Prey Upon Me: A Dark Stalker Romance, page 12
To say she’s caught me off guard is the understatement of the century.
Even though it’s clearly not her dominant hand, wielding something like that can still do plenty of damage, so I let go of her mouth and hurl us both sideways. The momentum is enough that we’re sent toppling off the bed, and we both hit the floor, hard. That doesn’t stop her from the Michael Myers impression, because she doesn’t release her hold on the knife. It especially doesn’t help that she’s the one lying on top of me and I’m struggling to get the air back in my lungs.
Fuckin’ hell.
I really must be a masochist, because having a beautiful blonde straddling me would normally be a major turn-on, but having her brandishing a knife down at me?
It may very well be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Because this girl is a fighter.
Spend four years in prison, you’ll see every kind of person there is. More often than not, men are pansy-asses. Sure, some are more obvious about it, but even the macho gym bros covered in muscles and tats usually fall victim to the same limp-dick response when the chips are down. Most people don’t know how to fight for shit, and these same assholes are too afraid to take a punch. Watch a common bar fight. Nine times out of ten, you’ll see the guy throwing the punch already bailing out on the swing before it’s even landed.
Because he’s already scared of getting hit in retaliation.
But Blondie here isn’t bailing out or freezing up or crawling into the corner. She isn’t crying or begging or screaming for help. She knows if I want her dead, assistance won’t be arriving in time to save her.
The only scream she releases is feral, a natural response to adrenaline and fury. She slams the knife down at me, and only my grip on her forearm manages to redirect the blade, forcing it to slice into the sleeve of my jacket rather than my flesh. And her next attempt leaves the knife hovering directly above my chest. The only thing preventing it from sinking into my right lung is my hold on her forearm. She’s a lot stronger than I’d give her credit for, enough that I feel the tip of the blade piercing my skin before I manage to thrust my knee up to buck her weight forward and to the side. She drops the knife out of instinct to not land on it as she hits the floor, and I immediately roll Anna onto her back and practically lay my body over hers to pin her on the area rug.
This close, I can see every fleck of green in those hazel eyes, and she no doubt sees the same amount of details in mine, because her face and even her body fall slack as she looks up at me.
In recognition.
“You.” Of all things, she looks confused and, for a brief second, relieved. That just adds to the puzzle which is Annaleigh Evans.
Because some part of her was already anticipating this, anticipating an attack, but it’s obvious she expected her assailant to be someone else.
I have a feeling it has more to do with my eyes than my sparkling personality, but either way, she does recognize me. Well, as much as you can.
That momentary relief vanishes, reinviting fear with her confusion. She struggles uselessly under me, and when it’s clear I won’t budge, she finally resorts to the only thing she has left.
I slam my hand over her mouth, muffling the scream before it can escape. “We need to have a little chat.”
Her eyes narrow on me, and I almost laugh. Yeah, this conversation is clearly going to be one-sided. Now, if I thought she would behave…
She proves that’s not going to be the case, trying to knee me in the jewels when I let my weight up off of her ever so slightly.
I pin her back down, readjusting my position to ensure she has no wiggle room.
Probably not the best idea.
Our hips are practically aligned, and all of her fussing has her rubbing up against me in a very specific area.
“Here’s how this is going to go. Your notes over there,” I say, nodding over to the legal pad on the mattress, “are going to have an unfortunate run-in with my lighter. And you’re going to have a sudden case of amnesia if and when the cops come a-knocking. You don’t talk to anyone about me, and you don’t go snooping around for answers. Do you understand?”
Blondie doesn’t say anything, but I can see the defiance in her eyes.
I return the look with one of my own, tilting my head just enough to the side that it’s clear I’m appraising her. The way I let my eyes roam over her is nothing short of predatory, and I can see the flicker of something far more palpable than fear crossing her expression.
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s people. And I know how to recognize someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
My words have the intended effect, because her whole body goes still.
“How unfortunate would it be if word got out to the press about who their mystery girl really is.” I smile, and though my mask covers it, I think she can tell. It’s in my voice, the way I mock the situation. “Imagine all that publicity, your face splashed across every news cast, media post, and paper. You’re guaranteed to get those fifteen minutes of fame so many people are desperate for. You’ll be a sensation.”
The fact that the very idea inspires panic tells me I hit the nail on the head.
She doesn’t want to be found, same as me.
“Now, if anything happens to me, say, I get hauled down to the police station, you can bet this spectacular ass of yours that my associate will forward your information to every media outlet in the tri-state area, and maybe even a few national affiliates.”
She makes a small sound that I’m not even sure is a word. Her eyelashes keep fluttering, and I think she might start crying.
“Relax, my little canary. So long as you keep your mouth shut, we won’t have a problem. If you’re really good, you won’t ever have to see me again.” I assume that’s what she wants, but perhaps not. When she nods her agreement, I go to climb off of her, feeling something rather distinct.
Given that a sexy-as-fuck woman has been writhing against my genitals, it’s no surprise I’m rocking a semi-hard-on, but feeling the damp spot through the thin material of her sleep shorts? Yeah, not what I was expecting.
