed.

Nana used to offset the manor’s dark shade with blooms of colorful flowers during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses, violas, and rhododendron.

And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of the house, the bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful contrast against the black siding.

I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This time, I'll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well.

I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the house.

The attic.

Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I saw.

Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face.

I love that.

I can’t explain why, but | do.

Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won’t change that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.

Especially mommy dearest.

The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. It turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.

I love storms—I just don't like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to the rain fall.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck, refusing to give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.

Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.

A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air. The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.

I feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark stormy night...”

I look up and smile when | see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It’s always been Nana’s most prized possession.

The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I venture further inside.

This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.

The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every surface, and the smell of mothballs is overpowering, but it looks exactly how | last saw it, right before Nana died last year.

A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.

The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden curtains.

One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.

The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.

Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.

Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack my body.

Sixty-two goddamn degrees.

I press my thumb into the up arrow and don't stop until the temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of my clothing.

I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.

And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste.

I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.

I sigh.

“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to the

Dead air.

“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for numerous but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.

Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after thirty.

“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.

“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask, forcing excitement into my tone.

It's not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the fact that I didn’t even hear the question. It’s usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.

I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.

Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed.

The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.

“Oh my god, it's so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.

I smile wide and gently take the book.

“It's awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.

Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.

Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirety of my existence.

I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.

As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.

I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my flesh. It’s... it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red.

Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it obvious.

My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write.

His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white, reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand attention.

When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot, creating a big black ink dot.

“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an apology.

The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s gone.

“Addie, you need to get laid."

In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the quirk of her brow.

I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.

I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick instead.

When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.

“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.

“Don’t deflect, bitch. You suck at it.”

Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.

“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing calms.

Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities. You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman with freckles, a great pair of tits, and an ass to die for. The men are out here waiting.”

I shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least about having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come over, winky face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the same sweatpants I've been wearing the past week, there’s a mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don’t want to fucking come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”

My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”

“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. Fucking. Phone.”

“Or what?” I taunt.

“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute shit out of you, and get my way anyway.”

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down. Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in my food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right now.

I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it weren’t rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and the waitress rushes off again.

Sigh.

I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings wrapped around them to nearly blur.

Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I'm sure I'd find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.

She’s probably an evil succubus or something.

“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help that I’m on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right about now.

She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching through my messages. I groan aloud once more when | see she sexted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.

“Come over tonight and lick my pussy. I’ve been craving your huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest goes into how horny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.

I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean’s house.

“I wouldn't even say that!” I complain. “That doesn’t even sound like me, you bitch.”

Daya cackles, the teeny little gap between her front teeth on full display.

I really do hate her.

My phone pings. Daya is nearly bouncing in her seat while I’m contemplating googling 1000 Ways to Die’s contact information so I can send them a new story.

“Read it,” she demands, her grabby hands already reaching for my phone so she can see what he said. I jerk it out of her reach and pull up the message.

GREYSON: About time u came to your senses, baby. Be over at 8.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I really fucking hate you,” I grumble, giving her another scowl.

She smiles and slurps on her drink. “I love you too, baby girl.”

“Fuck, Addie, I’ve missed you,” Greyson breathes into my neck, humping me against the wall. My tailbone is going to be bruised in the morning. I roll my eyes when he slurps at my neck again, groaning when he rolls his dick into the apex of my thighs.

Deciding I needed to get over myself and blow off some steam, I didn’t cancel on Greyson like I wanted to. Like I want to. I regret that decision.

Currently, he has me pinned against the wall in my creepy hallway. Old fashioned sconces line the blood red walls, with dozens of family pictures from generations in between. I feel like they’re watching me, scorn and disappointment in their eyes as they witness their descendant about to get railed right in front of them.

Only a few of the lights work, and they just serve to illuminate the spiderwebs they’re crawling with. The rest of the hallway is shadowed entirely, and I’m just waiting for the demon from The Grudge to come crawling out so I have an excuse to run.

I would definitely trip Greyson on the way out at this point, and not one inch of me is ashamed

He murmurs some more dirty things into my ear while I inspect the sconce hanging above our heads. Greyson said in passing once that he’s scared of spiders. I wonder if I can discreetly reach up, pluck a spider from its web, and put it down the back of Greyson’s shirt.

That would light a fire under his ass to get out of here, and he’d probably be too embarrassed to talk to me again. Win, win.

Just when I actually go to do it, he rears back, panting from all the solo French kissing he’s been doing with my throat. It’s like he was waiting for my neck to lick him back or something.

