15. He’s following me. No, he’s hunting me
15
He’s following me. No, he’s hunting me
Chapter Playlist:
“Head Above Water” – Avril Lavigne
EVERLEIGH
THREE DAYS LATER
Every morning, I wake up, relieved when I don’t have the damn instrument of torture of a chastity belt on.
I can’t begin to guess what Acheron is doing.
It’s been a peaceful past few days. I won’t deny my shock when I discovered he’d cleaned my apartment. Cherry was swooning and doing the cha-cha. But any shock bled into anger and rage when I found all my credit cards cut up and all the processed food in my fridge replaced by a bunch of organic, all-natural, tasteless whatevers. I half-considered throwing away the tofu, but I remembered what happened the last time I threw away something Acheron gave me.
Hey, babe! Cherry had chirped at me, buzzing her wings. You realize how he stocked you up with a lot of aphrodisiacs?
I flicked her away…but still ate the whole bag of dark chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds. And the dried figs.
And then, I found the smartwatch on the counter. A prototype that would have cost me five year’s worth of salary. And I get paid decent wages.
I’d gasped at the holo program that popped up the first time I turned it on. Acheron designed most of the programs and included an app with recipes for my new “lifestyle” as he dubbed it.
The first time we tried the kale and banana smoothie with coconut and almond milk, I wanted to fling it at the wall for its audacity to taste so good. I still fantasize about dumping everything in the garbage.
My boss has had local assignments for me. Mostly research and paperwork at the Smithsonian. But it’s been harder than ever to focus. Any moment, I’m ready to snap, wondering if Acheron will come for me in my sleep, drug me, and carry me away…never to be seen again.
I have a plan. I’ve put it into place. But anytime I think about it, my insides shrivel, and I lose my nerve, feeling…knowing he’ll find me.
What is he planning?
The moment I step into my apartment, I know something’s wrong. It’s too quiet like the air itself is holding its breath.
I toss my keys onto the counter, their jangling sound barely registers over the pounding in my ears.
That’s when I see it.
A single piece of paper sits on the counter, stark against the dark granite. My name is scrawled across the top in his unmistakable handwriting. And a charcoal sketch of me inside an elaborate art frame. My stomach twists as I pick it up, my fingers trembling.
“It won’t be long now.”
My breath catches. The words blur as tears sting my eyes. I stagger back, the note slipping from my hands.
“No. No, no, no.” The words tumble out as I clutch the edge of the counter, trying to keep myself upright. My mind races. I have to get out. Now.
I snap.
I grab my go bag from the closet, the one I packed weeks ago but never thought I’d need. My hands are shaking so badly, I can hardly lift it. I shove my new/used flip phone into my pocket and sling the bag over my shoulder. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.
As I step outside, the cold night air hits me like a slap. My plan is half-assed at best—get to the bus station, buy a ticket to the used car seller I checked out at the paper stand a few days ago, and figure it out from there. My parents’ friends have a place off the grid in Kentucky.
The bus ride is a blur. By the time I get to the seller’s house, it’s well past midnight. The seller barely glances at me as I hand over the cash—my emergency cash I’ve stashed in a hidey hole—and take the keys.
The car smells like stale cigarettes and regret, but it’s mine. And it’s freedom.
Probably the illusion of freedom.
I hit the road, the empty highway stretching out before me. The headlights cut through the darkness, but my mind is racing. What am I even doing? Where am I going? I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles white.
This is a terrible plan, Cherry chimes in from the passenger seat, picking at her nails. Sometimes, the hallucination of her shows up in reality.
“Not now, Cherry,” I mutter. But I’m well aware of how I’m panicking. And she’s my touchstone in all of this. Sometimes, we switch places. She’s the rational one…but never loses her dark humor.
I’m just saying, you’re basically starring in your own murder thriller. Woman on the run, middle of nowhere, no backup. This is how it starts, you know. He’s going to catch you, you know that.
I glance at her, my imaginary best friend lounging like she owns the car, her red wings draped casually against the seat.
“You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” I tell her.
Excuse you, Miss Thing , but I’m a byproduct of your subconscious, so maybe turn that finger around, babe.”
I groan, focusing on the road. “You’re not helping.”
