Page 3 of My Masked Stalker (Beautiful Stalkers #1)

KILLIAN

I ’ve been watching my little teacher for a month now.

The weather’s turning, and I can see my breath misting the air from my perch on the rooftop.

I considered installing cameras in her apartment, but there’s something so intimate about seeing her without a screen between us.

So I come here when I’m not on a job or following her through the city, watching her move around her home.

Her curtains are open throughout, and she’s giving me a clear view.

Because she knows I’m here.

After I took care of Chris and then Evan—though I don’t think she knows about that one—I couldn’t resist letting her know why they died. I sent her a simple message: You’re mine. No one touches you.

I watched her read it, saw the color drain from her face, saw her eyes widen with fear.

She was sitting on a park bench during her lunch break, and I was close enough to see her hands shake.

During the weeks that followed, I got even closer, enough to take in her scent of vanilla and strawberries, a scent as innocent as she is.

Well, as she looks . Because she never reported my messages to the police, and I did send her more.

After that first one, it was like a dam breaking.

I sent her praises. Thank you for the show. I came so fucking hard watching you finger your pussy on the kitchen counter.

I sent her orders. Wear that red dress today. I fucking love how your tits look in it.

I sent her warnings. Delete the dating apps. I’ll know if you don’t.

She obeyed. So, tonight, I want to send her something else. Me.

My skull mask covers the bottom half of my face, and I have a hoodie pulled over my head, so I’m not afraid of her recognizing me, even if she did whip out binoculars.

As she twirls her fork in her spaghetti dish, I put down my own binos and pull up the one-sided text thread.

She hasn’t replied yet, but she also hasn’t blocked me. Not that I’d allow that.

I’m jealous of the fork, sweetheart. Want that mouth on me.

I watch as the message gets delivered… and then read.

I step onto the ledge facing her kitchen window, the moon bright behind me.

Her figure becomes clearer as she approaches the glass separating us, and I know the moment she spots me.

Her hand comes up to her mouth, and though I can’t see her expression without the magnification, I can only imagine her round eyes.

Gray. They’re a pale, ashen gray, and something I think about often when I jerk off in the shower.

The longer she looks at me, the harder my cock gets.

The anticipation is electric. What will she do?

Will she finally reply? Will she close the curtains and hide?

Every moment she stays feels like a victory.

She can’t deny my existence when I’m right in front of her—in a way.

The street is between us, but I’m running out of patience for it to stay that way much longer.

Emily stays by her window for long minutes, as if she’s taking in the sight of me. I wonder if she sees the predator who has her in his sights. The ex-Scout Sniper. The mercenary. The animal salivating to sink his teeth into her.

Subconsciously, I grab my crotch through my cargo pants and squeeze my dick. My thoughts and her eyes on me have me frothing at the mouth. When her hand follows my lead, moving down to her breast, I grin into my mask.

That’s my good girl.

As if waking from a trance, Emily drops her hand and takes a hurried step back. Then two. Then disappears out of line of sight. But she leaves the curtains open.

∞∞∞

I glance at my phone, monitoring Emily’s location. She’s at her friend, Barbara’s, drinking and gossiping. It's been weeks since I first made myself known, and she still hasn’t told her so-called best friend about me. Any sane woman would. File a report. Change her locks.

But not my Emily.

She keeps me to herself.

She’s intrigued. Tempted. Maybe scared—but not enough to run. That tells me all I need to know.

After all, I haven’t hurt her—I kept her from getting hurt by the scum she’d been dating. And I’ll keep protecting her, even from herself. That’s why I’m nearby, making sure she doesn’t walk home alone.

“Are you going to keep staring at that phone?” Damien rumbles, his voice carrying easily over the din of the bar.

My eyes flick up to the blond EMT’s. He patched me and Ethan up more times than I can count back in the sandbox. And though he’s not part of our merc work, there’s no hiding shit from him. He’s seen too much of me to ever pretend otherwise.