His copper hair is mussed from my hands, and his pale skin is stained with a blush. The curse of being a redhead, I suppose.

Greyson has everything else going for him in the looks department. He’s hot as sin, has a beautiful body and a killer smile. Too bad he can’t fuck and is a complete and utter douchebag.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom. I need to be inside of you now.”

Internally, I cringe. Externally... I cringe. I try to play it off by jerking my shirt over my head. He has the attention span of a beagle. And just like I suspected, he’s already forgotten about my little blunder and is staring intensely at my tits.

Daya was right about that, too. I do have great tits.

He reaches up to tear the bra from my body—I probably would’ve smacked him if he actually ripped it—but he freezes when loud banging interrupts us from the main floor.

The sound is so sudden, so violently loud that I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest. Our eyes meet in stunned silence. Someone iS pounding on my front door, and they don’t sound too nice.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asks, his hand dropping to his side, seemingly frustrated by the interruption.

“No,” I breathe. I quickly tug my shirt back on—backwards—and rush down the creaky steps. Taking a moment to check outside the window next to the door, I see the front porch is vacant. My brow furrows. Letting the curtain fall, I stand in front of the door, the stillness of the night closing in on the manor.

Greyson walks up beside me and looks over at me with a confused expression.

“Uh, you gonna answer that?” he asks dumbly, pointing at the door as if I didn’t know it was right in front of me. I almost thank him for the directions just to be an ass, but refrain. Something about that knock has my instincts blaring Code Red. The knock sounded aggressive. Angry. Like someone had pounded on the door with all their strength.

A real man would offer to open the door for me after hearing such a violent sound. Especially when we’re surrounded by a mile of thick woods and a hundred-foot drop into the water.

But instead, Greyson stares at me expectantly. And a little like I’m stupid. Huffing, I unlock the door and whip it open.

Again, no one is there. I step out onto the porch, the rotting floorboards groaning beneath my weight. Cold wind stirs my cinnamon hair, the strands tickling my face and sending shivers racing across my skin. Goosebumps rise as I tuck my hair behind my ears and walk over to one end of the porch. Leaning over the rail, I look down the side of the house. No one.

No one on the other side of the house, either.

There could easily be someone watching me in the woods, but I have no way of knowing with it being so dark. Not unless I go out there and search myself.

And as much as I love horror films, I have no interest in starring in one.

Greyson joins me on the porch, his own eyes scanning the trees.

There’s someone watching me. I can feel it. I’m as sure of it as I am about the existence of gravity.

Chills run down my spine, accompanied by a burst of adrenaline. It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a scary movie. It begins with the beat of my heart, then a heavy weight settles deep in my stomach, eventually sinking to my core. I shift, not entirely comfortable with the feeling right now.

Huffing, | rush back into the house and up the steps. Greyson trails behind me. I don’t notice he’s in the middle of undressing as he walks down the hallway until he steps into my room after me. When I turn, he’s stark naked.

“Seriously?” I bite out. What a fucking idiot. Someone just banged on my door like the wood personally put a splinter in their ass, and he’s immediately ready to pick up where he left off. Slurping on my neck like one would slurp jello out of a container.

“What?” he asks incredulously, splaying his arms out to his sides.

“Did you not just hear what I heard? Someone was banging on my door, and it was kind of scary. I’m not in the mood to have sex right now.”

What happened to chivalry? I would think a normal man would ask if ’'m okay. Feel out how I’m feeling. Maybe try to make sure I’m nice and relaxed before sticking their dick inside me.

You know, read the fucking room.

“You serious?” he questions, anger sparking in his brown eyes. They’re a shitty color, just like his shitty personality and even shittier stroke game. The dude gives fish a run for their money, the way he flops when he fucks. Might as well lay out naked in the fish market— he’d have a better chance of finding someone to take him home. That person is not going to be me.

“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with exasperation.

“Goddammit, Addie,” he snaps, angrily swiping up a sock and putting it on. He looks like an idiot—completely naked save for a single sock because the rest of his clothes are still thrown haphazardly in my hallway.

He storms out of my room, snatching up articles of clothing as he goes. When he gets about halfway down the long hallway, he stops and turns to me.

“You're such a bitch, Addie. All you do is give me blue balls and I’m sick of it. I’m done with you and this creepy fucking house,” he seethes, pointing a finger at me.

“And you’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of my house, Greyson.” His eyes widen with shock first, and then narrow into thin slits, brimming with fury. He turns, cocks his arm back and sends his fist flying into the drywall.

A gasp is ripped from my throat when half of his arm disappears, my mouth parting in both shock and disbelief.