Neither is this death trap you’re driving.
I open my mouth to retort when a deer leaps out of the darkness.
“Shit!” I scream and yank the wheel to the right, the tires screeching as the car veers off the road. The world tilts, and then I’m in a ditch, the engine sputtering before falling silent.
For a moment, I just sit there, stunned.
Well, Cherry says, her tone far too chipper as she straightens, wings humming. This is where the gas station attendant shows up, lures you inside, and introduces you to his toothless cult buddies who tie you up and ? —
“Enough!” I snap. “You’re not real!” I spit at her, though I couldn’t function without her.
Neither is your plan. She shrugs, waving a hand. But here we are.
After slapping the steering wheel a few times—for stress relief—I shove the door open and climb out, the cold biting through my thin jacket. The car is tilted at an awkward angle, the front tires half-buried in mud. I kick one in frustration.
“Damn it!” Pain shoots through my foot, and I hiss, hopping on one leg.
Oh, yes, assault the tire. That’ll teach it to disrespect you.
I can hear the grin in her voice.
“Shut up,” I mutter, sliding down against the tire.
Don’t worry, I’m sure Acheron will appreciate your damsel aesthetic. She sashays, wings fluttering.
“Ugh!”
The tears come, hot and unwelcome. I bury my face in my knees, the weight of everything crashing down on me as I sit against this car, huddling into my jacket.
A few minutes later, the sound of an engine cuts through the silence. I look up, my breath hitching as headlights bathe me in their blinding glow. A car slows to a stop, the engine idling. Not just a car. A limousine.
I don’t need to see who it is.
I already know.
Acheron.
My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. The car door creaks open, and the sound of boots crunches on gravel.
“A ditch in the middle of nowhere,” Acheron says, his voice smooth as silk, laced with dark amusement. “Not exactly the grand escape you had in mind, is it?”
New mask. Always with the surreal blood drops. No less beautiful. The red three-piece suit is his signature. But tonight, the vest is black with mirrored blood drops. And the cape seems more menacing than ever.
I force myself to my feet, my legs trembling as I stab out my chin. “What do you want from me?”
He steps closer, and even though I can’t see his face, I feel his smirk. “What I’ve always wanted, Everleigh. You.”
In seconds, he closes the distance between us, pulling a gasp up from my throat. Gloved hands hem me in, one on each side of the car. The faintest scent of leather and something sharp—paint thinner, maybe—wafts toward me. His leather-clad fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, and I jerk back, my breath hitching.
“You’ve been running,” he murmurs, soft but mocking. “But you can’t outrun me. You know that, don’t you?”
I clench my fists, trying to summon the courage to spit back, but the words die in my throat. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, spreading gooseflesh. He’s too calm. Violently calm.
“Your plan wasn’t half bad.” He taps my nose in a scolding manner. “But one fatal flaw, Little Quill,” he says, and I shiver as he slides his hand to the back of my neck and taps there. “That last night we were together, I injected you with a tracker.”
Horror rips through me, icing my blood. I flex my fingers, resisting the urge to touch there and confirm his admission.
Oooh, it’s enough to give me the vapors! Cherry fans herself.
“I predicted you might run,” he tells me before coming off the car, giving me a few inches of space. “Come now,” he says, gesturing toward the open door of the sleek black limo. “Let’s not make this more difficult than necessary.”
I stare at the open door, the dark interior beckoning like the mouth of some giant beast. Every instinct screams at me to run, even though I know it’s futile.
I bolt.
I can feel his predatory eyes digging into me from behind. My feet pound against the gravel, slipping and sliding as I veer off the road and into the woods. Branches slap against my face and snag my clothes, but I don’t stop.
Oh, brilliant move, Cherry quips, her vision blurry as she runs alongside me, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Run into the forest like one of those bimbo girls in the movies. You know, the ones who always get caught because they’re too dumb to stay on the road?
“Shut up!” I hiss between gasps, glancing over my shoulder.
Seriously, if you were smart, you’d turn right back around, fall into his arms, and beg for mercy. At least then you’d have a chance. But no, you’re out here, tripping over roots, knowing full well an unhinged stalker is hunting you down. Great plan, genius.
I stumble, nearly face-planting into a tree, and Cherry cackles in my head.
