Prey Upon Me: A Dark Stalker Romance, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Nina Carpenter
ISBN: 9798264631795
Imprint: Independently published
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, real locales, or historical events are used fictitiously. Other characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Thank you, and happy reading!
Cover Art By: RJ Creatives
Created with Vellum
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Content Warning
Prologue
1. Anna
2. Anna
3. Anna
4. Anna
5. Anna
6. Knox
7. Knox
8. Knox
9. Knox
10. Knox
11. Anna
12. Anna
13. Anna
14. Anna
15. Knox
16. Anna
17. Anna
18. Anna
19. Anna
20. Anna
21. Anna
22. Knox
23. Knox
24. Knox
25. Anna
26. Anna
27. Knox
28. Knox
29. Knox
30. Knox
31. Anna
32. Anna
33. Knox
34. Anna
35. Knox
36. Anna
37. Knox
38. Anna
39. Knox
40. Knox
Epilogue
A Note From The Author
About the Author
CONTENT WARNING
Prey Upon Me contains some themes, subject matters, and situations that may be upsetting to some readers. There is explicit sexual content, violence, stalking, kidnapping, death, physical assault against the FMC (not from the MMC), strong language, torture, dubcon, and (fake) blood play.
If you find this content triggering, this dark stalker romance may not be the book for you. Your mental health should always be the priority.
To you beautiful readers who want your men tall, dark, morally grey, and hiding in your closet…
You might want to check that out.
Just kidding.
He’s lurking in the shadows behind you.
PROLOGUE
KNOX
THREE YEARS AGO
What’s the golden rule of prison?
Never find yourself alone.
And if you are, be armed.
Well, I’m batting 0-for-2.
Just my fucking luck.
Sure, I’ve got Officer Kowalski walking with me, but if someone wants to get to you that badly, your attacker won’t let a badge get in the way.
What I would give to have a rookie here. Fresh eyes and a reasonable sense of paranoia are always good to have with you. The new guy is still familiarizing himself with the lay of the land and is always on alert. He’s the antithesis of the twenty-year veteran strolling next to me.
Anybody working the same job that long is bound to grow complacent. He becomes a slave to the ritual, his senses dulling with every passing year. When he hasn’t seen much action, it only gets worse. And that, my friends, is the very definition of Kowalski. He’s forty-three years old with a receding hairline and an ancient beast of a boat he likes to take out fishing. The guy has been working the federal prison circuit for the entirety of his career, only recently transferring to Norfolk to care for his mother, who lives in the area.
How did I learn all of this? From his own two lips. Because of his background, he’s used to working primarily with non-violent inmates, the kind of guys who commit tax evasion and mail fraud—the kind of guys who won’t give him trouble. Considering my conviction, I’ve apparently made his “friendlies” list because he feels comfortable talking to me. About everything.
It’s not that he’s not a nice guy. Kowalski’s good company. He’s just not very sharp at his job. He tends to be the officer taking a step back when fights break out. I doubt the guy has ever drawn his taser or baton, let alone used them.
And that inexperience is on full display when we enter the fifteen-by-twelve room serving as the temporary nurse’s station. Something happened earlier involving an inmate who somehow managed to set part of the room on fire, making the infirmary uninhabitable for the time being. Because of this, I’m left to sit in what looks like an empty storage closet. The only things in here right now are three desk chairs, a metal shelf lined with boxes in the corner, tissues, and a medical cart with a blood pressure cuff positioned next to me.
But no nurse.
I don’t want to touch my face until the damage has been assessed, but I have to wipe my brow just to prevent the blood trailing down my forehead from getting into my eyes.
Kowalski hands me a tissue box to help with the cleanup, but the off-brand paper is shit, somehow achieving the trifecta of being thin, having the texture of sandpaper, and being unabsorbent. “What did you do to piss off Peters anyway?”
Good question.
Brawls breaking out in the day room aren’t unusual, especially from Brandon Peters, but he only targets people he has a beef with. I haven’t said boo to him since I got here, but that didn’t stop him from coming out of nowhere and hitting me with a chair just now.
Again, fights are nothing to write home about, especially when you’re the new fish and the resident “pretty boy.” Unfortunately for people like Franklin and Durand, they learned the hard way that my physique and tattoos weren’t just for show. They fucked with a kid from the Valley, which meant nothing was off the table in a fight. You want to play stupid games with me? You’ll end up on the ground with three fractured ribs, a broken nose, and my thumbs digging into your eyes.
Since the last incident, everybody has pretty much backed off from me. And Peters usually starts fights on the fly; they aren’t pre-planned.
That right there is what has me so on edge.
His crew was expecting it this time. As soon as he hit me, his guys practically swarmed, preventing me from retaliating as Peters slipped back into the crowd.
That’s not how he operates.
Why the hell would he attack me just enough to send me to the infirmary but not stick around to finish the fight? He’s not the kind of guy to back down once he starts something.
