He let me.
Each ding as the checkout woman rings my shit pisses me off.
Because I never saw him at the market.
And here.
How many times has he watched me shop?
Watched me bend over freezers?
My move?
Oh, darling.
You just declared war with your dick, and I’m already planning how pretty you’ll look on your knees begging to be kept.
I pay, wheel the cart out, pulse hammering between my legs.
But does this mean he loves me, like I loved my men?
My thighs clamp shut with the tensile strength of a hydraulic press.
Because if he’s stalking me the way I stalk them?
If he’s this obsessed, this patient, this good?
Then he’s not a threat.
He’s a soulmate.
And I deserve to be worshipped like this.
I deserve all of it.
Game on, Mall Man.
Run.
I’m the better hunter.
And when I catch you, and I will, you’re never leaving.
My thighs are still trembling when I load the bags. Not from fear. From the promise of ruining him completely.
My move.
My mind races as fast as I do.
Home.
Groceries shoved in the fridge.
Men debriefed in the date, distracted with dinner and pretending they’re not checking the Vitaly tracker every thirty seconds.
Perfect.
I pull out the pathetic little notebook I started the day I saw him at the mall.
