Tomorrow, I’ll be closer.
And soon, she’ll stop running.
When the spider finally gets its prey, it doesn’t kill right away.
It savours.
The city is a maze, but I know every alley, every shortcut, every place someone can slip away and think they’ve vanished. I stalk through the dark like I own it, boots heavy on cracked pavement, hands stuffed in my pockets to hide the way they’re shaking.
It’s her fault. The way she looked at me through that curtain—like she could almost see me. Like I was some ghost clawing at the edges of her sanity. That little glimpse of her eyes, wide andwet, had my pulse hammering, and now I’m wound too tight, coiled like a snake ready to strike.
I lean against a graffitied wall, the smell of piss and rot in the air. My knuckles graze the rough brick, and I press harder until the skin splits, pain blooming like a fresh hit of adrenaline. I bite back a groan, watching red bead and trickle down my fingers.
I want her to see it. Want her to know that I bleed for her, that I ache in places she hasn’t even touched yet. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard my head throbs. I can’t stop seeing that look on her face—the fear and the hope crashing together.
She’s mine.
She’s been mine since that first night I followed her home, watching the way her steps quickened when she sensed me. A little rabbit, twitching its nose, sensed danger without knowing which way to run. I’d stayed in the shadows, careful not to let her see me then. But now? Now I want her to know I’m close.
I pull out my phone, thumb smearing blood across the screen as I type.
You’re running out of places to hide, Little Spider. You know that, don’t you? Maybe I’ll come inside tonight. Maybe I’ll just watch. Maybe I’ll make you beg.
I hit send, feeling that familiar rush when I picture her reaction. She’ll check the locks again, hands shaking, heart thundering like a rabbit’s before the snare snaps shut.
I spit on the ground, wiping my bloody hand on my jeans. The wound stings, and I press it harder, forcing the pain to sharpen my thoughts. I can’t go soft. Not now. Not when she’s so close to cracking.
The phone vibrates. A reply.
Please… just stop. I’m begging you. Please.
I bark out a laugh, the sound scraping out of me like gravel. She doesn’t get it. Begging isn’t weakness—it’s surrender. And I won’t take it until she means it.
My phone pings again—a voice message. I press play, holding it close so I can hear every breath.
Her voice, wrecked and raw:
“You’re sick. You need help. This isn’t love—it’s torture. You’re killing me.”
A shiver ripples through me, electric and hot. Killing her? No. I’m keeping her alive—keeping her on the edge, where she’ll never forget me. I’ll remain in her skin and thoughts forever, like an indelible brand.
I hit record, my voice low, almost soothing.
“You say that like you don’t want it. Like you haven’t been waiting for someone to notice how breakable you are. I see it, Raven. I see you. You can’t hide from me.”
I send it, licking the blood from my split knuckle, the taste metallic and sharp. I imagine pressing that bleeding hand against her throat, watching the red smear across her pale skin. Claiming her, marking her.
I pull out another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. The smoke burns on the way down, settling in my lungs like a hot ache. I look back at the motel window, the light still on, shadows flickering behind the curtains.
I want to rip that curtain down. I want to kick the door in and see her eyes widen when she realises I’m not just a ghost anymore. I’m real. I’m here.
I force myself to breathe, slowly and deeply. She’s not ready for that yet. I need to give her time to break on her own, to crumble until the only thing left is the part that needs me.
The phone buzzes. Another message from her.
I’ll do anything. Just please stop.
I almost choke on a laugh, flicking ash to the ground. Anything? She doesn’t know what that word means—not yet.
