I hadn’t seen it since I’d gone to brush my teeth at the theater. Right before they’d taken me.
How had he gotten all my things and brought them here?
I should have been more freaked out, but I was grateful to have my belongings. They weren’t much, but they were mine.
And right now, I was too tired to think about anything. Before long, the sun would be coming up.
I held the phone to my chest and glanced at the bed.
Everything since the kidnapping blurred together—a chaotic reel of smoke, pain, screaming, hands grabbing me, bodies falling, Mr. Stalker catching me.
I crawled under the covers and curled onto my side.
The phone stayed in my hand, but I didn’t unlock it.
I couldn’t.
I wasn’t ready to see the missed calls. The texts. The angry messages from the theater, my worried roommates, all the people who probably thought I’d just up and bailed on them.
Besides, there wasn’t anyone I could call—not without dragging them into this nightmare.
Not to mention I wasn’t up for seeing the perfectly filtered lives of everyone else tonight.
Not when mine had become such a dumpster fire.
I placed the phone on the nightstand and shut my eyes.
If there were any mercy left in the universe, I would wake up and discover that all of this had just been a bad dream.
Chapter twenty-eight
Something smelled heavenly.
Bacon?
Groggily, I blinked my eyes open. The room was dim, but the soft gray light told me it was daytime. Rain battered the tall windows. A steady downpour blurred the view of Central Park. The weather matched the dreariness of my mood.
I sat up, trying to remember where I was.
Right. Mr. Stalker’s penthouse.
I rubbed my hands over my face. My body felt boneless and sore all at once—like I’d run ten miles, then crashed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept that hard. I never slept like that, not even back home, and certainly not in a strange man’s bed after being kidnapped and delivered like a package with no return address.
I shoved the covers aside, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and got up. My hair was a mess, but I didn’t bother fixing it. If he was going to keep me prisoner, he could get used to me looking feral.
The scent in the air grabbed my attention again. Could he possibly be home already, and cooking again? My stomach growled, not caring who was cooking.
I quietly walked barefoot down the hallway and edged closer to the kitchen, staying just far enough back to watch without being seen.
Sure enough, he stood barefoot at the stove, with his broad back turned toward me, dressed in nothing but black joggers. There were so many more of his tattoos visible now. And, oh, was he built like a damn brick house.
A stack of waffles sat in the oven, staying warm. A bowl of sliced strawberries glistened beside the range. And bacon—thick, crisp, and perfect—was draining on a plate lined with paper towels. My mouth watered—and not just for the food.
He looked so at ease. So…normal.
“I know you’re standing there,” he said without turning around. “You planning to join me or just keep on staring?”
My heart jumped.
