Page 41 of Hollow Forest

I conjured an image of the masked man in my head, willing my body to accept this.

“Monster,” I whispered, dropping my head back against the shower wall. “Please….”

The rapid stream of water was a piss-poor alternative. Giving up seemed the best thing to do. I wasn’t going to find the relief I needed. Not when the memory of his mouth, his tongue, his fingers taunted me.

“Monster!”

A dark laugh rang through the bathroom. “That is the prettiest prayer I’ve ever head, my little doe.”

I squeaked and dropped the handle. Water sprayed up as the attachment writhed on the floor.

The frosted glass door clicked open, and there, standing in the billow of escaping steam, was my stalker.

“Way to scare me to death!” I wheezed, slapping a hand over my chest.

Midnight eyes studied me from behind the half mask. They darkened with hunger. “You can end this.”

I shook my head violently, wet strands of hair sticking to my face. “Don’t come near me!”

“But my name is an invitation,” he countered.

“It’s not.”

Chuckling, he pulled the hem of his long-sleeved tee over his head. My mouth fucking watered at the work of art. The black garment fell to the floor, and my stalker braced an arm on either side of the shower door. I drank in the sight. That body was cut in hard lines. Muscles that were honed for battle, not just decorative, flexed as a fine sheen of condensation misted over his olive skin. And the ink…. Oh, heaven above, that ink! It decorated the monster in black images. Both his arms were sleeves. A chest piece told a story I couldn’t decipher. Across his heart was a raven, and right on his pubic line was a word in gothic script.

But the ink couldn’t hide the scab healing from that night I chased him in the woods. I looked away, dropping my gaze to the gothic script once more as my cheeks flamed at the memory of the forest.

“It means death,” he translated.

I snapped my gaze to his. “Creepy.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m done waiting, and I think you are too.”

“You said you wouldn’t touch me!” I protested and scrambled back, but the fight was fast leaving my bones. I just had to reach out. One brush of my fingers over that carved torso, and it was over.

“Alright then. Don’t.” The monster reached for the shelf and took my cheap razor. He smashed the plastic against the wall.

A strangled scream stuck in my throat.

His hand came away wet with watery crimson. The three tiny blades were free. I flattened myself against the wall, horror quenching the raging lust. He plucked one of the blades free and raised his hand.

There wasn’t time to be frightened.

He moved.

With sure, decisive movements, he drew the small razor over his chest. Right over his heart. I let out a terrified shriek as blood bubbled from the cuts.

“Stop!”

“Make me,” he rasped and continued to cut.

Through the panic, I realized he was writing something. Fear clutched my throat. The monster wasn’t looking at the scratched letters. His molten gaze was fixed on me.

Grabbing the towel that hung over the edge of the shower, I rushed to him. With a shove, I pushed his hand away, but not before I read the word.

The name.

My name.