Page 8 of Hunted Bride

Hello, Mouse. Take off your dress and get on your knees.

He knows. My stalker knows I had a shit day and I need a release. I hate him and I fear him, but I also need him. For this.

Put the phone on the chair and take a video of yourself with your fingers inside your panties.

I do as he commands. First, I prop the phone on the chair. Then I tug today’s dress off—a beige knit A-line with long sleeves and patch pockets—and kneel in front of the camera in my bra and panties. I stick my hand into the waistband of my panties until my fingertips brush the soft curls between my thighs. Then I stop, and wait. I know what comes next. My skin tingles with anticipation.

I flinch when the next text message comes in.

Pull your bra down. I want to see your breasts.

I don’t think he’s watching me through the camera. I’ve always thought that was a ruse. I know he can see me inside my own home. He knows too much. I’ve done sweeps to look for hidden cameras. Whoever placed them hid them well.

I know he’s watching me.

I like that he’s watching me.

He sees me.

No one else does.

He doesn’t think my body is embarrassing. So, sure, he’s invasive, secretive, probably collecting blackmail material by filming me, but I haven’t contacted the police for a lot of reasons. You don’t go to the cops if your family is in the bratva. You let your family handle it.

I know how they would handle him if they found out what he’s been doing. They would break him into a million tiny pieces. No one would ever see him again.

What he’s been doing to me for six years is all kinds of wrong, and yet…

I let that thought trail off. I’ve never had a real boyfriend, never gone on more than a couple of dates with a guy. Because of my stalker.

Part of me is angry and heartbroken that he’s stolen my youth.

But I probably would’ve wasted it anyway.

Slowly I inch the cups of my bra down to expose my nipples. They don’t want to stay curled down like this. If I take it off, he’ll order me to do something naughty though.

Sometimes, when I need a release, I disobey him on purpose. Just to get permission to do the kinds of things that I don’t want to admit I actually enjoy.

The phone rings loudly. I startle so badly that I knock the stupid thing off the chair. Heart racing, I lunge for it.

“H-hello?”

“Take it off,” a heavily disguised voice commands. “Just the bra. Let me see your tits, Mouse.”

My heartbeat calms. I want to laugh at his accidental joke. Titmouse. It’s not the first time I’ve had wildly out of place, intrusive thoughts during one of our interactions.

“Didn’t want to be wearing it anyway,” I mutter. I twist my hands behind me and snap it free. My breasts fall heavily out of the mesh. He rarely calls me. Usually, it’s just a barrage of text messages commanding me to do things I would never dream of doing.

But when he does call, I crave the sound of him.

“Give me a close-up.” His machine-altered voice scratches an itch in my brain I didn’t know was there. I wonder what his real voice sounds like.

“What am I, your personal OnlyFans?” With him, I can say the things I never dare to say to anyone else.

“Yeah. You are. So squeeze your tits and put your hand inside your panties. Play with yourself.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll send the video to your parents.”