“Just making sure I don’t miss her leaving,” I mutter before taking a swig of my Guinness. The burn in my chest isn’t from the alcohol.

“There’s something I don’t get,” Ethan cuts in, voice dry as dust as he shreds the label from his craft beer.

He’s got that smirk that makes me want to put a bullet between his eyes just for fun.

“Two things, actually. One: how a man can be pussy whipped without even having the pussy. And two: how the great Killian Cross has gone a whole month without claiming that pussy.”

Ignoring him, I take another look at the glowing dot on my screen.

Emily. Always Emily. I wonder if she’s thinking about me after I showed myself to her the other night—stepping into the moonlight on the rooftop.

I gave her a few days to come to terms with the truth: her nightmare is real.

A masked assassin stalks her every step. Watches her every breath.

Claims her without her even realizing it.

Mine.

“You’ve got it bad, brother,” Damien says, steady as ever.

My grip tightens on my bottle. He’s not wrong. But I’d burn this whole place to the ground before admitting it out loud.

Ethan doesn’t let it go. “Honestly, I’m starting to think you’re losing your edge. A few years ago, you’d have had her bent over the kitchen counter by day two.”

I growl loud enough to have their eyes widen in alarm. “Careful how you talk about her. She’s different.”

Damien snorts into his beer. “Different, my ass. You’re just obsessed.”

Ethan recovers from my outburst, his lips stretched into a shit-eating grin. “Obsessed? He’s practically writing her name over and over again into that creepy little notebook he thinks I don’t know about. Emily. Emily, Emily, Emily.”

I give him a freezing glare, leaning back in the booth. “Say her name again, and I’ll feed you the notebook page by page.”

Ethan blinks his eyes innocently, as if I don’t know his hands are just as bloody as mine. “Why don’t you… I don’t know, ask her out like a normal human? Give her a chance to say yes or no.”

I wave away the waitress who’s checking in on us a bit too frequently. When I reply, my voice is deadpan. “I’m not normal. And she’s not walking away.”

Damien’s shaking his head. “Christ, you sound like every stalker warning poster I’ve ever seen.”

I grin around my Guinness. “And yet here we are, alive because I know what I’m fucking doing.”

Ethan leans back, a lazy grin cutting across his face. “Relax, Romeo. Nobody’s calling the cops on you. Yet. But seriously—if you’re this far gone, what’s stopping you from just taking what you want?”

I tilt my head, studying him, letting the silence stretch just long enough that Damien mutters a low curse under his breath.

“Because she deserves to know she’s mine before I touch her,” I say finally. “And when I do—she won’t want to leave.”

Damien levels me with that medic stare—the one that used to pin me down when I was half-dead and refusing morphine. “Just make sure you’re not the one she needs saving from.”

The words land heavier than I think he means them to. My jaw ticks, but I don’t rise to the bait. I know the line I walk better than anyone else at this table.

Ethan breaks the moment with a laugh, lifting his bottle in mock salute. “Christ, Damien, don’t go all Florence Nightingale on him. Killian here’s head over heels. Only question left is whether Emily gets a happy ending… or one of those Dateline specials.”

I slam my Guinness down hard enough that the table rattles.

“You think this is a game?” My voice cuts sharp enough to flay skin. The chatter of the bar dips for a second before rising again.

Ethan only smirks wider. “Oh, it’s a game, brother. You just haven’t figured out the rules yet.”

My phone vibrates in my palm. Emily’s dot is moving, leaving Barbara’s place. My pulse steadies, and purpose slides back into my bones, cool and certain.

I rise, tossing a few bills onto the table. “Play your games if you want. I’ve got something real to take care of.”

Damien watches me with that quiet worry he’ll never voice out loud, and Ethan’s grin follows me out, sharp as broken glass.

But none of it matters. Emily’s on the move.

And I’ll be the shadows, waiting for her. Keeping her safe from everything but me.