Page 11 of He Followed Me First

My head is splitting—sharp, rhythmic pulses drilling through my left temple and ricocheting along my hairline like fault lines ready to crack.

What the hell happened?

Well, I’m alive. That counts for something. If Manticore had me, I wouldn’t be breathing—I know that much. No, this is different. Someone else intercepted. Someone who wants me out of the way but not permanently. Not yet at least.

Talia might still have my signal… unless they’ve taken my phone.

I keep my eyes shut, let my other senses pick up the slack. There’s traffic—car horns, a busker maybe, distant chatter muffled through glass. Floorboards creak somewhere above me. Still in the city, or a city. That narrows it to roughly… everywhere.

Then something shifts against me—heavy, warm, rhythmic. Purring?

A cat. There’s a cat in my lap.

So… not a warehouse. Not the trunk of a car. I’m in a house.

Well, that’s new.

The groan of a door jerks my eyes open—but the light hits like a hammer, detonating behind my eyelids and dragging a raw scream straight through my skull. My head pulses in bright, blistering waves. Nothing makes sense.

Shapes lurch in and out of focus. The ceiling—off-white and cracked. A light bulb flickers, or maybe that’s just my vision short-circuiting. I try to move, but something pulls at my arms, heavy and tight.

Footsteps filter through and when my vision returns enough for me to see shapes, I spot the figure standing nearby—watching silently. But I can’t tell if it’s familiar.

I blink hard, trying to bring her into focus. A woman. Tall? Short? Everything keeps shifting. Her face—it sparks recognition, but my brain can’t stick the landing.

Do I know her?

Did she do this to me?

My wrists ache. I twist, trying to make sense of anything, and that’s when I realise, I’m bound.

Fuck.

I’m tied up.

I don’t remember the fight. I don’t even remember losing it. Just the darkness—and now this. Someone’s flat, maybe?

This wasn’t the plan.

None of this was the plan.

“Afternoon.”

Her voice, although barely more than a whisper, thunders through my head.

Nausea rises through my chest and I allow my eyes to fall shut again, trying to piece together what the fuck has happened.

“So, stalker boy, you’re probably wondering where you are, how you got here—”

“You hit me?”

I cut her off, beating her to the punch.

How the hell did she manage this? She’s barely five feet tall and built like a stray gust. Have I actually gotten this sloppy? Gotten so complacent I forgot how to cover my own back?

“Well, yes,”

she says, annoyingly unfazed.

“But if you’d let me finish—”

“And you’re trying to stop me taking down Manticore.”

Her brows pull together, eyes narrowing—not with guilt, but confusion. Those eyes—bright green, shadowed with something unreadable—bury into my soul like a leech.

“I don’t know who that is,”

she says slowly.

“And no. But if you’d stop interrupting, I will explain.”

The arrogance drips off her. She’s so proud of herself, so busy basking in this little victory that she doesn’t even realise the scale of what she’s done.

And then it clicks.

The broadband technician from a couple of days ago. Unbelievable! I let her in. I fucking invited her through the door.

I really am losing my edge.

“My friend, Darcy Miller. Have a little obsession with her, do you?”

You have got to be kidding me.

“I’ve watched you watching her. I’ve seen the way you follow her around, and I heard you talking about kidnapping her. So, what was in the bag? Your kidnapping kit? Is that what you were doing when I caught you? You sick pervert.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done—”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’ve done. I’ve protected my friend from a predator.”

The cat stretches in my lap, still purring incessantly. She scowls, snatching it from me and drops it in the other room.

She thought I was the one trying to kidnap Darcy? Christ. Someone really didn’t do their homework.

“Let me guess,”

I say, voice low, teeth bared more than smiling.

“She’s not answering your calls, is she? Gone quiet?”

The flicker in her expression is all the confirmation I need.

“Well then. If that isn’t poetic justice, I don’t know what is.”

She hasn’t just put her friend in danger—she’s practically served her up. And if I’m right, she’ll be next on their list. They always move onto their next victim quick, and nine times out of ten it’s always someone close to their last victim. And in Darcy’s case, this girl, I believe, might be her closest friend.

“No,”

she says, but her voice is hollow, the start of a denial that doesn’t even convince her.

“She’s just… busy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t stalking her. I was protecting her. And thanks to your little head-thumping ambush, you’ve just handed her over to something that’ll haunt your dreams.”

I watch the colour drain from her face. That smug, self-righteous shine vanishes in a blink. Good.

“I don’t believe you,”

she says, though it’s more reflex than certainty.

“I saw you. You’re seriously expecting me to think you weren’t following her?”

“Oh, I was following her. Closely. And I was two seconds away from taking the shot that would’ve saved her life. And you? You took me out, right before the moment that mattered.”

Her breath hitches.

“You’ve been playing vigilante with half a story and a bat. Meanwhile, there’s a whole operation hunting her down—and now they’ve got her. Because of you. So, congratulations. You didn’t just catch the wrong guy. You handed her over.”

She leans in, eyes narrowed, scanning my face like she’s hunting for cracks. A scowl tugs at her mouth, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she shifts slowly and raises a wooden rolling pin into view, its surface dark and sticky with dried blood.

My blood, most likely.

The grip she has on it isn’t hesitant. It’s practiced. Steady. Suddenly, it’s not just an improvised weapon—it’s a statement.

“Wait here.”

Like where the hell else am I going to go?

The moment she turns her back, I make a half-hearted attempt to shift the chair—not that it gets me anywhere. Until I can wriggle free of these overachieving knots, I’m about as useful as a rug.

From the doorway, the cat watches. Judging me with those devil slit eyes.

It waits precisely until she leaves the room before sashaying back in, tail held high like royalty returning to court. It hops onto my lap—its throne, apparently—and settles in with a purr that sounds downright smug.

Perfect. Held hostage, and now I’m a cushion too.