Not kill her—no, that wasn’t the urge—but to taste the fear on her lips.
Push her up against the wall in one of these blind alleys and take whatever I wanted.
Let her feel what forced obedience meant.
That lithe little body of hers wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d pin her wrists above her head with one hand and hold her hips in place with the other, claiming her mouth with mine while I tore her fantasies out of fiction and forced her to live them, one breath at a time.
She liked those books, didn’t she? Like the one in her bag—full of domination, fear, surrender.
Shewantedto be chased, caught, punished.
I could give her that.
And then she wouldn’t walk through this neighborhood so carefree again.
That hadn’t been the plan, but she needed to learn a lesson—deserved a Halloween night fright.
I was thirty feet behind her when I saw the perfect opportunity.
I slammed my boot into a metal trash can leaning against a stoop. The clang cracked like a gunshot down the block.
She whirled.
Our eyes locked.
Recognition detonated across her face.
I drew on my cigarette one last time—slowly, deliberately—then flicked it. The ember spun through the air and hit the pavement just inches from her shoes, scattering sparks like a warning flare.
She froze. Her lips parted. Her face drained of all color. Her shoulders jerked back, and for a second, I thought she was going to scream.
She didn’t.
Sheran.
Good girl.
Then she was gone—darting between cars as if a hound from hell was behind her.
He was.
I took off, staying just close enough for her to hear my boots hammering on the pavement behind her.
She was fast. I’d give her that.
With her groceries slamming against her leg, her backpack smacking against her spine, and her breath tearing from her chest, she ran up the stairs of a railroad-style apartment building and punched in a code, fumbling with the door before disappearing inside.
I veered left, slipping around the corner of the building.
Chapter seven
Icircled around the back of the building. This place was a total dump—cracked brick, busted vents, a fire escape that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades.
Her apartment number was 4B. Top floor. The building was split down the middle by a stairwell, and judging by the layout, I was on the B side.
I paused beside a stack of wooden pallets, scanning the shadows. I wanted to get a better look at her living situation. I was also curious to see how she would react to my little chase.
Stepping onto the pallets, I jumped to the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder and hauled myself up, the sleeves of the jacket stretching taut against my straining biceps and back.
