Page 1 of The Stalker (Ashburne Chronicles #2)

Obsession

G riffin

She doesn’t know I’m here. But then again, she never does and that’s exactly the way I have wanted it. Until now.

For the past year, I’ve kept myself in the shadows, watching her every move since the moment she returned to Ashburne.

At first, I told myself it was just curiosity—she was back, a scared and broken shell of the girl I remembered.

I told myself I needed to keep an eye on her, make sure no one hurt her, to make sure the cruel bastards in this town didn’t get the chance to carve into her with words sharper than the accident ever could.

But that was a lie. The truth is much simpler and so much uglier. I can’t stop. That’s a lie, I don’t want to stop.

Bianka has owned me since we were teenagers.

Back when she used to sit two rows ahead of me in math class, her hair shining in the sun that came through those cracked, dirty windows, laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny.

I used to count the freckles on her nose. I memorized the sound of her voice.

I thought five years might be enough to kill the obsession, but it wasn’t.

The day she came back, limping slightly, her face half turned like she was trying to hide what was left of her beauty, my chest cracked open all over again.

I fell back into the same hell—wanting her, craving her, needing her—only this time there’s no excuse.

I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m a man, and men don’t spend their nights crouched in the dark watching women through curtains.

Except I do.

I’ve become the thing they warn you about in late-night horror stories. The shadow in the corner of your eye. The breath on your neck when you know you’re alone.

And tonight, I’ve finally snapped.

Halloween. The one night in Ashburne where the veil between the living and the dead supposedly thins, where madness takes root and no one questions the screams in the dark.

I’ve heard the stories since I was a boy .

.. possessions, hauntings, people giving in to urges they buried deep.

In this town, you can get away with murder if you pick the right night.

I lean against the rough bark of the oak at the edge of her backyard.

Her kitchen window glows, throwing a slice of golden light onto the damp grass.

She moves inside, her back turned to me, a silhouette I know better than my own reflection.

Her long dark hair is tied up in a bun and all I want to do is let it down and run my fingers through it.

Tangle it up in my fist and hold her tightly exactly where I want her.

She wears a loose brown sweater, the collar slipping down enough to reveal the ridged, angry scar that snakes over her shoulder and disappears down her back.

It kills me.

Not the scars themselves—they don’t make her ugly, no matter what she thinks. They make her real . They tell a story of survival, of fire and pain, of a girl who crawled out of a wreckage when most would have stayed buried.

What kills me is that she doesn’t see it. That she hides. That she folds into herself, believing she’s unworthy of love. She’s wrong and I’ll show her.

For a year I’ve stayed quiet. For a year I’ve told myself that just watching is enough. Tonight, something in me refuses to wait anymore. I can almost hear the town itself whispering to me, the dead pressing close, urging me to claim what I’ve always wanted.

That’s when I feel it. A cold pressure, like fingers slipping beneath my skin, wrapping tight around my bones. I shiver, clenching my fists, but I don’t pull away from it. The darkness isn’t foreign. It feels ... familiar. Like it belongs to me. Like it’s been waiting all along.

The voice comes next. A low murmur threading through my skull.

“Don’t watch. Take. You’ve wasted enough time.”

I stagger, bracing against the tree, my breath ragged. I should be afraid ... of losing my mind, of becoming like the old drunks who rant about demons after Halloween passes. But I’m not. Because the voice isn’t wrong. I have wasted time. Years.

Her window creaks open and she leans out, blowing into the night, watching her breath fog. She always does this, like she’s testing the air before deciding if she dares step into the world.

The sight of her lips parted, her scar catching the moonlight, pulls at something deep inside me. I want to touch her. I want to taste her. I want to bury myself in her so deep she forgets every ounce of pain she’s ever known.

And I will. Not tomorrow. Not in a week.

Tonight.

The voice hums its approval, dark and coaxing, as if it’s been waiting centuries for someone like me to listen.

I step out of the shadows toward her house, toward her. I don’t usually get this close.

Usually, I stay back in the tree line, a shadow among shadows, just enough to see but never enough to risk being seen. But tonight is different.

My boots sink into the damp ground as I cut across her yard, each step pounding like a drumbeat in my skull.