Blondie notices the same time I do and immediately stiffens.
She’s mortified and just as surprised to find it there as I am. Her cheeks turn red, and knowing what I know, having witnessed her from under her bed, my brain reverts back to a far more primitive state. Her own fingers and sex toys couldn’t get her going, yet me unintentionally rubbing up against Blondie has her all hot and bothered in spite of the situation. Is it fucked up that we’re both inadvertently turned on? Sure. Do I give a shit? Fuck no. If anything, it makes me harder, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel it.
The barbarian in me wants to give into my baser instincts and take her right here on the floor, and I would, if I thought she’d actually want me. But her entire body begins trembling under my weight.
I begin to pull myself up when—fucking hell—is she trying to kill me with blue balls? As soon as I lift my hips, she brings hers up as well, and for a brief second, she rubs her pussy against my dick again. It would appear someone’s brain and body aren’t communicating with one another very well, because she realizes too late what she’s doing, immediately dropping her hips back to the ground and murmuring something against my hand that I can assume is a curse.
Trying to ignore my raging hard-on, I release my hold on her and climb back up to my feet. She doesn’t make a sound or even move as I grab her knife and toss it to the other side of the room before taking her legal pad and tearing the notes out.
Just as I promised, I take out my lighter and set fire to the bottom of the sheet, letting the flames engulf the paper. I take it into the bathroom and drop the blackened remains into the toilet. When I return to the bedroom, I find her sitting up and cowering in the corner between her nightstand and desk, her knees drawn to her chest.
She won’t look at me, at least not in the eyes, and she startles at the sound of my voice as I ask, “Do we have a deal?”
We both know it’s not really a question, but she nods anyway.
“Good. Pleasure doing business with you.”
CHAPTER 11
ANNA
Call the cops!
My brain has been screaming at me to do it for the last hour, but every time I pick up the phone, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I want so badly to do what any rational person would, but I keep getting hung up on his threat. This asshole may not know about Sebastian exactly, but he does know I don’t want to be found. How could I cooperate with the police without blowing my cover? Perhaps I can make a deal with them. If I can learn enough about Mr. Blue Eyes, maybe the police could put me into witsec or something.
But how do I learn more?
Hell, how did he even find me?
I may not have any answers to those questions, but I know there are only two ways he could have gotten into the apartment, both of which are vulnerable to human error. The front door locks automatically, but if there’s any air pressure out in the hallway, you need to push the door shut. Something Darcy has forgotten to do a couple of times. Since the mistake was always made when she was drunk, I figured I wouldn’t need to check last night, seeing how she was at a theater that doesn’t serve alcohol. But then he also could have gotten in from the balcony, which Darcy regularly forgets to lock after she goes outside to smoke.
So long as I’m diligent, that asshole won’t be making his way back in here.
But there is one upside to his breaking and entering.
My roommate got to see him.
When Darcy gets back from classes, I do my best to not act like I’m freaking the fuck out and even attempt to engage in a little bit of girl talk, as to not make it seem like I’m interrogating her. It also helps that I’m baking chocolate chip cookies and all too willing to share them.
Like a moth to a flame, Darcy immediately snatches up several cookies fresh from the oven and moans around a mouthful as she takes a seat on the unoccupied counter. “What brought this on?” she asks, gesturing to the baking supplies.
I can’t say I blame her for finding it weird. Since moving here, I haven’t made anything in the kitchen that wasn’t a TV dinner that I just threw in the oven.
I shrug. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”
Darcy grins. “I believe that’s called post-orgasmic bliss. And if getting laid leads to more baked goods, I’ll call up your cop myself and get his sexy ass over here to service you again, because these are heavenly.”
Bingo.
“Did you actually see his, uh…?” I try to play coy, getting exactly what I want.
She shakes her head. “He had pants on when I ran into him, but might I say, wonderful selection on your choice of body. Even with how dark it was, I could still see some damn fine definition. I haven’t seen abs that lickable since I watched Magic Mike.” She emphasizes the point by fanning herself, wanting to know if I let him use his handcuffs on me, but I refocus the conversation in the hopes that she saw his face. The last thing I want to think about is his body, outside of any identifiable traits. Seriously, how messed up does a girl have to be for her body to respond in that kind of way to the psycho who broke into her home?
I shake my head, as if it has the powers of an Etch-A-Sketch and can make it go away. Fat chance.
Sadly, Darcy can only allude to a “good nose” and a “strong jaw.”
“Did you see any tattoos or scars, maybe?”
Unsurprisingly, Darcy gives me a look that may as well scream why are you asking me?
After all, I’m the one who was supposed to have seen him naked last night. Still, I try to play it off, biting my bottom lip. “I didn’t exactly get as good of a look at him as I should have before a blindfold may or may not have been introduced.”
