I shatter against him, wrecked and sobbing, my body convulsing under the weight of him, the weight of the clamp, the weight of the cage I don’t want to leave. His hands hold me there. His lips brand me there. His voice carves me deeper. “You’re mine.”
And I’ll beg to stay that way. Forever.
Chapter 3
DAMIEN
The door slams behind me, but I don’t hear it. Not really.
I hear my heartbeat, a heavy, rhythmic thud against my ribs. I hear the cold drag of the gun against my palm. I hear the hum of the emergency locks as they seal the building, the steel bolts sliding home like a final sentence.
And I hear him.
His footsteps three floors down. Measured. Casual. Like he’s not walking into his own death. Like he thinks he’s the hunter.
I take the stairs fast, three at a time, silent and precise. My boots catch the edges of the concrete, my breath sharp and controlled, my grip on the rail tight enough to blister.
The building is too quiet, the air stagnant and thick with the scent of dust and impending violence. The exits are sealed. The feeds are tracking. He’s trapped in my cage now.
The stairwell door creaks ahead. I hear it. So does he. I pause, blending into the shadows. So does he.
I lean into the corner, slow, steady, pistol raised. I catch a flick of movement in the corner of the feed on my handheld.Grey hoodie. Gloved hands. The weight of a man who doesn’t know how close his bones are to breaking.
He’s not the one. Not the second stalker. Not the ghost I’ve been chasing. This one’s just a puppet. A pawn sent to test the wires.
I’ll take him apart anyway.
I move fast, my boot slamming into the door, catching him mid-step. He stumbles back, arms raised, scrambling for a footing he’ll never find.
I press the barrel of the gun between his ribs, the cold metal biting through his hoodie, and slam him against the concrete wall.
His breath punches out of him in a wet gasp. His eyes blow wide, reflecting the sterile fluorescent light.
“Please—” he chokes.
I press harder, the front sight of the pistol digging into his sternum. “Start talking.”
He’s young. Sloppy. Sweat is already beading on his hairline, his pulse kicking against his throat like a trapped moth.
“I—I was just—” His voice breaks, high and thin.
I slam his head against the wall. Not hard enough to knock him out. Hard enough to remind him where this is going. Hard enough to make the world tilt for him.
“Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know him!” he screams, the sound echoing upward into the empty shaft. “I don’t know—I just—I just got paid to plant it?—”
“Plant what?”
“The camera—” His breath hitches. Tears pool at the edges of his eyes, fuelled by pure, unadulterated terror. “He told me where to put it. He told me which room. He told me you wouldn’t be watching that angle.”
“He told you wrong.”
I press the gun under his jaw, lifting his chin, forcing his eyes to mine. I want him to see the abyss before he falls into it. “What else did he tell you?”
“N-Nothing—he just—he just said to put it there and leave—I wasn’t supposed to get caught—please?—”
His hands tremble. His legs buckle. I tighten my grip on his throat. “You think begging’s going to save you?”
