Page 33 of Little Spider

He’s already here.

The door swings shut behind me, the latch clicking into place, but I can’t move. I press my back against the wall and pull my legs up to my chest, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s here—inside, somewhere, watching me unravel.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I force myself to look at the screen. Another message.

You’re learning, Little Spider. You let me in. Now, are you going to keep pretending you don’t want this?

I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, my chest heaving. I know he’s close—so close I can almost feel his breath on my neck. I reach out to the lamp, fingers trembling, and switch it off. Darkness swallows the room, and I sink deeper into the shadows.

Another message. A voice note. I press play, almost dropping the phone when his voice spills out, low and intimate.

“You feel that, don’t you? The way the dark wraps around you like I would. You can’t see me, but you can feel me. Touch yourself, Raven. Let mehear how scared you are—how much you hate you want this.”

My heart slams against my ribs, and my thighs clench, heat pooling low in my stomach despite the fear. I can’t. I can’t let him push me like this.

You’re not moving. Are you too scared, Little Spider? Or are you waiting for me to make the first move?

A sob claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down. I can’t give him that satisfaction. I type back, fingers shaking.

You’re sick. You need help.

The reply is instant.

Sick for wanting to make you feel alive? For wanting to hear you gasp when I touch you? You’re the one who keeps opening the door, Raven. You’re the one who can’t help but answer.

Another voice message. I hit play, breath hitching.

“Picture it—my hands on your hips, pushing you back against the wall. My mouth tracing your throat, hearing you whimper. You wouldn’t fight me, would you? You’d shiver, tilt your head back, let me mark you. You’d try to say no, but it would come out like a moan.”

My hands shake so hard I drop the phone, and it clatters to the floor. I cover my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the way his words sink into me, crawling under my skin. I hate him. I hate how he makes me feel—how he knows exactly how to twist me into something I don’t recognise.

I force myself to grab the phone, typing back.

You don’t know anything about me.

His reply is immediate.

I know everything. I know how your breath catches when you think I’m close. I know you keep checking the mirror, hoping I’ll be there. I know you left the door unlocked just now. Did you mean to, or were you hoping I’d come in and make you forget why you’re scared?

I whip around, eyes darting to the door. I don’t remember locking it. My legs are too shaky to stand, and I slide to the floor, fingers clutching the phone like it’s the only solid thing left.

I’ll make you a deal. Be honest, and I’ll give you what you want. Lie, and I’ll make you pay for it. Ready?

I hesitate, teeth worrying my lower lip.

What do you want me to say?

The truth. I’m asking again: Do you think about me when you’re alone?

My fingers hover over the keys. I hate that I’m hesitating. I hate the answer isn’t as clear as it should be. I finally force myself to type.

Yes.

Good girl.

A wave of heat rushes through me, and I can’t stand how his praise makes my pulse race. I press my back harder against the wall, trying to stay anchored.

Next question: Do you want me to touch you?