This doesn’t make sense.
And with every passing second, that uneasiness slithering up my spine only grows heavier.
Something’s up.
I try to tell Kowalski, but he laughs it off, claiming that it’s just anxiety talking.
No, it’s called common sense, Jimmy. Something you’re severely lacking.
His radio blips and something incoherent is spat out on the other end of the call. I usually can’t understand most of what’s being said, but this genuinely sounds like someone’s trying to talk while coughing.
When Kowalski tries to contact the person on the other end, we both hear the telltale blip, and his voice echoes from right down the hall.
He pokes his head out of the room but apparently doesn’t see anything, calling out, “Diaz?”
A muted but distinguishable cough responds, likely from around the corner.
Fuck.
That dawning sense of panic doesn’t come to Kowalski until he goes to investigate the sound himself. Whatever he sees can’t be good, because he begins barking orders into his radio and yelling for the nurse.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I doubt it’s protocol to leave an inmate alone in here, but either Kowalski doesn’t know any better or just doesn’t know what else to do amid the chaos, because he locks the door and tells me to stay put before running back out.
Thirty seconds later, the door opens with the aid of a key, but it’s not Kowalski or a nurse who enters.
No, it’s Erik Ivanov, a.k.a. the Butcher. And as you can safely assume, that title isn’t because of his profession.
The fucker’s so big he barely clears the entrance, and he’s sporting a rather unfortunate accessory.
The inmates here are issued clothes that coincide with their statuses. Most in Genpop, like myself, wear green, while other colors indicate…unique circumstances, the worst of all being red.
That’s only issued to the most dangerous offenders, the ones usually kept in isolation.
Can you guess which color dear old Erik is wearing?
And he’s not just accessorized with red clothes. A very distinctive liquid is also splattered across his face and smeared all over his arms and hands.
Yeah, odds are Officer Diaz isn’t doing too well if the bloody shank in Ivanov’s hand is any indication. Inmates like him are regularly checked for weapons, yet he somehow got his hands on a hooked blade, the handle bound by what looks like a shit-ton of tape and a section of a bedsheet.
He shuts and re-locks the door, sliding the rubber stopper in place.
Even if someone has a key, they’d still have one hell of a time trying to get in.
And the fact Ivanov doesn’t care he’s clearly been spotted on multiple security cameras isn’t a good sign either. A man is only ever this brazen in these parts if he knows he has nothing left to lose.
Out of all of the inmates at Norfolk, the fact I’m being targeted can only mean one thing: he’
And there’s only one person I know who would want to see me dead.
I doubt the medical cart offers much that could be used as a weapon, but I scramble through the drawers all the same, praying that perhaps there might be at least a sedative.
But there’s nothing. Unless I can get close enough to strangle Ivanov with the cord to the blood pressure kit, I’ve got nothing to defend myself with but tongue depressors, bandages, and antiseptic.
Guess I’m going for a play out of Peters’ handbook.
Getting as much momentum as I can behind me, I hurl my chair at him. The impact causes something to break, but not for Ivanov. A splintered chair leg hits the floor as he hurls the rest aside like I swung nothing more than a foam bat at him.
Yeah, that’s not how it’s supposed to work. Unlike what you see in the movies, regular furniture isn’t a prop. If you hit someone with it, the chair doesn’t just break apart. And you’re guaranteed to do some damage—at least, you should.
I, on the other hand, am not that lucky, apparently. I didn’t expect to incapacitate him, but that should have been at least some kind of a distraction.
As if the fucker couldn’t get any creepier, he grins, exposing bloodstained teeth. Considering nothing around his mouth appears to have been injured, it’s safe to say that’s not his blood.
What the fuck?
With no other option, I unscrew the cap on the rubbing alcohol and fling the contents at Ivanov’s face as he charges me, but the pain must not register soon enough because he bulldozes me into the wall. I feel rather than hear the snap inside my rib cage, which isn’t surprising. By the sound I make hitting the concrete, I’m surprised more isn’t broken. Hell, maybe it is. I’m just more focused on the fact that I can’t fucking breathe. The wind wasn’t just knocked out of me. It was pulverized. My diaphragm refuses to cooperate, and I’m left doubled over, gasping for air that won’t come. The only reason I suspect my entrails haven’t been spilled all over the floor is because Ivanov finally rears back as the antiseptic burns his left eye. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to get into the other, allowing him to still see me as I attempt to stumble past him.
For a second, I think I’m actually in the clear, but he whirls around, and a blinding, white-hot pain sears into my flesh as the hooked blade sinks into my shoulder.
I’m able to twist away from him, the shank still buried in me, so he can’t do more damage with it, but that doesn’t stop him from slamming his fist into my face. His eyes are tearing up so badly that he probably can’t see much, and it’s likely the only reason the punch doesn’t connect directly, clipping the side of my cheekbone. And thank God, because the impact still dislodges my brain, or at least, that’s what it feels like. Yeah, my little antiseptics stunt has appeared to only anger him further, because it unleashes blind rage.
