Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I watch her for weeks. I want her to think she’s free. I want her looking over her shoulder.
Humans are ritualized creatures. Even the most unpredictable tend to walk the same way, buy the same things, and eat the same foods. So it doesn’t take long for me to memorize the way she heads home from tending bar, how she doesn’t cook for herself but manages to somehow subsist on bread, cheese, and wine and some quirky little foods.
I know what makes her relax—the few occasions she lets her guard down—when she laughs at something, takes a sip of whiskey at the bar in a rare moment of relaxation, how she runs a hand through her hair.
I want to know everything about her, the kinds of things I have to dig beneath the surface to find out.
I want to know what makes her laugh. What makes her cry. I want to know how her eyes look when she comes and what makes her toes curl in bed.
I brush past her in a crowded place, literally rubbing elbows, but never look back. Just enough to make her wonder.
I make a shadow move in an alley when she’s coming home from work, making her question her own sanity. But this time, I’ve already marked her as mine.
I try to listen in on her conversations… but she has none. She has no friends. She doesn’t use her real name at work, of course, and spends no time with anyone outside of the bar.
I wonder if she’s lonely.
Why do I care?
I walk past her window, over and over, just to make her look. I think she sees me on the third day, but I could be wrong.
I want her. I fucking want this woman.
Then one night, I unlock her door while she’s sleeping, and in the morning, when she checks, she does a double take.
Good.
Keep her guessing.
I pick the lock of her apartment and leave a cabinet door open before she comes home. But instead of leaving it vacant, I stock it with her favorite little foods. Pain au chocolat—buttery and flaky, layered with dark chocolate. Gummy bears—she chews on them when she’s thinking or watching TV. She picks out the yellow ones and leaves the red. Instant coffee because, despite being in Paris, she’s too practical for the whole French press thing. And a tin of sardines in olive oil because she’s weird like that.
That night, I’m rewarded with some good old-fashioned cursing. She’s on to me. I know she’s been looking over her shoulder, and I’m afraid if I don’t make my move soon, she’ll slip away again, just like she did before.
I watch her from the shadows. Her habits, her routines, her weaknesses—I know them all. And I want her to know by now that I’m watching her. Finally, it’s time. This time, she is not getting away from me.
I follow her one night, staying just out of sight, close enough to hear the sound of her breath quickening when she feels me behind her. When she looks, I’m wearing a hat pulled low to cover my eyes and a long coat.
She goes to the bar for work, and I help myself into her apartment. I sit on her bed and run my fingers over her sheets. Inhale her scent. God, she’s addictive.
I go through her closet, feeling the fabric of her dresses, breathing in her scent. She has a tiny place tucked away where nobody would ever suspect she’s here. And I steal things—a half-open jar of pink lipstick, a silky black hair tie, a small pair of ivory panties that easily fit in my pocket. And I watch her.
I watch the way she moves. I note that the only thing she does for fun is watch videos on her phone when she’s alone in bed, the same way she did before. She laughs at silly jokes and reads a few books, but lately, she’s been agitated. Nervous.
Time to move in.
The second I get there, I send her a message at the bar.
I watch the way her fingers tighten around the paper, but when she looks in my direction, she only sees an empty chair. I’m waiting in the hallway. When it rains, I stand just outside beneath the glow of a streetlamp, knowing she’ll look out the window—but she won’t see who’s there.
I plan on controlling her before I take her.
I’m the one steering her exactly where I want her. This isn’t like before, when I went after her and drugged her. No.
This time, I’m going to punish her.
This time, she’s not going to get away.
The next night, I watch her from the far end of the bar, nursing whiskey, my eyes locked on her every movement. She’s still sharp, cautious, but there’s a softness about her now. And then I see it. Some drunk asshole leans over the bar, too close, slurring something in her ear. I know the second it makes her uncomfortable because she stiffens and pulls away—but he grabs her wrist.