Stop pretending otherwise.
He was watching. At the bar, or outside my building, or?—
My stomach drops.
Inside my apartment. The only way he could see me kiss Daniel is if he had a way to seeinsidemy apartment.
I scramble off of the bed, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Is there a camera? Is he watching me right now? Did he see everything that happened with Daniel on my couch?
I start searching, tearing apart my bedroom and making my way out to the living room to do the same. I search frantically, desperately, pulling books off shelves, checking behind picture frames, running my hands along the edges of furniture. I don't know what I'm looking for—I've seen spy movies, I know cameras can be tiny, hidden anywhere.
I find nothing. But that doesn't mean they're not there.
Was he watching me earlier? Did he see me touching myself? Did he see me come for him?
The thrill I felt earlier makes me feel nauseous now. I sink onto my couch, still holding my phone, still staring at that photo. At what I did to Daniel by inviting him into my life.
The guilt is crushing. And worse, underneath it, I’m reminded of what brought me pleasure just a few days ago, when a severed hand showed up on my doorstep.
Someone is so possessive, so consumed by the need to claim me, that they'll hurt anyone who touches me.
And sometimes… when it’s a man like Richard Maxwell… I don’t hate it. I don’t wish it hadn’t happened.
I just wish he hadn’t hurt Daniel. I wish he hadn’t harmed someone I thought I wanted the same way he hurt someone I didn’t.
I'm horrified by the thought, disgusted with myself for even having it.
But I can't deny it's there.
I don’t sleep for the rest of the night. I sit on my couch as the sky lightens outside my window, and I force myself to think, really consider if I.S. is the same man who introduced himself to me as Alexander Volkov.
The gifts started after I came home from Boston. I never asked for his number or gave him mine, but he wanted to take me out before I left.
I remember the way he looked at me. He looked as if he felt the same way I did, like I was electrified by his gaze alone. He called it a connection. A fleeting moment.
Could someone really become this obsessed from one encounter? From three? A meeting of eyes on a sidewalk, a conversation in a museum, a cup of coffee?
It feels impossible, like the kind of thing that doesn’t happen in real life. But the more I think about it, the more it fits. The possessiveness. The way the gifts show such intimate knowledge of my preferences, my desires. He paid attention to me in just that brief amount of time. He understood me.
The thought is oddly intoxicating. All my life I’ve craved someonewantingme, someone desiring me and only me, becoming wholly invested in knowing me for who I am. Alexander Volkov, or I.S., has done exactly that. He’s taken it to an extreme, but…
Butwhat? that voice in my head demands. Sending me the hand was beyond extreme. Hurting a man who did nothing but come home with me at my request and politely kiss me is inexcusable.
This man is violent. Dangerous. Possibly a criminal… at the very least, he’s already committed two criminal acts. This is unconscionable.
I can’twantthis.
But what do I do? The police made it clear I should move on and forget the incident with the hand ever happened. If I.S. made them bury it, a photo of Daniel’s bloody face isn’t going to change anything.
And even though I despise what he’s done tonight, a part of me that I know must be sickwantsto be claimed by someonewho feels that intensely, who wants me that desperately, who'll destroy anyone who tries to come between us.
That realization, more than anything else that's happened, tells me exactly how far I've fallen.
I'm not the person I thought I was. I'm not the rational, independent woman who makes smart choices and maintains healthy boundaries. I'm someone who burns evidence to protect a stalker. Someone who feels a dark thrill when men are punished for touching her. Someone who is clearly drawn to danger and darkness and the promise of being consumed by someone else's obsession.
I'm becoming exactly what he wants me to be.
And the worst part is, I'm not sure I want this to stop.
