"Understood."
I end the call and stand there for a moment, breathing in the cold air, letting the anticipation settle into my bones.
Five days ago, she was a stranger. A woman I'd watched, wanted, wondered about.
Now she's something else entirely. A project. A puzzle. A game I'm going to enjoy winning.
I think about the fear in her eyes when she recognized me. The way her hand trembled in mine. The way she said my name, like it was a curse she couldn't escape.
Gabriel.
She'll say it again. She'll say it many times, in many ways, before this is over.
Screaming it. Whispering it. Moaning it.
I haven't decided yet which one I want most.
The driver opens the car door for me. I slide into the back seat and pull out the sketch from my pocket—the serpent and the dahlia, her hand's work, her mind's creation. The paper is soft now from handling, the creases worn. I've looked at it so many times that I could redraw it from memory.
The serpent coiled around the flower, mouth open, whispering secrets.
She drew this before she knew what I was. Before she understood what was circling her.
But some part of her knew. Some part of her felt the predator's gaze and responded not with fear, but with art. With beauty. With a vision of darkness and intimacy intertwined.
That's what sets her apart from all the others. That's why I can't stop thinking about her, can't let her go, can't be satisfied with simply watching from the shadows.
She's not just prey.
She's something else entirely.
And I'm going to find out exactly what.
The car pulls away from the curb. Through the tinted window, I watch the flower market recede, watch the ordinary world go about its ordinary business.
Somewhere out there, she's walking home with trembling hands and a business card burning in her pocket. She's thinking about me. Fearing me. Hating me.
Soon,I think.Soon you'll understand.
You were always meant to be mine.
Chapter 5 - Poppy
I don't remember the walk home.
One moment I'm standing in the flower market with his business card burning through the fabric of my sweater, and the next I'm at my front door, fumbling with keys I don't remember taking out. My arms are empty—the flowers, the roses, and greenery, and everything I spent an hour selecting—I must have dropped them somewhere. Left them on the street. Abandoned them in my panic to get away.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting inside, getting the door closed, getting something solid between me and the rest of the world.
The lock clicks. The door opens. I stumble inside and slam it behind me, throwing the deadbolt, the chain, pressing my back against the wood like I could hold it shut with my body if he tried to come through.
He's not coming through. He doesn't need to. He's already proven he can get inside whenever he wants.
But the locks make me feel better, even though they shouldn't. Even though they're useless.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The business card is still in my pocket. I can feel it against my chest, that heavy cream stock, those embossed letters.
Gabriel Ambrose.
