Page 2 of Cruel Betrayal

My heart leaps into my throat as I open the console table, pressing my finger against the little pad at the back of the drawer. There’s a little flash of heat in my finger as the scanner comes to life.

The secret compartment inside the table opens, and I take out my gun and magazine, arming it and creeping through the living room and kitchen, turning down the hall toward the bedrooms.

Pictures that hang on the wall are a little jostled, though that could be from the obnoxious neighbors and their loud music. The bass shakes the ceiling of my apartment at times.

I reach the first bedroom, the guest room, pulse pounding, blood rushing in my ears.

The door is open, the same as I left it, sunlight filtering through the windows.

I open the closet, check behind the door and the bed. Hell, I even lift the curtains out of the way just to make sure that there’s nobody hiding behind there.

Nothing.

As I leave the room, I open the door to the small laundry room.

My throat closes up at the sight of the open dryer drawer, the load of leggings and sports bras I put in there this morning, gone.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Whoever they are, this time, they took things, or at least took them from where I had them, since I still have some rooms to check. They’re cleaning up after me. They had anapon my damn couch.

I should call Aiden.

The problem with that is that the freedom it took me so long to conquer will be ripped from me in a second.

So far, the stalker is a nuisance, yes, violating my space, invading my life, but they haven’t actually harmed me.

Do I really want to sacrifice my hard-won freedom, go back into the cage that was suffocating me, just to prevent some guy from coming into my house and doing house chores, or taking naps on my couch?

Pushing the thought of calling Aiden to the side, I check my bedroom.

The bed is perfectly made, the duvet cover tucked in tight so not a wrinkle shows in the ribbed material.

I’ve never made the bed a day in my life. I’ve never seen the point when I plan on getting right back into it.

But it’s made.

My entire body stiffens as I open the last place to check. The bedroom closet.

They’ve never stayed before for me to find them, and I don’t think they have now either. I’m not even sure that my stalker is a man.

Easing the door open, I hold my breath.

It’s empty.

Slumping against the wall, I sink down, squeezing my eyes shut. I keep the gun clutched tight, but I know it’s not going to do any good when there’s not anyone here to shoot.

The need to feel safe is overwhelming.

Opening my eyes, I pull out my phone, thumb hovering above Aiden’s number.

If I call him, he’s going to come over here, likely with Zoe in tow, and they’re going to tell me that moving out was a bad idea. Or that I should be closer to home. Or maybe that I should let the security team he has following me at all times into the building.

Or worse. He’ll tell me I had my fun, but playtime is over, and he’ll drag me back to the mansion.

I may hate what is happening, but I hate the idea of going back even more.

So, instead, I tap the icon for the classic literature chatroom I’m in, pulling up the last conversation.