I’m on the ground, croaking, barely able to draw in a fraction of a breath, only to have Ivanov pull me back up to slam his knee into my gut.
It’s clear this fucker is messing with me, because he rips the blade out of my shoulder but doesn’t go in for the kill. No, he wants to play with his food first.
I hear pounding on the door, and through the small window cut into the steel, I see Kowalski’s face, pale white and horrified.
The doorknob turns back and forth, so it’s not locked. He just can’t dislodge the stopper, no matter how many times he throws himself into the door.
And all the while, I get thrown around like a rag doll. I’m not scrawny by any means, topping out at over six feet and weighing about a buck ninety, but I may as well be made of stuffing for all the damage I do. I land an uppercut to his jaw and a solid blow to his diaphragm, yet he doesn’t even react. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Anyone who can withstand the pain of isopropyl alcohol searing his eye out isn’t going to be bothered by much. He hurls me sideways into the other wall, and he doesn’t let go, even as my head strikes the concrete. And all I can do after a certain point is listen to more bones break as black spots form in my vision.
By the sounds outside, multiple people are trying to force open the door, meaning Ivanov needs to wrap this up. He finally releases his hold, letting me drop to the ground.
I turn my body as best as I can, kicking the heel of my foot into his leg when he comes over to me with the blade, and I’m finally rewarded with the sickening crack as I dislocate his kneecap. Ivanov drops the blade as he staggers, and I take what slight advantage I can. I draw my foot up and take out the razor blade tucked inside my sock, slashing up at him with my good arm as he drops to the floor, but his arms look like he borrowed them from a goddamn gorilla. They’re that huge. I slice right where an artery should be, but it’s hard to tell, given his size. Blood begins pouring down his arm, but again, it doesn’t stop the fucker. Even injured, the arm still has enough strength to pin mine down as he uses his other to wrap meaty fingers around my throat.
Ivanov straddles me at the waist, lowering his face so close to mine I can feel his breath and see every inflamed blood vessel in his damaged eye.
Every inch I move my arm, I pull the shredded tendon in my shoulder, and though I can’t see what my fingers scrape across, I feel the jagged edges all the same.
“Lillian sends her regards.” The fucker laughs, his grip tightening so hard I can feel my larynx threatening to break.
My vision goes black, but all I can take in are those four words. Or more specifically, the first.
Lillian.
Fuck that.
And fuck her.
The motion causes something to snap in my shoulder, but I don’t care. I blindly thrust the splintered chair leg up, twisting it as warm liquid begins pouring down onto my face, neck, and chest. But I don’t stop. Not until the pressure relaxes around my throat.
I can’t drag in much air, but it’s enough to fend off the darkness that begins overtaking my vision. Ivanov lies over me, the splinter chair leg projecting from the side of his neck. A lone gurgle escapes his lips, spewing blood onto my face, and all I can do is laugh as his weight finally collapses on top of me.
Lillian sends her regards.
So, this is how she wants to play things? Well, game on, bitch. Because when I walk out these doors, I’m going to make your life a living hell.
CHAPTER 1
ANNA
PRESENT
This is stupid. You are being stupid. Nobody’s out there waiting for you. Nobody cares. Nobody is stalking you.
I tell myself this for the hundredth time as I continue standing in front of my apartment door, willing my feet to move. Much good it does. I’ve been in this exact spot for the last nineteen minutes, still unable to so much as unlatch the deadbolt. My heart jackhammers hard enough inside my chest that it feels like it’s trying to chisel its way out, and I’m shaking badly enough that you’d think I downed an entire pot of coffee. All I want to do is run back into my bedroom, curl into a ball on my mattress, and hide under the covers from the scary monsters outside. Sadly, that’s not an option. The at-home freelance work I’ve been doing hardly offers the financial stability I need right now.
I need a job, even if only part-time.
But that can’t happen if I don’t leave the apartment.
Come on, Anna. Get your head out of your ass, turn the doorknob, and at least walk out into the hallway. Nobody’s waiting for you.
I knew it was going to take a shit-ton of internal convincing to get my ass out the door this morning, hence why I forced myself to be ready thirty minutes early. I also want to make sure my roommate wouldn’t be awake yet to witness my mini-freakout. She already thinks I’m weird—no need to make things worse.
I actually manage to rest my hand on the doorknob, but before I can bring myself to turn it, I hear something out in the hallway and immediately scramble back.
He’s here.
He found me.
He’s going to finish what he started—
“Nancy, can you feed Whiskers while I’m out? He gets gassy if I feed him his breakfast after nine o’clock,” Mrs. Alderman’s muffled voice calls out from the other side of the door.
