Page 14 of Little Author

I woke up slowly for once.

The kind of morning where light filters through the curtains just right, warm and gold, the bed still soft from sleep. My limbs felt heavy in that delicious way. Relaxed. I buried my face in the pillow, breathing deep. No alarm yet. No pressure.

For a few seconds, everything felt…quiet.

Like maybe the night had just been a night.

Like I could pretend I hadn’t been unraveling.

Then I blinked, sat myself up in bed. Stretched like a barnyard cat and felt way too many cracks.

That was when I noticed it.

Stabbed into the wood around my window, a note.

My heart stuttered and felt as though it had stopped completely. I pushed the blankets off and walked across the room slowly, still half-dreaming, but already knowing.

The black button was gone.

I knew exactly where I’d left it. It was right on the windowsill, daring him to climb up my building like some weirdo super villain and steal it. It was sitting like a dark little secret just for him.

Now…it wasn’t there anymore.

But something else was.

A different button.

Blue.

Deep navy. Matte. Slightly larger than the black one, its edges were worn down, as if it had been gripped too tightly for too long. It sat there neatly, as if it had always belonged.

My pulse dropped straight to the pit of my stomach.

I picked it up.

It was cold and heavy.

My room smelled like him. It was overwhelming.

It sank into my skin the moment I touched the button.

He had been here.

I turned, heart thudding, and panic tight in my ribs now. I scanned the floor, and there were white rose petals crumbled on the ground.

The piece of paper was torn from a notepad. It had scribbled words from my own hand. His name. His real name. My secret stories of nothing but filth and depravity.

I swallowed hard and pulled the knife free. The same white petals floated down, freed from their piercing cage.

I couldn’t breathe.

My breath left my body all at once. I couldn’t focus on the words, didn’t remember tears starting to form in my eyes, but now they were rolling down my cheeks.

The note and the button were in my hands. My fingers were shaking.

I had to wipe my eyes to even make out the blood red ink on the page.

“Blue for how deep you’ll bruise when my hands are on that pale skin of yours, Little Author.”

-R

Those words. All slanted, jagged. Like he couldn’t even be bothered to write slowly, like he was vibrating with a need of his own.

And his signature.

He didn’t need one, but he wanted me to read that letter.

Wanted me to know it was him.

“Holy shit. This is real. This is...”

I stood there too long, too still. The smell of him lingered in the air, faint but thick, as if the room itself was exhaling it.

That same scent from the prison’s therapy room, and the crime scene by the fountain. The one I’d written into so many chapters, I’d lost count. Woodsmoke, sweat, copper, something sharp and unholy. Something dangerous and inviting. His scent dripped in masculinity, sex, and death.

It sank into my skin the moment I touched the button.

And now, it clung to the windowsill, my sheets, and something horrible bloomed between my legs again.

No.

I clenched my thighs together. Hard. Tears still streaming down my stupid face.

He came into my room while I slept. He’d taken the black button, and in it’s place he left a blue one. He used my damn knife to stab the note into the window frame . As if to prove I couldn’t protect myself from him.

“He is telling you he sees you, you idiot. Lock your window and your door and burn this house down. Go tell Jannette to move out of the downstairs apartment and get the fuck out, ya daft dick head. This is touched in the head. You are as mad as a box of fucking frogs. Stop this.”

I looked back at the window and realized the placement wasn’t random.

He’d put the new button where the old one had been . Exactly.

It wasn’t just a gift.

It was a replacement.

He knew the black one was a token for him, and he gave me a confirmation in return.

Does he remember me? Could he have seen me all those times behind the glass?

My stomach twisted. I should have felt violated. I should’ve screamed, or called someone, or cried.

But instead, I stood there with the note in one hand, the blue button in the other, and my pulse pounding between my thighs like a betrayal.

I was soaked. Already.

And I hated myself for it.

Hated that I knew later I would hold this button in my grip and come from recreating the scene of him inside my house.

This American psychopath knew how to get me gagging for it, and he fucking knew it.

What kind of person gets wet when they realize they’ve been watched while sleeping?

What kind of sane woman reads a threat, a threat that doesn’t even bother to be subtle, and yet gets soaked like she wants it?

Me.

I bit down on my tongue and tried to ignore the heat crawling over my skin. But I could feel it. Low and deep. A pulse that wouldn’t quit. Shame laced through every beat of it.

This is going to save people.

I was going to break him. He would get caught, and this time his crimes would stick.

I dropped the note on the desk and moved toward the mirror.

I hated what I saw there.

Not because I looked scared.

But because I looked proper turned on.

I knew I was turned on. I may as well have been a man with a stonker. I could feel the shame leak down my thighs even now.

There was a flush blooming high on my cheeks, covering my freckles. My lips were parted, a moan on the tip of my tongue. My pupils were blown wide, swallowing the pale brown. I looked like someone who had just been fucked, hard, and I wasn’t sure if I regretted it.

Maybe I didn’t.

My hands were shaking.

