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"Those were the days," Aria agreed, chuckling. But her laughter quickly faded, replaced by concern. "Seriously though, be careful, okay? Maybe carry some pepper spray or something."
"Sure," I lied, knowing full well that any self-defense tool would be useless against the twisted dance I'd willingly stepped into. "Don't worry about me. I'm tougher than I look."
"Damn right you are." She raised her glass in a toast. "To tough chicks and surviving this crazy world."
"Surviving" echoed mockingly in my head as we clinked glasses. How ironic that the very thing that had ignited my senses now threatened to snuff them out. With each heartbeat, I felt the pull of my own desires, urging me toward the edge, even as the fear of falling—or worse, being pushed—loomed ever closer.
As I sipped the bitter liquid, I wondered which would get me first: the intoxicating thrill of the chase or the cold, final embrace of a predator's grasp.
The canvas in front of me was a blur, every stroke of my brush a feeble attempt to distract myself from the mess I'd gotten into. The recent news of the murders had left a bitter taste in my mouth, like bad coffee that no amount of sugar could sweeten. And yet, there was this fucked up part of me that craved his next move. It was like itching for a cigarette when you're trying to quit—knowing it's bad for you but wanting it anyway.
“I’ll text you when I get home, okay?" Aria called out, her voice trailing off as she shut the door behind her.
“Sounds good,” I mumbled, but my attention was fixed on the empty space where she'd stood moments ago. Alone again, with only my thoughts and the storm for company.
I picked up my palette, mixing colors mechanically. The rhythmic sound of rain against the roof tried to soothe my nerves, but it was like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Every roll of thunder was a reminder of the danger lurking just beyond my walls.
A sudden thud against the glass made me jump, smearing crimson paint across virgin white. "Fuck!" I cursed under my breath. That damn branch had become the bane of my existence.
Get a fucking grip, Celeste. I scolded myself, tossing the paintbrush down. It clattered against the hardwood floor, a sharp contrast to the muffled sounds of the raging winds outside.
With reluctant steps, I approached the window, the sensation of being watched crawling over my skin like ants. It was probably just the wind. I reasoned, but the fantasy that had once fueled my darkest desires now twisted my insides with fear.
There it was—the heart. And not the romantic, doodled-in-a-high-school-notebook kind of way. My hand flew to my mouth, bile rising in my throat as realization dawned on me. Cum. His fucking cum, smeared on the window in the shape of a heart, a mockery of affection. The repulsion churned in my gut, a vile wave that threatened to spill over. But beneath that revulsion, an ember of arousal flickered to life, stoked by the very violation that should have doused it. He'd been here, watching, getting off on the idea of me just beyond his reach.
And God help me, the thought that he was out there somewhere, thinking of me, touching himself—it ignited something primal inside me. Something dark and hungry that I couldn't deny.
"Fuck you and your sick games," I spat at the ghostly figure I imagined on the other side. But even as the words left my lips, I knew the truth. Despite the fear gnawing at my sanity, a part of me was waiting, craving his next move.
"Surviving" wasn't just about living through the night. It was about not losing myself to the hunt, to the intoxicating pull of a game too dangerous to play. But as the storm raged on, I couldn't help but wonder: in this chase, who was really the predator, and who was the prey?
I backed away from the window. The storm outside my Chicago apartment raged like the war inside me, a cloud of fear and unwanted desire. I had thought I wanted this—a stalker to fuel the dark fantasies that I painted in vivid strokes on canvas. But standing there, staring at the obscene heart smeared on my window, I realized what a reckless idiot I'd been.
"Fuck me for thinking this was a good idea," I muttered under my breath, the taste of bile and regret thick on my tongue. My body trembled—not just from the cold that seeped through the glass but from a deeper chill, one that no blanket could ward off.
My phone buzzed, slicing through the haze of thunder and my scattered thoughts. A message—an anonymous one, because of course it was. No name, just numbers that held as much identity as the shadow who now seemed to dance around the edge of my existence.
Did you enjoy the artwork I left for you? It's inspired by you, Celeste.
I read the words once, twice, a third time, each pass engraving them deeper into my brain. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, itching to type something vile, to cuss him out or demand an answer. Instead, I let out a strangled laugh.
Artwork, my ass.
You're about as artistic as a fucking toddler with a crayon.
I texted back. But despite my bravado, I couldn't ignore the heat curling in my belly, the way my body responded to his twisted display. I was repulsed, yes, but damn it if I wasn't turned on too. Betrayed by my own skin, my own sick cravings that this faceless creep seemed to understand all too well.
I paced the cramped space of my studio apartment, feeling like a caged animal—trapped and pacing in my own goddamn snare. I knew the truth. There was no undoing the invitation I'd sent out into the void, no taking back the silent plea for someone to notice me, to play this dangerous game.
I was caught, ensnared in a web of my own making, and all I could do was wait for the spider to come calling. The real horror wasn't the cum on my window or the looming threat of some psycho—it was the realization that, when it came down to it, I was utterly, completely fucked.
And not in the way I so desperately craved.
Chapter 10
Nash
The Chicago skyline was a goddamn glittering jewel box from up here, all those tiny lights winking like they were in on the city's filthy secrets. I stood there, just a towel and a whole lot of bad intentions wrapped around my waist, looking down at the sprawling urban abyss that spread beneath my penthouse.
