Page 9

9

REMY

I slip into Eden’s motel room, the lock giving way easily. The stale air hits my nostrils as I move silently through the shadows, my eyes adjusting to find her makeshift workspace spread across a small table.

Files and photos litter the surface—my photos. She has been busy. I pick up one of me working on the carnival rides, muscles straining. Another captures me talking to Tyson. The edges are worn as if she’s handled them repeatedly. There are more photos all over the walls, every single one of me. My little stalker really is obsessed.

I grab her suitcase and open it. My pulse quickens as I discover a hidden panel. Inside lies a treasure trove of her obsession—newspaper clippings about disappearances, detailed notes about my daily schedule, and even receipts from places I frequent. And lots of photos of my cock she must have snapped off my computer screen.

But what catches my attention is the small collection of personal items. A coffee cup with a chip that I’d tossed days ago. A pair of my boxer briefs that still hold my scent. A work glove I thought I’d lost. Even a shirt I’d left behind at the laundromat.

“You’ve been a busy little stalker, haven’t you?” I whisper, fingering the worn fabric of my shirt. The scent of her perfume clings to it, suggesting she’s been sleeping in it.

Beneath the clothing, I find her journal.

My breath catches as I open the journal to a random page. Her neat, precise handwriting stabs at my eyes.

The fantasy consumes me. Him towering over me, those dark eyes filled with hunger. I imagine his hands on my throat, squeezing gently, cutting off my breath. My pulse pounds in my ears as I crave the pressure.

I want to feel the blade against my skin, the sharp edge contrasting his touch. He traces patterns on my body, inscribing ownership, marking me as his. I beg for more, craving the sting of the knife that will heighten my pleasure.

I’m bound and helpless. He explores my body with his mouth and his hands, owning every inch of me. His name escapes my lips like a prayer, a mantra, a plea.

“Remy.”

I yearn for the edge of sanity and want to topple over into madness with him as my guide. His kiss is my anchor, his touch my salvation. I crave the depths of his perversion and long to lose myself in the abyss of his soul.

His cock slams inside me, and his hands tighten on my body, and I shatter into a million pieces. He catches my fall and holds me together when I can’t. In his arms, I find both my destruction and salvation.

I let the journal fall from my fingers. I want to incinerate these pages and erase the evidence of her obsession, but something holds me back. Her words ignite a fire in my veins, and I am captivated by her fantasy because it’s so twisted. Suddenly, something that had fallen out of the journal caught my attention. I crouch down and pick it up, turning it over to see it’s a photo—a mugshot to be exact. It intrigues me immediately.

Who is the man in the photo?

This is a side of her she’s kept hidden away from everyone in her life, and now I hold it in my hands, a weapon more powerful than any knife.

I knew she wanted me, but this is pure insanity. An obsession I can’t help but see as an invitation to embrace the deviance of her desires. An invitation I intend to accept.

I collect the journal from the floor and slip the photo back inside, a slow smile spreading. “Fuck, you’ve got no idea what you’ve unleashed.”

I slip the journal back into its hiding spot, my fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. Eden’s words burn in my mind. That darkness she craves? It’s there, waiting, coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

My hand traces over her collection of stolen items. Each piece tells a story of her descent into obsession. The coffee cup is still stained. My boxer briefs and the work gloves that carry my scent. That shirt she’s been sleeping in.

The corner of my mouth twitches. She’s getting sloppy, leaving evidence everywhere.

I spread her photos across the bed. The angles, the timing—she must spend hours following me. In one, I’m mid-workout, muscles straining. Another catches me in the middle of pulling my shirt off while I work.

A burning hunger rises in my chest. I could take her now and end this game, but watching her unravel and composure crack each day feeds something dark within me. Her need mirrors my own, a reflection of a yearning too twisted for daylight.

I’ve watched her, too. The way she gets excited when I’m near. How her breath catches when our eyes meet. The slight tremor in her hands as she pretends to take notes about the carnival. Each sign of her crumbling control is a victory, sweet as blood on my tongue.

Let her think she’s the hunter. Let her obsession grow until it consumes her. When she finally breaks, when the last thread of her sanity snaps, I’ll claim her. Not a moment before.