Page 14 of Possessive Mr. Pen

Visceral delight sweeps through me.

With a strong build and curves to die for, Hilary Winthrop is a gladiator goddess.I’ll make her my queen.

My warrior queen.

She turns the corner without a backward glance.I wait a few more seconds to ensure she is gone before emerging from the darkness and stalking after her.The drunkard dares crawling back onto the sidewalk, so I kick his arms out from under him as I pass.He faceplants onto the concrete with a satisfying smack.I continue after my gladiator goddess.

She pauses at the end of her block and studies both sides of the road before reaching into her purse and heading toward the front entrance of her building.Her high heels barely make a sound against the concrete as her deliciously long legs erase the distance.

Approval sweeps through me at her caution.Even though she now lives in a relatively safe neighborhood, I will not tolerate her putting herself in danger needlessly.She’s too important.

I need her.

Once she safely closes the door behind her, I lean against the side of the brick building across from hers, hiding under the darkened awning, and watch her check her mail before stepping onto the elevator.

A millisecond before the doors close, her gaze lands on me.I stiffen as her attention sharpens.An electric current zaps through me from the connection, and adrenaline floods my veins.

I stand as still as a statue, half expecting her to stomp off the elevator, cross the street, and slap me for being a creep, but when she doesn’t emerge after a few seconds, I relax.Warped disappointment infects my veins.

She couldn’t have recognized me through the glass and shadows, but I stay lounged against the wall for several minutes in case she stops to check from another window.

When enough time passes, I stand, fix my cufflinks, and stick to the dark patches of sidewalk while walking as though I belong to alleviate suspicion.

I hail a cab a few blocks away and have the driver drop me off at the bus stop nearest my townhouse.It may be the most unassuming home on the street, but that’s by design.I don’t need flash and pomp in my daily life; I need confidentiality and security—which only a private residence can offer.

I type in the gate code, ignore the short vibration of my phone as it notifies me of the intrusion, then ensure it closes behind me before walking past the path to the basement entrance and taking the steps to the front door.After pressing my thumb to the pad and turning the handle, I step into the foyer and stand in the silence.

Only one other person has access to this space, but she schedules her visits around my absences and only for work-related issues.

I will have Hilary under my roof and in my bed soon.Anticipation jangles along my nerves, but I pour my attention on my surroundings.I may have installed a custom security system, but nothing is deadlier than letting down your guard or being unaware.

After a normal night of hell on earth, I shower, dress in all-black business casual, and change my jewelry to gunmetal grey pieces before swinging my duffel onto my shoulder and pocketing my keys.I check my security notifications and spend a few moments studying my vehicle and the surrounding area before exiting the house and sliding into the driver’s seat.

The trip to the mountains takes less than two hours, but between the curvy roads, lush green vegetation, and quiet ambiance, it may as well be a different planet.

I stop at a tiny mom-and-pop convenience store, buy a pack of gum and two containers of beef jerky, use the small copper key I carry on my key ring to retrieve the one envelope in the mail slot at the tiny post office box at the front corner, shove everything into my duffel on the passenger seat, and turn onto a shoulderless two-lane drive a few minutes later.

The further away from society I drive, the taller the trees grow, until maple, birch, and oak dominate the sky, but the road remains clear and smooth despite the encroaching forest.

I turn onto a one-lane dirt road, continue over the rise to the small cabin hidden at the end, and park beside the truck in the clearing before turning off the engine.I sit and let the silence settle over me as I study the area.

The rocking chair on the front wraparound porch slows to a stop, but whether it is from my host’s previous occupation or the wind, I’ll never know.

When the curtains remain undisturbed and all seems well, I leave my duffel in the passenger seat, place my keys on my dashboard, and slip out of the car.I shut my door with normal force, letting the thud echo through the mountains, and stride onto the porch on silent feet.After avoiding the creaky board at the edge of the mat, I pull open the screen door slow enough so it doesn’t squeak, then shove the wood door just hard enough for it to stop before it hits the wall.

When a visual check suggests no one is in the open-concept living and kitchen area, I step over the trip line stretched across the threshold and smile at the new camera hidden in the plant under the front window before ducking into each bedroom.Expecting an ambush at any time, I keep my footsteps light and my senses sharp as I walk the entire house.Still alone, I exit onto the back porch, scan the tree line, and skirt around the far side of the cabin.

The hairs on my nape stand on end.I jump off the porch and roll behind the water drums, but pain streaks across my shins.A volley of pebbles thud against the full containers.Grumbling under my breath about sneaky old men and slingshots, I grab the trowel and cultivator sticking out of the potting soil bag and run hunched over between the wooden tables to the shed.

Instead of darting inside or hiding behind it, I use the table and hop onto the roof.

My footsteps pound like thunder on the metal, but I clear the distance and lunge into the open air.

His truck dips as I land in the bed.

A black-clad figure rises from underneath near the back tire.The sun glints off his aluminum baseball bat as he swings at me.I curse, dodge, then launch myself on top of him.

We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.Sweat pours down my body as we grapple for control over the gardening tools.When he almost steals the cultivator from my grip, I smack it with the trowel and send both skipping over the gravel and under the truck to the far side.