Page 60 of Little Spider

Nothing. Just the wind rattling loose metal.

I slam my fist against the brick wall, trying to bleed out the rage, but it just makes it worse. I pace, scanning every shadow, waiting for her to make a mistake.

She’s smart. Clever little thing. But I know her now—I know her patterns, her thoughts. She’s trying to double back, find a place to hide where she can catch her breath.

Fine. I’ll let her think she’s safe. I’ll give her that illusion just long enough to let her guard down.

But when I find her—and I will find her—I’ll make her pay for this. I’ll make sure she knows there’s no escaping me, no tricking me.

I lean against the wall, catching my breath, eyes narrowed. My hands shake—not from exhaustion, but from barely controlled fury.

She wants to make this a game again? Fine. I’ll play. But this time, when I catch her, I will not be gentle. I’m going to make her scream until she forgets what it feels like to run.

I close my eyes, listening, calculating. She couldn’t have gone far. She’s smart, but she’s still scared. And fear makes people predictable.

When I find her, I’ll remind her who she belongs to and I’ll make sure she never even thinks about leaving me again.

I stand there, fists clenched, the wind biting at my face, but I don’t feel the cold. All I feel is rage—hot, thick, suffocating. It crawls up my throat like bile, burning my skin from the inside out.

She ran.

Again.

After everything I did. After everything I fucking gave her.

I can’t believe it. My teeth grind so hard my jaw aches, and I have to force myself to breathe before I punch something—someone. I look around, half-expecting her to be hiding in the shadows, waiting for me to storm past so she can slip out behind me.

“You ungrateful little bitch,” I snarl under my breath, pacing the length of the alley, dragging my fingers through my hair. Sheactually thought she could leave after the way she screamed my name, the way she begged me to take her.

It doesn’t make sense. I did everything right. I gave her what she needed, pushed her to the edge, made her feel something real for once in her miserable, lonely life. I was gentle—well, gentler than I wanted to be. I didn’t hurt her as much as I could have. I gave her exactly what she needed.

And she fucking ran.

I slam my fist against the brick wall, the skin splitting, blood trickling down my knuckles. The pain barely registers. I want to break something—rip this entire building apart brick by brick.

“Stupid, reckless girl,” I mutter, kicking a dented trash can so hard it skids into the opposite wall. I pace, every muscle coiled tight, my mind spinning out of control.

She was perfect—so fucking perfect, all laid out and vulnerable, mine for the taking. And I made her come apart, piece by piece. I saw the way she broke, the way her body betrayed her even as her mind fought it. She fucking liked it. She loved it.

I press my bloody hand to my forehead, trying to slow my breathing, but it doesn’t work. Images flash through my mind—her crying, begging, clawing at me like she couldn’t get enough. I did that. I made her feel like that. I ruined her, just like I promised.

And then she had the nerve to run.

A vicious snarl rips from my throat, and I kick the wall, the impact reverberating through my leg. I feel like I’m losing it, like my head’s splitting open with the sheer, maddening frustration of it all.

“You don’t get to fucking leave me,” I growl, voice ragged. “After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve given you.”

I can’t fucking think straight. My vision blurs, and I lean against the wall, trying to force myself to calm down, butit’s impossible. She’s in my head, twisting me up, making me question everything.

Why would she leave after that? After I proved to her she’s mine, that she needs me? Is she that goddamn stupid? Does she really think I’ll just let her slip away like she doesn’t belong to me?

I can’t stand it. The thought of her out there, wandering the city alone, thinking she’s free. Thinking she got away. The anger coils tighter, and I feel like I might snap, like my hands are itching to grab something—someone—and break it in half.

“You don’t get to leave me,” I mutter again, running my tongue over my teeth, tasting the metallic tang of blood. “I’ve put too much into you. Spent too much time—too much fucking effort. You’re mine.”

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t see how much I’ve invested in her. I spent so much time watching, planning, waiting for the perfect moment to make her see she belongs to me. She doesn’t get to throw that away.

My fists clench, and I force myself to breathe. I’m not just pissed—I’m insulted. She thinks I’m just a fleeting obsession she can shake off. Like she doesn’t realise I’ve been planning this for months—fuck, she thinks its only been months, like I’m some tragic character in a cheesy romance novel who saw her and decided she was mine. I sneer at the absurdity, my obsession has been years in the making. All the girls before her were merely just a test before I was ready for her, she thinks my obsession started since that first night I saw her sitting alone, looking like a lost little thing begging to be claimed.