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Had he worried about starting something when he was leaving with no idea if or when he’d return?
Probably all of the above.
The chemistry between her and Alexander had been even more explosive than she’d remembered, even more potent. And OMG, he looked great. His dark brown hair was a little longer, and that ink. That was new. The sexy sleeve of tattoos wound down both his arms. How far did it extend?
Stop it. She shouldn’t go there, shouldn’t even entertain the idea of him as anything other than an acquaintance, her brother’s best friend. He was damaged, not thinking clearly, and had a minefield of emotions to work through. Ultimately, still recovering…if he ever did.
In her experience, he’d form an attachment to the first person who showed empathy, like ducklings imprinting on a human in the absence of a parent. He’d connect to her solely out of emotional relief.
She needed more.
Sage couldn’t afford to spend too much time with Alexander, get even more attached. She wanted to help him, as long as it wasn’t to her psychological detriment…or his. She had to remain clinical, detached, focus on what would be best for him and her.
After making a ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwich for dinner, she showered and tucked herself into bed. While scrolling through social media, a notification pinged in the messenger app on her professional page.
She clicked into it and gasped.
Your time is coming…
To an end. Her mind filled in the missing words. Some might argue her off-kilter, overly suspicious brain had made an absolute assumption, the cumulative effect of the messages drawing her to that extreme conclusion.
The sudden rapid beat of her heart made her dizzy. It wasn’t a blatant threat, but the clear-as-icy-cold-spring-water insinuation couldn’t be ignored.
Was her reaction extreme? Too early to tell. She had no idea exactly who or what she was dealing with, and she lacked enough evidence for law enforcement to take her seriously.
Her experience of working with traumatized people had proven how quickly authorities discounted their stories. They often put reports down to stress, paranoia, mental illness.
Although she didn’t want to be viewed in that way, she also didn’t want to become a statistic. She needed to find the safest path to handle the precarious situation.
Unease crept along her spine like a noxious, strangling vine, winding and choking. How long could she exist in limbo? Uncertain. Jittery. If the messages didn’t stop, she’d have to confide in someone, get some of the growing emotional weight off her chest. But who? Who would believe her?
Sage ensured her external sensor lights worked, double-checked she’d locked all the doors and scrambled into bed. A twitchy, nervous wreck, she put her mobile on the bedside table with a trembling hand.
How long could the hypervigilance last? The human body could only sustain so much over-production of adrenaline before it crashed. She tried to relax. However, her eyes stretched so wide they stung. Her stomach clenched as if squeezed by an iron fist. Her heart rate accelerated like a ticking time-bomb. So much for taking it easy.
At times like this, she wished she had someone at home—a housemate, a partner she could turn to and discuss her concerns.
A scratch, a creak, a thump. Her hearing seemed hypersensitive to every little sound. Just the house settling—or so she hoped. She swallowed the lump of fear lodged in her throat and shot off the bed to bolt her bedroom door in case she’d gotten it wrong.
Anyone poking around would have to smash the bedroom window or break the lock and burst through the door in order to get to her.
There would be no mistaking those noises. She snatched her phone off the nightstand, typed in the emergency services number and watched the bedroom door, darting her head periodically to look out of the second story window.
If she house-shared, had backing from another person, it would have given her more confidence to call the cops. It’d make the police less likely to question her sanity, less likely to label her as an over-sensitive, paranoid, hysterical woman living by herself.
Everything went quiet. Maybe she’d imagined things, the din exaggerated in her mind, following the most recent disconcerting message.
She switched off the lamp, lay down and started to doze. An insistent tapping roused her from sleep. Sage sat up, twisting her head to the window, a film of cold sweat coating her skin and soaking into her slip.
Nothing.
No one.
Her fear manipulating her imagination.
She had to get a fucking grip. Settle down. Not be a full-on, jumpy, adrenaline junkie.
Sage’s breaths shunted in and out of her lungs. Her phone had dropped onto the quilt, over her lap. Trying to control her hyperventilated breathing, she grabbed her mobile in her shaky hand and used her fingerprint to unlock the screen, her thumb hovering over the green call button.