Look at you, survival queen, she sneers. If this were a horror movie, you’d be the opening kill.
I grit my teeth, pushing myself harder. The trees blur around me, and the cold air burns my lungs. But then I hear it—the crunch of leaves behind me, steady and unhurried.
He’s following me.
No, he’s hunting me.
I don’t dare look back again. My legs scream in protest, but I keep going until my foot catches on a root, sending me sprawling to the ground.
For a moment, I just lie there, gasping, the weight of inevitability pressing down on me.
The sound of boots draws closer, deliberate and measured.
“You can run, Everleigh,” Acheron’s voice calls out, smooth and taunting from the thick trees. I can’t see him. “But you’ll never get away.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear into the earth.
Cherry stands over me, arms crossed over her chest, rolling her eyes. A for effort, F for execution. Classic Evie. If running away was an Olympic sport, you’d be in the blooper reel.
I really need to have a long talk with my inner self-critic.
The next thing I know, thick leather coils around my throat, tightening until I’m choking, coughing. Acheron hauls me to my feet as I thrash from sheer terror knifing through me. He’s nearly dragging me out of the woods.
“You try my patience ,” he says, emphasizing the last word.
I grip the belt, trying to widen the gap. “Acheron! P-pl-please, I-I can’t breathe!” I rasp.
You’re choking, he’s fuming, and I’m over here wishing I had popcorn. What a show!
I imagine slugging her in the throat so she can join the wheezy breath club.
Maybe next time, try not to provoke the guy with a leather fetish and control issues? She still sounds louder than ever.
Once Acheron gets me into the back of the limousine, he finally loosens the belt.
“Drive,” he orders, and the limousine begins moving.
I hear the rising of the black partition, but my vision is blurry from the lack of air. The next thing I know, he’s got me turned over on his lap with my skirt hiked up around my hips, underwear pulled down, and the belt coming down hard on my bare ass.
The shock splits me open. And then, I scream through clenched teeth, afraid I’ll chip one…until he shoves a leather glove in my mouth. “Bite.”
I do.
He swings the belt again. Crack! It burns my cheeks like hellfire. My shrieks are muffled. I’m writhing. Spitting. Cursing. Every strike is hot, radiating over each cheek, deep enough to scald through muscle and find the bone.
He beats the ever-loving shit out of me. Acid rises in my throat, tears clogging my eyes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. He’s not just Acheron. He’s the God of Art, punishing his art, whipping it into shape for its audacity to defy him. He paints my ass with the belt. The carnal glint in his eyes—a ravenous predator unleashed—the primal blood play of the mask, and his heavy breaths all surge pride into my chest…
He shakes me to my core. And rouses something inside me like a tranquilizer in my nerve endings. I sink into him with a misplaced heat into my inner core. I get a glimpse of the raw genius of Acheron, knowing I am the source, the reason for it all.
It’s more beautiful than any of his performances. Because it’s real .
His cock is rock hard beneath me, longer than I’ve ever felt. Twelve inches easy. When the time comes, he’ll split me apart.
Crack! Burn!
Acheron is not just punishing. He’s creating . My ass is his canvas. The belt is his weaponized brush. And the colors dripping from the palette are the liquid heat trickling from my center and sending need pulsing through me.
He reduces me to a throbbing, quivering, aching mess. I hardly know what I’m doing when I start grinding against his leg, desperate for friction, for resolution.
Acheron brings the strap down one more time, the strongest yet, and I screech through the glove in my mouth, long and ear-splitting.
And then, dead quiet. Sometimes, it happens in his shows. It’s nothing but soft music and the sound of his emotion, his ragged, shaky gasps with paint dripping down his arms like tears and blood.
Welts and blisters must cover my ass. One leathered finger traces the curve and sears my flesh, and I moan in agony, but I can’t stop the flaming hunger in my pussy. I’m wriggling, rubbing my clit against his thigh, acting like a stupid, horny fangirl. The pain flares all over my backside, but a deeper pain splinters my center, my heart, and my soul.
Because I want him more than ever.
Suddenly, he grips my hair, pulling me into a sharp arch and forcing my pelvis to rise.
“Don’t you dare come, Everleigh Lennox.”