ME: then explain it to me. Maybe we can figure something out together
He reads the message immediately but doesn’t respond as quickly as before.
Shit.
You were too pushy! Backtrack!
How?!
I toss my phone onto the armchair, too scared to keep it in my hand. I’ll double or even triple text him if he doesn’t reply in the next thirty seconds.
“I’m clingy,” I scold myself, walking to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and give myself a talking to in the mirror. I pulled on a sweatshirt earlier to fight off the evening chill, but other than that, I look exactly the same as I did when Asher made me come so hard I saw stars. “Except now you’ve scared him off,” I hiss at my reflection. “No more orgasms for you.”
A clang from the living room has my reflection frowningat me.
What was that?
I lean out of the bathroom, eyeing the darkened living room. I only have a single lamp on while I write, so I can just about make out the back of the couch and the door. I listen, the silence stretching, but there’s no other sound.
Maybe it was the neighbor upstairs? He is notoriously loud.
Or maybe it’s a serial killer.
I roll my eyes and focus on washing my face, foaming up my skin then rinsing it off. I’ve just finished brushing my teeth when I hear the distinct sound of a door closing.
My heart lunges into overdrive. Fear keeps me fixed in place, my damp toothbrush still in hand. Not a suitable weapon if someone is in my apartment.
Phone, Ella. Where’s your phone?
I squeeze my eyes closed. It’s in the living room.
But maybe what I heard really was the neighbor. This is a safe building. In all the years I’ve lived here, there hasn’t been a single burglary or crime.
With slow footsteps, I make my way into the living room. I scan the room. Door, couch, side table, balcony doors, TV?—
Man.
Drenched in shadows and watching me from the corner of the room, he steps forward. My scream is caught and lost as I bolt for the door. Heavy footfalls approach quickly, and I throw the door open—and Iscream.
He grips my hair and yanks me off my feet and back into the apartment. I’m thrown over the couch, crashing into the coffee table and rolling toward the balcony doors. Pain reverberates through my body, blood fills my mouth, and my head is spinning too much to make out where or who he is.
I’m going to die.
People don’t come to inspect screams, do they? Even if my neighbors are awake, they’ll pass it off as a sound they misheard. They’ll think I’m watching a horror film, or that I stubbed my toe?—
“No,” I whimper as the man grips the back of my sweatshirt and lifts me. He grips my throat and slams me into the balcony doors, the glass quaking against the impact, and I stare into his face. He’s my age, blonde, and I stare into his eyes—the darkest green, flecked with hazel and gold. A pretty sight. The final thing I’ll see.
“Please.”
It’s the last word I say before he lifts me off my feet, his large hand still around my throat. I scratch at him, kicking my legs to find the floor again, but it’s useless.
He’s strong.
I’m not.
Ella, don’t give up!
I try to claw at his eyes, his hand, his arm, but even when I draw blood, he doesn’t react. He just squeezes.
