That impressed me and held my attention.
I’ve always marveled how my rabbit could be kind enough to help orphaned children but fearsome enough to fight back against men out to kill her.
She was the first—and only—person to make me realize compassion was not only a weakness. Kind people were not all weak and foolish guppies.
She could stand on her own when necessary and even help black-hearted assholes like me learn to feel.
My instincts are set on edge as I watch her disappear inside the bar. For half a second, I consider following her inside and even confronting her about her whereabouts.
Then I remind myself this was supposed to be covert. She’s not supposed to know I’ve followed her.
…that I’ve been stalking her again.
I count the minutes she’s inside Dok-su’s bar, fully prepared to burst in and interrupt should anything even mildly suspicious happen.
The last time I was here, the drunkard of a bar owner sentme to an abandoned warehouse where I encountered Black Shell and got my ass kicked more handily than I’m used to.
Questions about why Monroe would even show up here clutter my head. It’s a grimy establishment with dirty windows and the stench of cigarettes. It’s where pathetic men go to drink their days away.
What would even drive Monroe to come here if she’s not looking into Black Shell and my past?
Clever little rabbit.
A part of me is angry she’s put herself at risk like this, poking her nose into affairs that have nothing to do with her and could put her into serious danger.
Rationally, I recognize she would argue it’s her right to do such things. She is no longer in a relationship with me and owes me no explanation about what she chooses to do with her time.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t still keep a close eye on her.
I wait in the shadows across the street, back pressed against a damp wall, eyes fixed on the bar’s entrance.
Minutes crawl by like hours. A group of drunk men stumble past, laughing too loud, and one of them glances in my direction but quickly looks away when he sees my face.
Smart. I’m not in the mood for distractions.
Finally the door swings open and Monroe emerges, expression troubled, phone clutched in her hand. She pauses on the sidewalk, glancing up and down the street like she’s getting her bearings, and then she starts walking—away from the bar and down a narrow side street that’ll take her back to the subway.
I push off the wall and follow.
I’m as silent and unheard as any predator in the wild. Years of training ensure my gait is smooth and undetectable as I come up from behind.
She doesn’t suspect a thing; she can’t even sense she’sbeing followed as I close the gap between us, soon to overtake her.
If I truly meant to let her go, I would recognize this is stupid. It’s foolhardy to follow her like I am. But as I rush up behind her, the same impulsive need that’s driven me to make other wild, unpredictable decisions as of late overtakes me.
She’s ten feet ahead. Then five. Then close enough I can smell her coconut conditioner on the humid air; the same scent that’s been permanently embedded in my bedsheets ever since she left.
I snap forward and overtake her at once.
My arms wrap around her from behind, one hand clamping over her mouth before she can scream, wrenching her back against my chest as I lower my lips to her ear.
“Don’t scream.”
Monroe reacts immediately, survival instincts kicking in before conscious thought does. Her elbow drives back toward my ribs, but I’m a step ahead of her, anticipating the move.
I twist to avoid it, responding to her body language a half-second before she commits to the motion. Her heel comes down toward my foot next. Another predictable reaction I swiftly dodge, shifting my weight and letting her foot stomp uselessly against the pavement.
Panic truly sets in, and she screams against the palm I have cupped over her mouth. She bucks against me, thrashing and throwing her head back to bash me in the face.
