I watch him plate the pasta—two dishes, perfectly portioned. He carries them to the dining table, sets them down across from each other, and pulls out a chair, looking at me expectantly.
I sit. Not because he wants me to. Because I'm choosing to.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
The pasta is perfect. The tomato sauce is rich and fragrant with garlic and basil. I take a bite and it's so good I could cry.
I don't. I just eat.
He watches me. Every bite. Every swallow. I'm the most fascinating thing in his world right now, and he's memorizing the way my throat moves.
It should creep me out.
It does creep me out.
But it also makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Why me?" I ask finally, because I need to understand. Need to make sense of this. "You could have anyone. Why stalk me for months? Why go to all this trouble?"
"I already told you." He takes a sip of wine. He poured himself a glass but didn't offer me one—keeping me off-balance, maintaining control. "In your apartment. When I had you against the wall."
"Tell me again." Because I need to hear it. Need to see if it makes more sense the second time. "Make me understand."
He sets down his glass and looks at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Because you're the only person in recent months who's looked at me and seen something worth saving. Because you smell like lavender and antiseptic and it drives me insane. Because you tuck your hair behind your left ear when you're nervous—always the left, never the right." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Because when you smile, I can almost remember what it's like to be human. Because I can't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I try." He leans forward. "Because you'remine, Francesca. You've been mine since the moment you put your hands on my body and didn't flinch."
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"I know." No apology in his voice—pride in it, almost. "But you asked."
I want to hate how his words affect me. Want to be immune to the intensity in his gaze, the vulnerability he's showing me. But I'm not. I'm not immune at all.
And that scares me more than anything else tonight.
We eat in silence. The pasta is delicious and I'm hungrier than I thought. I clean my plate and he notices. He notices everything.
"There's more if you want it."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
The question hangs between us. Am I fine? No. I'm trapped in a stranger's apartment. Kidnapped by a man who's been stalking me for months. A man who kills people for a living.
But I'm also warm and fed and, in some twisted way, safer than I've been in a long time. Because he's right about one thing: my lock was a joke. My apartment wasn't secure. I've been vulnerable for years and just got lucky.
Until him.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I don't know what I am right now."
"That's fair." He stands and collects our plates. "You should rest. It's been a long day."
"You're not going to lock me in?"
"I said I wouldn't unless you make me. I keep my word, Francesca." He carries the dishes to the sink. "Your room is yours. The bathroom is yours. The rest of the apartment you're welcome to explore. Just don't try to leave."
"And if I do?"
He turns to look at me over his shoulder. His voice goes very, very quiet. "Then I'll stop you. And I won't be gentle about bringing you back." A pause. "You won't like me when I'm not gentle, Francesca."
