Page 3 of The Stalker (Ashburne Chronicles #2)

I’m No Stranger

G riffin

She says my name like she doesn’t know me. Like I’m some stranger who just appeared on her porch, dripping in shadows and hunger.

I want to laugh, but I don’t. My jaw is locked too tight, my teeth grinding with everything I’ve been holding back.

For a year, I’ve been patient. For a year, I’ve told myself she needed space, time, and silence so that she can heal before I come for her.

That I could just watch, and it would be enough.

Patience is a chain holding me down, but tonight I will free myself of the weight.

She doesn’t understand. She never could.

That car accident didn’t ruin her—it ruined me .

It stole five years I could’ve had with her.

Five years of kisses, hundreds of touches, of a life we should have had together.

And now she stands in front of me, wrapped in shadows and fear, acting like she doesn’t know who the hell I am.

“You have no idea,” I say softly, “how long I’ve been waiting.”

Her eyes widen, chest rising fast beneath that too-big sweater she hides in. I can almost see the thoughts slamming through her head. He’s dangerous. He’s not the same. Run.

She doesn’t run. Not yet.

“Make her run.” The voice coils through me, sharper now, digging into my skull like claws. It’s been whispering all night, but now it’s screaming. A man’s voice, deep and urgent. “ She wants to be chased. They all do. Don’t you remember? She’s always been yours. Take her before someone else does.”

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath.

Her brow creases. “What?”

I step closer to her, mere inches separating us now. “Nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. I can feel him, whoever the hell he is, pressing tighter into me, filling the empty spaces in my bones. Thomas. That name hums in my blood, like I’ve always known it.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I loom over her. She tries to back away, but the door stops her, her shoulder pressing against peeling paint. She smells like smoke and cinnamon, and it drives me insane. My cock is lead in my pants, begging to be free as I stare at the swell of her heaving breasts.

“Griffin...” she whispers, her voice trembling.

God, I want to taste that fear. To make it mix with pleasure until she doesn’t know the difference.

“I’ve watched you,” I admit before I can stop myself. The words tumble out, dark and ugly. “Every night since you came back. I couldn’t stay away.”

Her breath hitches. I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, but underneath ... underneath she’s trembling for a different reason.

“You what ?”

“I know your routines. The way you curl up on the couch with that blanket. The way you tilt your head when you read, hiding your scar like you think anyone gives a damn about it. I’ve seen you cry when you think no one’s watching.”

Her lips part. A tear gathers at the corner of her eye, and I want to lick it away, taste her pain.

“That’s stalking,” she says hoarsely. “That’s...”

“That’s love,” I cut in, my voice low and sharp. “Don’t twist it into something else. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers, Bianka. You know it.”

“Claim her. Stop pretending.”

The voice, Thomas, surges again, a tidal wave of hunger crashing through me. My hands shake with the urge to grab her, to pin her to the hard porch floor, to take her. But I hold back again.

Because there’s a part of me, what’s left of the real Griffin, that wants her to choose me. That wants her to admit she’s always wanted this too.

Her lips tremble. “You should go.”

I grin, and it feels feral. “I should. But I won’t.”

Her hand twitches on the doorknob like she’ll escape inside. I take another step, close enough now that the air between us crackles with heat as our chests touch with every breath. She tilts her head, just slightly, and the porch light reveals her scar.

She is so fucking beautiful. Her scars only amplify what I have always seen—strength beneath silk.

She flinches like she expects me to recoil but I don’t, and I never will. I reach out, tracing a finger down the ridges of ruined skin. She gasps, eyes darting to mine.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whisper, “not anymore.”

The moment stretches, taut and dangerous before she wrenches away, finally breaking for the door. Adrenaline slams through me, hot and electric.

Yes.

Run.

The voice inside me howls approval. “ Now the game begins.”

The door slams in my face, rattling the frame. For a moment, I just stand there, laughing under my breath. My Bianka thinks she can lock me out. That’s cute. I twist the knob, and it gives. She didn’t lock it in her haste to escape me.

“Sweetheart,” I murmur as I step into the dark hallway, my boots thudding on her worn rug. “You really should be more careful.”

Her footsteps pound down the hall toward the back of the house. She’s fast, but not fast enough. I can hear her ragged breathing and the clatter of something knocked over in her panic.

Every sound makes my cock grow harder, pre-cum wetting the front of my jeans.

“Catch her. Show her she belongs to you. This is what she wants.”

I move silently, predator-smooth, letting her think she has distance, that she might actually get away. The living room smells like her—vanilla candles, smoke, something faintly floral. The blanket she always uses is tossed on the couch, still warm when I touch it.

I close my eyes and breathe her in.

When I open them, she’s at the far end of the kitchen, fumbling with the back door. The lock sticks. It always has. I know this because I’ve watched her curse at it a dozen times before.

She whimpers, yanking hard.

“Do you need some help?” My voice is low, mocking.

She spins, her face pale, and her eyes wide with terror. “Stay away,” she chokes out.

I step forward. “Or what? You’ll scream? Go ahead. It’s Halloween. Everyone will think it’s part of the fun.”

Her throat works, but no sound comes out.

I stalk closer, slow and deliberate, letting her see what’s coming. She grabs a kitchen knife from the counter, the blade trembling in her grip.

My smile stretches. “Do you really think you can hurt me? That you’re actually capable of hurting another person?”

For a heartbeat, I swear another voice slips from my mouth, layered over mine, darker. “ She could never hurt us.”

Her eyes widen. She saw it. She felt it.

Good.

I close the distance in three strides, my hand wrapping around her wrist. She gasps as I squeeze, the knife clattering to the floor.

Her body shakes under my grip, but her eyes .

.. her eyes burn. There is fear in her gaze, yes.

But there is also something else, something darker, something like heat.

“Let me go,” she whispers, but the words are weak.

I lean in close, my breath brushing her ear. “Not a chance.”

Her knees buckle, whether from fear or something else, I can’t tell, but I hold her up, caging her against the counter.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” I murmur.

Her lips tremble. “What ... what are you going to do?”

“Whatever I want.”

I press my face to her neck, inhaling the scent of smoke and skin, letting my teeth scrape lightly against her scar. She shudders, torn between recoiling and leaning in.

And then ... she does it. She shoves me with all her strength, slipping out from under my arm. She bolts down the hall, bare feet pounding against the hardwood.

For a second, I almost follow. My body surges forward, blood roaring, but then I stop. Because the voice in my head is laughing.

“Let her run. Let her think she has a chance. The chase will make it sweeter. It’s always sweeter when they think they can get away.”

A shiver of anticipation rips through me and I step back into the shadows, giving her time.

She’ll burst out the front door and she’ll flee into the night, into the woods where the veil is thinnest, where the spirits are loudest. Where the darkness and shadows are in control and I can hunt her freely.

I lick my lips, my cock aching, my hands shaking with the need to grab her again.

“Run, Bianka,” I whisper into the empty house. “Run as fast as you can. You’ll never escape me.”

The laughter in my head is no longer just his. It’s mine too.