“Since I’m not getting yours, thought I’d create my own hole to get into tonight. Fix that, bitch,” he spits. Still sporting only one sock and an arm full of clothes, he storms off.

“You dick!” I rage, stomping towards the large hole in my wall he just created.

The front door slams a minute later from below.

I hope the mysterious person is still out there. Let the asshole get murdered wearing a single sock.

The screams of pain bouncing around the cement walls are getting a tad annoying.

Sometimes it sucks being the hacker and the enforcer. I really fucking enjoy hurting people, but tonight, I have no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole.

And normally, I have the patience of a saint.

I Know how to wait for what I want most. But when I’m trying to get some real answers and the dude’s too busy shitting his pants and crying to give me a coherent response, I get a little testy.

“This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball,” I warn. “l’m not even going to show you any mercy and shove it all the way through to your brain.”

“Fuck, man,” he cries. “I told you that I just went to the warehouse a few times. I don’t know anything about some fuckin’ ritual.”

“So, you’re useless is what you’re saying,” I surmise, inching the blade towards his eye.

He squeezes them shut as if skin that’s no thicker than a centimeter is going to prevent the knife from going through his eye.

Fucking laughable.

“No, no, no,” he pleads. “I know someone there that might be able to give you more information.”

Sweat drips down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His overgrown greasy blonde hair is matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it’s not actually blonde anymore since most of it's painted red now.

I had already cut off one of his ears, along with ripping off ten of his fingernails, severed both Achilles heels, a couple of stab wounds

in specific locations that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count.

Dickhead won't be getting up and walking out of here, that’s for damn sure.

“Less crying, more talking,” I bark, scraping the tip of the knife against his still-closed eyelid.

He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his lashes.

“H-his name is Fernando. He’s one of the operation leaders in charge of sending out mules to help capture the girls. He-he’s a big deal in the warehouse, b-basically runs the whole thing there.”

“Fernando what?” I snap.

He sobs. “I don’t know, man,” he wails. “He just introduced himself as Fernando.”

“Then what does he look like?” I grind out impatiently through gritted teeth.

He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips.

“Mexican, bald, has a scar cutting across his hairline, and a beard. You can’t miss the scar, it’s pretty fucked looking.”

I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It’s been a long fucking day.

“Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him slowly for the past three hours.

His breathing calms, and he looks up at me through ugly brown eyes, hope radiating from them in spades.

I almost laugh.

“Y-you’re letting me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray puppy dog.

“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.”

He looks down at his severed heels, Knowing just as well as I do if he stands, his body will go pitching forward.

“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my arm back and plunge the entirety of my knife through his pupil.

He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet. Or rather, his one eye.

You're a child rapist,” I say aloud, though he’s no longer capable of hearing me. “Like I'd let you live,” I finish on a laugh.

I slide my knife from the socket, the suction noise threatening to ruin any dinner plans I had in the next several hours. Which is annoying cause I’m hungry. While I do enjoy myself a good torture session, I’m definitely not a dickhead that gets off on the sounds that accompany it.

The gurgling, slurping, and other weird noises bodies make when enduring extreme pain and foreign objects being plunged into them is not a soundtrack I’d ever fall asleep to.

And now for the worst part—dismembering it into bits and pieces and disposing of them properly. I don’t trust other people to do it for me, so I’m stuck with the tedious, messy job.

I sigh. What is that saying? If you want it done right, do it yourself?

Well, in this case—if you don’t want to get caught and charged for murder, dispose of the body yourself.

a,

It feels like ten o’clock at night, but it’s only five P.M. As fucked as it is after dealing with human body parts, I’m in the mood for a mean ass burger.

My favorite burger joint is right off of 3 Avenue, and not too far of a drive from my house. Parking is a bitch in Seattle, so I’m forced to park a few blocks away and walk there.

A storm is rolling in, and soon sheets of rain will be descending on our heads and shoulders like icepicks—typical Seattle weather.

I whistle an unnamed tune as I walk down the street, passing shops and an array of stores with people bustling in and out like a bunch of worker ants.

Ahead of me, there’s a bookstore lit up, the warm glow shining onto the cold, wet pavement and inviting passersby into its warmth. As I near, I notice it’s packed full of people.

I spare it a single glance before moving on. I don’t care about fiction books—I only read the ones that are going to teach me something. Particularly about computer science and hacking.

By now, there’s nothing those books can teach me anymore. I’ve mastered and then surpassed it.

As I’m turning my head to look at some other shit, my eyes get caught up on a board right outside the bookstore, a smiling face beaming back at me.

