I parked two streets over, tucked my truck into the shadows where no streetlight could catch the license plate. Then I walked, keeping to the tree line, moving with the kind of silence I'd learned from years of stalking prey through these mountains.
The back door was my target. Less visible from the street, and these older houses always had shit security. I pulled out the lock pick set I kept in my jacket, a skill I'd taught myself years ago for moments exactly like this, and worked the mechanism.
Thirty seconds and I was in.
The house smelled like frozen dinners and desperation. I moved through the kitchen, past a living room cluttered with art magazines and half-empty coffee cups, and found the stairs.
Each step was deliberate, carefully placed to avoid any creaks that might alert him. The television was playing upstairs, some late-night talk show, and I could hear him laughing at something.
He wouldn't be laughing soon.
Randall was in his bedroom, sitting up in bed with a laptop balanced on his thighs, probably browsing art he couldn't afford or jerking off to porn. The room was painfully average, beige walls, generic furniture, the kind of space that had no personality.
He didn't hear me until I was right beside him, the blade of my hunting knife pressed against his throat.
His eyes went wide, the laptop tumbling to the floor with a crash. "What…who…”
"Don't move," I said quietly, my voice calm and cold. "Don't scream. Don't do anything but listen."
He nodded frantically, terror written all over his face. I could see his pulse jumping in his neck, could feel the way his whole body had gone rigid with fear.
Good.
"Lena," I continued, pressing the blade just hard enough to dimple his skin. "You touched her tonight. Put your hands on her like you had the right."
"I didn’t…I was just…” he stammered.
I pressed the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down his neck. "You don't get to touch her. Ever. You don't get to look at her like that. Ever. You don't even get to think about her. Ever. Do you fucking understand?"
"Yes! Yes, I understand!" His voice was high, panicked.
"If I ever see you touch her again," I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I will gut you like a fucking deer and leave you bleeding out in these nice clean sheets. I'll take my time with it too. Make sure you feel every cut."
"Clear," he gasped. "We're clear. I won’t…I promise I won’t…”
"You won't even look at her wrong," I continued. "You'll be professional. Distant. If she asks you for anything, you'll delegate it to someone else. As far as you're concerned, Lena doesn't exist beyond being an employee."
Reading the terror in Randall’s eyes, I exhaled. “Yes, yes, whatever you want."
I held the knife there for another moment, letting him feel the weight of the threat, letting the fear sink deep into his bones. Then I pulled back slowly, wiping the blade on his comforter.
"Good talk, Randall."
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard him finally move, heard the scramble of feet and the slam of his bedroom door as he locked himself in.
I smiled.
He wouldn't call the police. Men like him never did. They were too afraid of looking weak, too worried about what it would mean for their reputation.
And even if he did, what would he say? That someone broke into his house to threaten him about touching a woman inappropriately? That wouldn't go well for him. I let myself out the back door, locked it behind me, and disappeared into the night.
By the time I slipped back into bed beside Lena, the rage had finally cooled, replaced by a deep satisfaction.
She stirred slightly, rolling toward me in her sleep, and I pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her hair.
She was safe.
She was mine.
