Page 5 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

The dizziness and lightheadedness fade away in minutes, but I stay where I’m at a little longer before slowly lifting my head back up.

Every time I think I have a handle on myself, my body comes back to bite me in the ass.

As if it’s taunting me, not allowing me to feel even remotely okay or normal.

I know I make things worse by getting in my head about everything.

I know I make myself sick. The problem is, I don’t know how to stop.

My body and my mind are constantly at war with each other, and neither one ever wins.

Finally, I force my heavy, aching body to come back to a stand. With a harsh exhale of breath, I turn around and turn the shower on. Then, I get undressed at a snail’s speed, taking my time to ensure I won’t collapse. Again.

I throw my shirt down to the tile at my feet, then unstrap the tight knife sheath from my right forearm.

My pants and boxers follow soon after, and I all but rip the two ankle holsters with my backup blade and my SIG Sauer from both legs.

The bathroom fills up with thick steam from the shower as I open the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and toss all of my weapons inside.

The two knives and the gun are only a small portion of what I own.

I keep the rest of my inventory that Catherine has given me in my mother’s old study.

The one change I made to the house when I was forced into this line of work was emptying out the large, walk-in closet of my mother’s office to house all of my weapons.

After everything was situated, I installed a lock with a keypad onto the door to secure it all.

Once I’m finished with my shower, I’ll move the three weapons from the drawer back into the closet, but I’ll still have my Glock that I keep hidden behind my nightstand beside my bed in case of unwelcome visitors.

For longer than I care to admit, I stare into the drawer.

It’s not the first time I consider taking the sig and blasting a bullet into my head.

Or taking one of the knives and slicing both my arms, deep enough to make myself bleed out.

Maybe if I had the balls to follow through with it, I could finally end this slow, never-ending torture that is my everyday life.

It’s not like many would care if I died.

Hell, I think my best friend, Cleo, is the only person who would actually care, and she doesn’t deserve that.

Not when she’s been like family to me. That thought is the only reason I snap out of it, and so I immediately push the drawer in, hiding my weapons from sight.

Still, I don’t fail to realize that if Cleo wasn’t in my life, I would have ended it all a long, long time ago.

I also realize how unhealthy it is to have one person as my motivation for staying alive—especially when that one person isn’t even myself. But it is what it is.

As soon as I finally make it into the shower, the scalding hot water pouring over the top of my head and down the nape of my neck, I hear the words my mother used to tell me over and over again.

“You were not born tough. You are a sensitive soul. There is nothing wrong with that. You feel all the things that others cannot.”

I laugh darkly to myself at the voice inside my head. “Were you sure about that, Hahaoya ?” I ask aloud, as though her spirit is here, listening. “All along, you knew this could happen.”

Unwelcome tears fall down my cheeks and mix with the water.

My eyes are sore. My soul burns. Feeling what others cannot is more of a curse than a blessing.

How is it that I came from a woman who chose this kind of life?

I’ve done it for almost two years, and each time I take a life, another crack forms inside of me.

I don’t know how I’m still standing. I don’t know how much more it will take for me to completely lose it.

I clean my body from head to foot, scrubbing every inch of my skin on autopilot as my thoughts race and swirl around in my brain.

When I get out of the shower, the bathroom is thick with steam.

I already brushed my teeth in the shower, so I don’t bother staying in the bathroom any longer.

Instead, I drop my towel to the floor and head to my bedroom.

The heat from the water has my pulse racing all over again.

Without getting dressed, I fall onto my bed and stare at the high ceiling to cool down.

When the feelings get out of control—whatever control I have left, anyway—I stumble to a stand and fetch the bottle of vodka out of the mini fridge I keep beside my dresser.

No chasers tonight. Most nights, I don’t drink.

Sometimes, it makes all of the feelings much worse.

I’m taking a chance tonight. I need sleep.

I take hearty sips until the thoughts stop consuming me. Until my heart slows down. I drink and drink more until I’m okay with being in my own skin again. Eventually, the numbness takes over once more. Only then do I put the liquor away and fall asleep.