She doesn’t hear me. She’s too wrapped up in her own little world, arms folded against the chill, eyes lifted to the sky like she’s waiting for something—maybe a sign, maybe forgiveness. Forgiveness she doesn’t need.

Not from me. Not from anyone.

“She’s waiting for you,” the voice hisses inside me. It’s male, deep, and rough with regret, as it coils around my thoughts like smoke. “ She’s always been waiting. You were just too much of a coward to see it.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I whisper into the night, low enough that no one but me should hear.

“The one giving you what you need. The strength to finally stop hiding. The courage to step from the shadows and claim her.”

The world feels off-balance, like I’ve been tilted on an axis I didn’t know existed.

Maybe it’s the town? Ashburne has always been like this on Halloween.

Strange things happen and people do things they swear the morning after they never would’ve done.

It’s the curse of living here, the blessing if you’re twisted enough to take advantage.

I must be twisted. Because I don’t fight the voice. I welcome it.

Her phone buzzes on the counter and she ducks back inside, shutting the window. The light shifts across the glass, and I catch a clearer glimpse of her face as she passes by.

My chest cracks open at the sight.

Her left cheek is smooth, perfect, and pale in the glow of the fluorescent lighting of her kitchen.

Her right side ... the fire took that from her.

Pink ridges claw down from her temple, over her jaw, twisting the soft skin of her neck.

The doctors did their best, but some things can’t be smoothed over.

She hides it from the world with her hair, her clothes, and the tilt of her head, but she can’t hide it from me.

She doesn’t know it, but she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

And she’s mine.

I press a palm flat against the glass, just for a second, leaving a smear that will vanish with the dew come morning. My reflection stares back, shadowed, my eyes burning. I barely recognize myself but maybe that’s a good thing.

For too long I’ve been Griffin Hayes, the good boy who loved too quietly, who watched from the edges, who let her slip away to the city without saying a word. But now, that boy is dead. What’s left is something darker. Hungrier.

“Take her.”

The voice is a growl now, vibrating through my bones. My cock twitches in my jeans, thick and ready, because every word feeds the beast inside me. I imagine her under me, fighting, clawing, and then giving in. I imagine her scars burning against my mouth as I kiss every broken inch of her.

My breathing turns ragged, fogging the glass. I want to smash through it, grab her, pin her to the floor and finally end this torment.

But I don’t. Not yet. Because she leaves the kitchen, and I know where she’s going.

I’ve memorized her routines.

Every night she steps out onto the porch, just for a few minutes. She smokes sometimes, though she pretends she doesn’t. Tonight, she’ll probably just watch the trick-or-treaters wander the street, hiding behind her own shadows while the world passes her by.

And I’ll be waiting.

I circle to the front of the house, silent as a predator. The autumn air is sharp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves, pumpkin rot, and smoke from someone’s fireplace. Laughter rings down the street, kids in costumes running wild, their parents trailing behind with beers in hand.

No one notices me. But they never do.

The door creaks off to the side, and there she is stepping onto the porch, sweater wrapped tightly around her curvy form, arms folded like armor.

Her hair slips forward, hiding her scarred cheek, but I know what’s beneath.

Her eyes flick over the street, soft and sad, and she exhales like she’s trying to breathe away her loneliness.

My fists clench at my sides. I want to fix that look. I want to tear the sadness out of her until the only thing she feels is me.

“Now.” The voice is insistent, pounding through my head like a second heartbeat. “ No more waiting. Tonight, you claim her, or you lose her forever.”

I step out from the shadows of her porch, the boards groaning under my weight. She startles, spinning, her wide cerulean eyes locking onto mine.

“Griffin?” Her voice trembles. She hasn’t said my name in five years, and it crashes into me like lightning.

I should say something normal. Something soft, something safe. “Hey, it’s been a long time,” or “I just wanted to check on you.” That’s what the old me would’ve said.

But the old me is gone.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” I murmur, my voice low and dark, threaded with the ghost’s hunger and my own.

Her lips part, confusion and fear flickering in her gaze. She takes a half step back toward the door, but I’m already moving forward, closing the space between us.

This is it. No more watching. No more waiting. Tonight, she’s mine.