I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. I know that it’s just because Cormac told me he’d be keeping an eye on me, whatever that means.
That one, ominous sentence has left me reeling since then, filling my days with anxiety. Even when I’ve tried to sleep, I’m tossing and turning, wondering in half delirium if he was going to make good on his threat to break in and take something more than a kiss.
Not that he needed to break in to do that anyway. The moment he had entered my peripherals, the scent of his cologne washed over me, drowning me in him and the tumultuous emotions he brings out of me.
Fear and desire swirling together, and his overt need to explore the side of me I didn’t realize was there. Watching the violence unfolddidturn me on. The flood of endorphins, the feeling of being enthralled with the dark underbelly of this city, all of it coalesced into arousal so deep into my soul that I was powerless to deny his need to fulfill a fantasy I hadn’t dared let myself want.
As I always do on Sundays, if maybe a few hours later than usual, I dress in some leggings and a sweater, grabbing my purse to venture out into the world.
Just down the block from my apartment, there’s a little cafe with the best scones I’ve ever had.
The bell twangs as I open the door, the smell of fresh bread and coffee filtering through my nose, familiar and welcoming.
“Brigit! You’re late!” Ace barks from behind the counter. “Where have you been?”
I can’t stop the laugh from escaping me. These small comforts, the pieces of my monotonous life, are the only things keeping me sane with all the madness destroying my carefully curated peace.
“Hi Ace,” my feet find their way to the counter, muscle memory taking over. “What’s the flavor this weekend?”
He beams, dragging a serving plate from the display case, “Banana Bourbon. I tried a new recipe for the bourbon syrup.”
“Yeah?”
With an enthusiastic nod, he starts plating one up for me, knowing even though I’mlate, I’m not going to let that stop me from sitting at the window and enjoying my coffee and scone. It doesn’t make sense for me to go back home yet. I want a few minutes among normal people instead of criminals and killers.
“Go sit,” he gestures. “I’ll bring it out.”
“I haven’t paid yet,” I laugh. “What if I dine and dash?”
He shrugs, “I’ll charge you double next week.”
Thanking him profusely, I make my way to my usual spot, setting my purse down to pretend I’m still the same person I was a few weeks ago before the storm that is Cormac Fomori blew into my life.
I don’t want to think too much about it, but the truth is that I don’t think I’ll be able to think of anything else.
Is he out there right now, watching me?
Surely not. He has to have something better to do than just follow me all day. He has a company to manage. Getting back into the swing of things after being away for months and losing all memory of how it operates must be a nightmare.
The night we met, he said Skyler does a lot of the heavy lifting, the techy stuff, the marketing. And Cormac has always been the creative brain. Even in the brief moments we shared at that gala years ago, I could see that he loves his craft.
I wonder, not for the first time, what made him pivot from that to serial murder and whatever else they do.
My mind wanders long after my coffee’s gone cold. By the time I leave the shop, the entire city seems to have woken up. The roaring of horns and squealing breaks break up the peaceful quiet as I exit onto the sidewalk, leaving cash on my table and a silent wave to Ace behind.
The walk home is far less tranquil than the one this morning, but the hum of the city leaves less space in my head for wandering thoughts, too distracted by everything around me. Maybe that’s for the best.
Through my entryway, up the elevator, and down the hall, I approach my apartment, turning the last corner to my front door.
Fishing my keys from my purse, I almost don’t see the figure taking up space against the wall outside my home.
“Miss Danaan?” the officer calls my name.
Freezing in my tracks, my arm drops to my side with the keys in hand.
I blank for a moment, feeling the prickle of familiarity but being completely unable to place how I might know him. “Sorry?” I finally say, buying myself a few extra seconds to put the pieces together.
“You’re Brigit Danaan, right?” he smiles, the expression mild and friendly. Still, there’s a sinister energy in his posture, making himself bigger than he is, trying to be imposing in stature.