“Get a fucking grip, Elodie!”

I backed away and splashed cold water over my face in the bathroom. I didn’t look in the mirror again.

But even hours later, long after I forced myself to dress, the scent was still there. I swear it lingered on my pillow and in my hair. The blue button was still in my pocket. Heavy like a weight I didn’t want to let go of.

My phone rang, and it felt like a physical shock. My breath was shaky, but I answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ellie. I wanted to see if you got my flowers? We had a weird night. I was really thrown off, but I was hoping we could go for a cuppa at the pub and chat some? You were a good girl.”

I scrunched my nose. “Good girl” made me roll my eyes. It took all of two seconds to realize the man on the phone was Jules. He wanted to be a dom so badly, but the guy sounded like those cheesy boyfriend ASMR guys.

“Uh, hey.” I glanced over to the crumpled flower petals on the ground. Looks like my stalker didn’t like other men’s gifts. “I wasn’t expecting a call, but yeah, we can hang. When?”

The blue button felt warmer, and I wondered if my shadow was going to enjoy watching me with another man. Maybe I would give him a show, teach him a lesson for snooping.

You are a fucking daft git, Elodie.

I ignored my mind’s ramblings and punched in the bar that Jules wanted to meet up at.

“Is like…now okay?”

“Now? It’s ten in the morning. Don’t normal people have work?”

As an author, I wrote whenever I wanted. Sure, a lot of my job involved social networking and being a public face to society, but for the most part, I was on my own schedule. I didn’t answer to anyone’s timeline but my own.

“Normal people?” he parroted. “Yeah, I keep odd hours these days.”

“Sorry, I meant like—I don’t know, never mind. Sure, Jules, I will meet you there in ten.”

This thick bastard better get his graft on.

I spotted Jules before he noticed me, leaning against the bar table, nursing a few bevvies like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His messy dark hair caught the dim light, and the familiar set of his jaw made me remember how hard I smacked him the night we had that awful shag.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and slid onto the stool beside him, heart hammering like I’d run a mile.

He turned slowly, a slow smile creeping across his face, equal parts amusement and something like surprise.

“Well, if it isn’t Elodie,” he said, voice low, casual, but not quite warm. “You came. Not like the other night.”

“Hey,” I said, forcing a tight smile. “Thanks for the…uh…invite. How are you? How is work?”

Truth be told, I had no idea what he even did. Dating apps aren’t exactly known for honesty anyway.

Jules shrugged, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Work’s a mess. You?”

“Same,” I said, trying to sound indifferent, but my throat felt raw. “Writing’s been...complicated lately.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That so? Complicated how? Don’t you just write shit and push a button for people to read it?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to go on a tangent about the difficulties of being an author. Not like he would care anyway.

“Just… stuff I’m not ready to show anyone,” I said finally. “Stories that get too close to real.”

He nodded slowly. “I get that. Sometimes the real stuff’s the hardest to face.”

There was a beat of silence. “So what about you? You said work is a mess? What’s going on?”

Jules snorted, a bitter edge to it. “Job’s a joke. Just fixing cars and dodging idiots all day. Not exactly the dream job, but it pays the bills, I guess. I’m not a spring chicken, and my ex-wife keeps telling me she needs me to get a real job to pay child support. But I don’t know.”

I smiled a little, trying to keep things light. “Oh. Well, at least you’re able to show your kids the cars?”

He shrugged again. “Some days, I guess. They don’t really give a shit, really. It’s all social media and their faces glued to their damn phones. Some days, I wonder if I’d be better off just walking away.”

I felt a pang. That vulnerability caught me off guard. My bleeding heart was a damn curse, and even idiots like them, I found myself wanting to save them. Change them. Make them better for themselves, if not the world. It was probably why I was painfully single.

“You’re not thinking of leaving your kids, are you?” I ventured softly.

“Maybe,” he said, eyes flicking to the door. “Sometimes it feels like everything’s just...waiting to fall apart.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how fragile we both felt.

Then the door slammed open.

She walked in like a storm, her blonde hair perfect, her lips painted a glossy red, her hips swaying with confidence that made my blood freeze.

Jules’s face lit up immediately, eyes sparkling with a warmth I hadn’t seen when we spoke, even if it was just a fucking app. Screw me for thinking this vulnerable moment meant something.

The blonde slid onto the stool beside him. Her voice was a velvety purr. She reminded me of a fucking hooker and dressed like one, too.

“Hey, stranger.”

He grinned, leaning toward her, fingers brushing hers.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

“Still fixing cars and breaking hearts, Julesy?” The blonde laughed softly.

Jules shrugged, eyes flicking to me for a second before returning to her.

“Something like that.”

I clenched my fists under the bar, my cheeks burning.

I wanted to leave, to disappear. But I was glued there, watching them, feeling every sharp sting of jealousy twist inside me. Not because I gave a shit about this idiot, but because I always felt like part of the background.

I couldn’t stop my eyes from flickering to the window of the bar, the button burning a hole in my pocket.