Darcy perks up at this, congratulating me on my sense of “bedroom” adventures. But more importantly, she adds, “I couldn’t see what the designs were, but he had a sleeve of tattoos on his left forearm, and when I turned the bathroom light on, I caught a glimpse of his back. Looked like he had a couple of scars.” She indicates where, pointing to spots on my back near my right kidney and the bottom of my left shoulder.
Yahtzee.
She also mentions he has dark hair, adding to my growing list of identifiable characteristics. At this rate, I’ll have a full-body sketch available by the end of the week.
When Darcy heads out for the night, I’m actually feeling pretty damn good. She’ll likely be crashing at Amelia’s, meaning I can rest assured once she heads out. Double-checking the front and balcony doors, I can lie down in peace. The Egyptian cotton of my bed sheets has never felt so delicious before. It’s the rest of a mind and body at ease.
I don’t know how long I’m asleep when I faintly become aware of pressure against my wrists…
Or the fact that the pressure is bringing my wrists up over my head without my consent.
What the hell?
I’m far too out of it that it takes a moment too long to process what’s happening, and by the time I do, it’s too late. The mattress noticeably dips under someone else’s weight, and my eyes fling open as that weight settles on me!
I had fallen asleep with my comforter pulled up over my body, but it’s now at the end of the bed, leaving no barrier between his body and mine as an all too familiar pair of blue eyes looms over me and a hand covers my mouth.
How the hell did he get in here?
What the hell is he planning to do to me?
And why the hell can’t I pull my arms back down to my sides?
My instinct is to lash out at him, preferably to aim for the eyes, but metal rattles on metal as something cold and unforgiving digs into my wrists.
I look up, and even in the limited light, I can clearly see handcuffs!
The fucker locked me to the metal posts of my bed frame.
I thrust my knee up. Or at least, I try. He anticipates the move, his own knee forcing mine aside and pinning it down onto the bed. The rest of his weight settles onto my other thigh, leaving me to uselessly thrash and scream muffled expletives into his palm.
“How my little canary loves to sing,” he purrs. “I thought we had a deal, and yet, here you are, already breaking it. What am I to do with you?”
It’s alarming how quickly I run out of energy, because it only takes another minute or so struggling under his weight before my limbs grow too heavy to keep fighting, and I fall slack.
“This is never going to work, Anna, if we don’t trust each other,” he damn near chuckles in a whisper. “And you’ve proven I can’t trust you.”
I try to speak more calmly, praying he’ll let his hand up enough to let me actually talk, but he just tsks, somehow managing to make out my words when I say I haven’t spoken to anyone about him.
“Our deal also stipulated that you don’t go poking around.”
Oh fuck.
How could he possibly know that?
He clicks his tongue. “I warned you. Defying me would have consequences.”
Is it just me, or is he even bigger than he was last time?
The baggy hoodie he had been wearing is now replaced with a black, long-sleeved Henley that hugs his figure a little too well. His waist may be narrow and his abdomen flat, but every flex of his arms showcases the muscles beneath the fabric. Even his shoulders and chest are well-defined, leaving no mystery as to why I can’t fight back. I consider myself to be rather shapely, yet my thighs have nothing on his. The muscle in them alone is enough to pin my lower half to the bed, and he knows it.
Is he always erect, or does scaring the shit out of innocent people just turn him on? Because as he adjusts his weight, I can feel his hard-on, and it’s a little too close for comfort to my ladybits.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?
I was mortified after the last time, and I swore to myself that my being wet had nothing to do with him. I’ve merely been sex deprived.
And that has to be the same reason why I feel the slickness building there now…
I hope.
Just as before, my heart threatens to explode with how hard it’s jackhammering in my chest, and my breathing is shaky and shallow. If I was petrified last time, there aren’t any words to describe what I am now. I’m entirely at his mercy, and screaming as loudly as I can against his palm earns me nothing but a low laugh from him.
Reaching for the nightstand with his one free hand, he taps a button on my remote, and music instantly drowns me out.
“I’m almost tempted to say your defiance is cute, if not for the fact that it’s also incredibly stupid,” he says, igniting a whole new fear in me when I catch the gleam of metal as he withdraws a knife from his back pocket.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know if he can even understand me, but his eyes look as amused as the grin of the skeleton mask he’s wearing.
“I have a feeling you have more to risk here than I do,” he purrs. “Sure, the police might be able to peg me as a suspect, but that’s all they’ll have. Assumptions. Even if you go screaming every last detail you’ve procured about me, it’s still circumstantial. You, on the other hand…” He drags the tip of the blade along the side of my face, using it to brush the hair from my eyes. “If word gets out about who you are, where you are, there aren’t going to be any assumptions about what will happen to you, will there?”
He doesn’t expect a response, and I can’t give one.
Because he’s right.
“I want to be lenient with you, but how can I be when you refuse to follow simple instructions?” he purrs. I try to tell him I won’t go against the terms of our deal, but he’s unmoved.
“Please!”
He examines the blade, like his answer is inscribed on the hilt. “I’m afraid a deal is a deal. Unless you can offer some sort of collateral, I see a call to the biggest local news outlet in your near future.”
