Page 20 of Little Spider

When I pull out the phone, it’s not from her. It’s from my guy.

You’re going too far. She’s not like the others.

I scoff, flicking the message away. He doesn’t get it. None of them do. This isn’t a mindless chase. It’s not about breaking her. It’s about peeling her open, layer by layer, seeing how much fear she can take before she cracks.

I pocket the phone and slip down a side street, hands in my pockets, keeping to the shadows. She will go to a crowded place, where she feels safe. She doesn’t understand that it doesn’t matter where she runs. I’ll always be there.

A part of me almost hates how easy it is. How predictable she is. But there’s something thrilling about it, too. Like guiding a moth closer to the flame, knowing it’s too stupid to realise it’s going to burn.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s her.

Leave me alone. Please.

I smile, slow and wicked, and text back.

You don’t really want that, do you? You like the chase. You like the fear. I can see it in your eyes every time you look for me. You’re hoping I’m there, waiting to catch you.

The way she replies almost instantly makes me shiver with satisfaction.

Stop it. You’re sick.

I can’t help but laugh, the sound low and rough. Sick? Maybe. But I know her type. I saw it that first day, when she glanced over her shoulder just to make sure I wasn’t following, a flicker of something almost like curiosity in her eyes.

She likes danger. She hates she likes it.

I send another message, taking my time to craft the words just right.

You’re mine. You don’t get to decide when this ends. I do. And I’m not done playing yet.

A car passes by, headlights briefly illuminating my face, but I don’t flinch. I’m not the one who needs to hide. I let the darkness wrap around me again, slipping into the next alley as I follow the faint trail of her scent.

I know that my actions tonight are dangerous. Pushing harder than usual. Usually, I draw it out—little hints, little nudges to make her think she’s imagining things. But tonight, I can’t help it. Seeing her so scared, so raw, has me on edge. I want to see more.

I light another cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating my face. I take a drag, savouring the burn. My phone buzzes with another message—this time a voice note from her. I almost purr as I hit play.

Her voice, cracked and desperate:

“Please… just tell me what you want. I can’t keep doing this. I’m… I’m scared. You win. Just stop.”

A thrill ripples through me, sharp and sweet. I hit record, my voice dropping to a low, almost tender rasp.

“Little Spider, don’t you see? You don’t get to decide when the game ends. I’ll stop when I’m done unravelling you. When you’re mine. And you will be. You already are.”

I know she’s crying when she hears it. I can almost feel her breath catching, the way she tries to swallow down the fear. It’s beautiful.

I push off the wall and head toward the next intersection, checking the bus schedule. I know which one she’ll take—the one that loops back around the city, giving her a chance to breathe, to feel safe.

The last bus of the night pulls up, and I slip into the back, keeping my head low. A few other passengers mumble to themselves, but none of them notices me. I settle in, phone in hand, waiting for the right moment.

When the bus lurches to a stop a few blocks away from the park, I see her. She’s hunched over in the farthest seat, hood pulled low, knees drawn up.

Perfect.

I stay where I am, watching her reflection in the dirty window. She’s shaking, wiping her face with her sleeve, trying to disappear into herself. It makes my chest ache—like I want to reach out and hold her, and at the same time, rip her apart.

I hit record again, my voice dropping to that smooth, dark timbre that I know crawls under her skin.

“You’re running again, Little Spider. But you’re not getting anywhere. I’m already here. I’m always here.”