Page 17

17

EDEN

T he carnival’s silence feels eerie today. There is no cheerful music, no excited screams from the rides, no constant chatter of visitors. There is stillness, broken only by my rapid heartbeat, as I hear Remy’s boots on the metal steps outside.

He hasn’t spent much time in here. I’ve noticed his avoidance, the way he comes in only to check on me or give me basic necessities, returning to sleep in the dead of night, but today is different. The door opens and his presence fills the confined space of the trailer.

“Miss me, little stalker?” His voice carries that dangerous edge that makes my skin tingle.

I shift in my seat, the chain around my ankle clinking against the metal frame. “You’ve been busy.”

“Observant as ever.” He moves closer, his fingers trailing along the wall. “That’s what got you into this mess, right?”

My breath catches as he stops behind me. His hands rest on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense muscles of my neck. The touch is both threatening and intimate.

“You know what I’ve realized?” His grip tightens. “You’re not scared enough of me. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I’ve been too lenient.”

I try to turn my head to look at him, but his hold keeps me facing forward. “I know what you are, Remy. I’ve always known.”

His laugh is low. “No, beautiful. You think you know. You’ve built fantasies in that fucked up mind of yours. But reality?” His fingers slide up into my hair, gripping hard. “Reality is so much darker.”

The familiar rush of fear and arousal floods through me. This is what I’ve craved since the moment he snatched me, his attention, his darkness matching mine, but something is different today. An edge to his energy makes me wonder if I’ve underestimated him.

The sudden absence of his touch leaves me cold. I watch as he moves to the small kitchen area, his broad shoulders filling the narrow space. The sound of cabinets opening and closing and plates clinking fills the silence.

“Hungry?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, already preparing what looks like eggs and toast.

My stomach growls. Five days of this routine—him bringing me food, watching me eat, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The memory of that first day in the lockup burns hot in my mind, his hands on my skin, his promises of what was to come, but since then? Other than him forcing me to suck his cock after my shower, there’s been nothing but these loaded exchanges.

He sets the plate in front of me, closer than necessary. His scent washes over me, pure male.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

“Such good manners.” His fingers brush my shoulder. “Eat.”

I pick up the fork, aware of his eyes on me. Every bite feels like foreplay, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“How does it feel being away from your collection for so long,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Missing your serial killer memorabilia?”

Heat floods my cheeks. Of course, he knows about that, too. “No.”

“No?” His eyebrow raises. “Found something more interesting to obsess over?”

I set down my fork, meeting his gaze. “You know I have.”

“Careful, beautiful.” His tone drops. “Your obsession might be the death of you.”

The eggs turn to ash in my mouth. It’s the first time he’s directly threatened me. Instead of fear, I feel that familiar twist of arousal in my gut.

The plate sits empty between us, but Remy makes no move to take it away or leave. Instead, he settles onto his worn leather couch, stretching his long legs out.

“Don’t you have work?” I ask.

“Day off.” His lips curve into that dangerous smile. “Thought I’d spend it at home.”

I shift in my seat. The trailer suddenly feels smaller, more confined, with him lounging there, watching me with those predatory eyes. He picks up a book, but I can tell he’s not reading it.

“Stop staring, beautiful.” He doesn’t look up from the pages. “It’s rude.”

I force myself to look away, but my skin prickles with awareness. The sound of pages turning, his steady breathing, and the occasional shift of leather as he moves all fill my senses until I can barely think straight.

Hours crawl by. He makes coffee, the rich aroma pungent. His hand grazes my shoulder when he brushes past me to reach the sugar. The touch, though brief, sets every nerve ending in my body on fire.

“Need anything?” His voice carries a hint of amusement, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I give a sharp shake of my head.

He chuckles, low and dark. “You sure about that?” His fingers trail along my neck as he returns to his seat. “You seem tense.”

My hands clench in my lap. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” He sets his coffee down, the clink of ceramic against wood making me jump. “But that’s what got you here, isn’t it? All those pretty lies you told yourself while you stalked me.”

The room feels too hot and too small. Remy’s presence overwhelms everything—my thoughts, senses, and control—and he knows it. I see how he watches me, like a cat playing with its prey.

“I could help with that tension,” he says casually, but there’s nothing casual about the look in his eyes.

“No thanks.” My fingers twist in my lap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

The lie tastes bitter. Every night, sleep eludes me as I lie on the thin mattress, hyper-aware of his presence on the bed next to me. His breathing, the occasional rustle of sheets, it’s torture of the sweetest kind.

During the days he’s gone, I find myself drawn to his computer like a moth to flame. The photos stored there feed my obsession—Remy naked and stroking his hard cock. I touch myself to these images, imagining his hands instead of mine, his breath on my neck.

“Suit yourself.” He stretches, and my breath catches as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Damn, the trailer gets like an oven this time of day.”

I try not to stare as he settles onto the couch, flicking on the TV. It’s impossible. My eyes have a mind of their own, tracing the intricate patterns inked across his skin. Dark lines flow over his shoulders, arms, and chest.

The TV’s drone fades to background noise as I follow a particular design that curves around his ribs. All I want is to trace those lines with my fingers instead of just my gaze.

“See something you like?” His voice carries that knowing tone that makes heat pool in my belly.

I snap my eyes away, but the damage is done. He knows. I’m so obsessed with him that this forced proximity only makes my obsession more impossible to ignore.

I bolt from my seat, rushing to the bathroom. The lock clicks into place, and I press my back against the door, sliding down until I hit the cold tile floor.

My thighs rub together of their own accord, seeking relief from the burning need that’s consuming me. The mirror across from me reflects a woman I barely recognize—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips parted with uneven breaths.

What is wrong with me? Here I am, locked in a killer’s trailer, and instead of planning my escape, I’m fantasizing about his hands on my body. The collection of serial killer memorabilia in my apartment seems almost innocent compared to this twisted desire.

I study my reflection, searching for answers. My professional mask has cracked, revealing the pure obsidian depths underneath. Something that’s always been there, lurking behind carefully crafted podcasts about criminal psychology. I’m not just fascinated by the darkness anymore—I’m drowning in it, and the scariest part is that I don’t want to surface.

My fingers trace my collarbone where his touch still burns. The woman in the mirror stares back at me, green eyes wild with a hunger I can’t suppress. Maybe this is who I’ve always been – not the detached observer of darkness but a willing participant.

I close my eyes, but all I see is Remy’s knowing smirk, the predatory grace of his movements, the dangerous promise in his eyes. He sees right through me, past all my carefully constructed walls, straight to the twisted core of who I am.

And that terrifies me more than any chain or lock ever could.