Without permission, my feet slow until they’re glued to the cement sidewalk. Someone bumps into me from behind, their smaller stature barely knocking me forward, but it does manage to jolt me out of the weird trance I fell into anyway.

I turn to glare at the enraged guy behind me, their mouth opening and gearing up to cuss me out, yet the second he gets one look at my scarred face—he takes off into a half-walk, half-run. I’d laugh if I weren't so distracted.

Before me is a picture of an author that’s hosting a book signing.

She’s fucking incredible.

Long, wavy cinnamon hair brushed over dainty shoulders. Creamy, ivory skin with freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Light and sporadic without overwhelming her innocent face.

Her eyes are what draw me in. Sultry, slanted eyes—the type that always look seductive without trying. They’re nearly the same color as her hair. A brown so light, it's unusual. One look from this girl and any man would be on their knees.

Her lips are pouty and pink, stretched into a radiant smile with straight, white teeth.

I note the name below the picture.

Adeline Reilly.

A beautiful name fit for a goddess.

She doesn't have that plastic beauty you see lining the magazine rack. Though she could easily make it on one of those covers without photoshop and surgery, her features are natural.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. Fucked a lot, too.

But something about her captivates me. It feels like a hurricane is at my back, pushing me towards her and leaving no room for resistance.My feet are carrying me into the bookstore, my black boots soaking the welcome mat at the entrance.

The only lingering scent filling the air is one you attain from used books—though convoluted from the large group of people congesting the area. This small structure wasn’t built to house more than the ten large bookshelves lining the left side of the room, the small checkout desk on the right side, and maybe thirty people. Now, there’s a large table in the middle of the room where the author sits, and at least double the occupancy limit packed in the stuffy store.

It’s too hot in here. Too crowded.

And one asshole beside me keeps picking his nose, his dirty hand touching all over the book he’s holding. I glimpse Reilly on the cover.

Poor girl. Forced to sign a book that probably has boogers all over it.

I open my mouth, ready to tell the fucker to stop looking for treasure in his nostrils when it feels like heaven’s gates open up.

In that second, the people in front of us seem to part at the perfect angle, providing me with a clear view. I only see her from the corner of my eye at first, but the small glimpse is enough to send my heart into a tailspin.

My head turns like one of those creepy bitches in an exorcist movie—slow, but instead of an evil smile, I’m sure I look like I just found out that there’s evidence the earth is actually flat or some shit.

Because that’s also fucking laughable.

Oxygen, words, coherent thoughts—all that shit escapes me when I get my first look at Adeline Reilly in the flesh.

Shit.

She’s even more exquisite in person. The sight of her has my knees weakening and my pulse racing.

I don’t Know if God really exists. I don’t know if mankind has ever walked on the moon. Nor do I know if parallel universes exist. But what I do know is that I just found the meaning of life sitting behind a table with an awkward smile on her face.

Taking a deep breath, I find a spot against the wall in the back. I don’t want to get too close yet.

No.

I Want to watch her for a while.

So I stay in the back, peeking through dozens of heads to get a good look at her. Thank god for my height because I’d probably barrel through everybody if I were short.

A tall, willowy woman hands my new obsession a microphone, and for a brief moment, the latter looks like she’s ready to bolt. She stares at the mic as if the woman is handing over a severed head.

But the look is gone in seconds, barely there before she slides her mask in place. And then she snatches the microphone and brings it to her wobbly lips.

“Before we start...”

Fuck, her voice is pure smoke. The kind you really only hear in porn videos. I suck in my bottom lip, biting back a groan.

I lean against the wall and watch her, absolutely enthralled with the little creature before me.

Something inexplicably dark arises in my chest. It’s black and evil and cruel. Dangerous, even.

All I want to do is break her. Shatter her into pieces. And then arrange those pieces to fit against my own. I don’t care if they don't fit—l'll fucking make them.

And | know I’m about to do something bad. I know that I’m going to cross lines that I will never be able to come back from, but there’s not an ounce of me that gives a fuck.

Because I’m obsessed.

I’m addicted.

And I will gladly cross every single line if it means making this girl mine. If it means forcing her to be mine.

My mind has already been made up, the decision fortifying like granite in my brain. At that moment, her wandering eyes slide right onto mine, clashing with a force that nearly sends my knees to the ground. Her eyes round in the corners ever-so-slightly, as if she’s just as enraptured by me as I am by her.

And then the reader before her is pulling her attention away, and I know I need to leave now before I do something stupid like kidnap her in front of at least fifty witnesses.

No matter. She won't be able to escape me now.

I've just found myself a little mouse, and | won't stop until I’ve trapped her.