Wicked Stalker (Captives of the Onyx Brotherhood #1)

Twelve

Eve

My mouth is dry. I swallow and lick my lips, and a strange, salty taste hits my tongue. My head aches, and my heavy eyelids don’t want to open. I must have drunk way too much last night.

I readjust myself and try to go back to sleep, but something is niggling at me. The sheet covering me is too light, the air too warm, and there’s a strange smell in the room. A crisp, male scent.

Cologne.

Memories swirl in, sluggish and jumbled. The empty ballroom. The sharp taste of the champagne as it bubbled on my tongue. The heaviness that crept over me, and the bright sound the glass made when it fell from my fingers and shattered.

He drugged me. And now I’m…where?

A low thrum of fear stirs in my gut, but it’s muted. Whatever he gave me still runs through my system, softening my thoughts and making them slow. I battle with my heavy eyelids again and this time achieve a small victory. My eyes open.

Everything is still fuzzy, and I have to blink a few times before I make out a white ceiling. The overhead light, a modern, twisty chandelier, is switched off, the soft light in the room coming from somewhere else.

I try to swallow again, and my throat rasps.

“Are you thirsty? Here, let me help you.”

That voice. It soaks into my brain and resonates through my bones. A deep shiver runs through me, and I can’t tell if it’s terror or excitement as a strong hand slides under my back and raises me up.

It’s him. Gabriel. My mystery man.

The motion as he helps me sit sets the world spinning again, and I have to close my eyes so I don’t get nauseous. He brings the glass to my lips, and I drink. The cold water is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. It slides down my scratchy throat like balm, soothing the fire I hadn’t even realized was there.

Soon, the glass is empty.

“I’ll get you more soon, but I don’t want you to get sick. Lie down now. You need more rest.”

His tone allows for no argument, and I’m too tired to speak a single word anyway. He lowers me down to the bed. Now that my body has the liquid it needs, the drugs still in my bloodstream pull me back under, into the depths of sleep.

***

My eyes fly open with a gasp. This time, there’s no muddiness or lingering confusion. The wild panic of a cornered animal hits me. Where am I?

Not in my house, that’s for sure.

I stare around the unfamiliar room. No Gabriel this time. I’m in a spacious bedroom. To my right is a large picture window covered by thick blackout blinds. The soft light comes from a couple of small bedside lamps on either side of the huge, king-plus bed. It could swallow my bed four times over.

Two doors, both shut, lead from the room, and the only real color comes from an abstract painting on the wall. I stare, look away, and stare again to make sure. It’s my painting. My birthday present from Billie.

How?

How long have I been asleep? How did he get into my house? And how did he even know the painting matters to me?

I stare at the picture, thoughts churning until another darker idea makes its way through the mist. If he's gone to the trouble of collecting and hanging my birthday gift, how long is he expecting me to stay here?

The enormity of what I've done smacks me in the face. Back in the ballroom, I felt an irresistible pull to play Gabriel’s game, but now, faced with that painting, the decision seems unbelievably stupid. He could be a serial killer. Maybe he only saved me from Cole because he wants to kill me himself.

If he’s going to kill you, why would he bother hanging your birthday painting?

So I can look at it while he tortures me to death? No, that doesn’t fit. It doesn’t sit right. Gabriel doesn’t feel like a serial killer. But neither did Ted Bundy, if the documentary Billie and I watched is to be believed.

There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and I eye it with suspicion. Will it be drugged, too? No. What would be the point? If he wanted me unconscious, he could have kept me that way easily. I pick it up and almost smile when I find another note.

For some reason, my anxiety ratchets down a notch at the sight of the folded paper. This feels like familiar territory. Communication from a safe distance .

I take a sip of the water—ice cold. My stomach does a little twist. It couldn’t have been sitting there for more than a few minutes. Gabriel isn’t far away. He’ll be behind one of the two doors, maybe waiting for me to come out.

Maybe watching me right now.

I stare at the corners of the room and see no cameras, but that doesn’t mean anything. They can be as small as a grain of rice. My hands tremble as I unfold the note.

Welcome, Eve. I hope you slept well and the new decor in our bedroom is to your taste. You can add whatever touches you like once you’re settled. I’ll allow you a few minutes to yourself before we discuss what comes next. The bathroom is through the door to your left. See you soon.

Gabriel

An icy chill creeps through my veins as I read the note over and over. Polite on the surface, but a few phrases jump out.

Our bedroom.

Once you’re settled.

Allow you.

I keep snagging on that last one. He’ll allow me a few minutes? It could just be harmless, formal phrasing, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s a deliberate word choice, and it points to one thing. He has power over me, and he’s reminding me of it.

And our bedroom? As in a bed we share? Together? I don’t know the man. My breaths come faster, rasping through my throat. He’s talking as though we’re going to be a couple. Living together. Sleeping in this bed.

Having sex.

Of course that would come as part of the package. Right? Even in Billie’s optimistic scenarios, the handsome billionaire/prince/secret agent would still expect sex. The very familiar mixed-up tangle of fear, guilt, and disgust, threaded through with longing, surfaces from its lair deep in my brain.

The part I should probably address with therapy but haven’t dared to.

What have I done? I’m not the right person for whatever this is. I take a long drink of the water to calm myself down, and as it hits my stomach, I realize a visit to the bathroom is very necessary indeed. I don’t want to face whatever comes next with crossed legs.

The door to the left, he said. I pull down the sheet then yank it up again with a yelp, stomach twisting. How didn’t I notice before? My breath picks up as I risk another look under the sheet. It’s true, I’m naked. Even my panties are missing.

Who stripped me? Somehow, I doubt Gabriel brought in a woman to do it. That means it was him. He’s seen my body. He violated my modesty.

I press the sheet over my mouth, stifling a sob. All the vague, romantic hopes I’d been clinging to crumble into dust, smashed by that one disastrous fact. If I’d been dressed, he could still have been a good guy despite the drugs, ominous painting, and sinister note. This could still have been a fun game. A romantic adventure.

But he stripped me while I was unconscious.

Not a good-guy move.

My skin flushes hot, starting at my chest and moving out to my extremities. My cheeks burn. He’s seen me. Touched me. Did he get off on it? Did he take photos? All the horrible possibilities crowd me, and I curl in a ball, trying to get myself together. If the note is to be believed, he’ll be here in a few minutes. I need to be ready for him.

Bathroom first. I tug the sheet, intending to wrap it around myself in case he’s watching me on a camera right now, but it won’t come. What the heck? Making sure to keep myself covered, I check the bottom of the bed, where it appears to be stuck, and my brows crease. The bottom of the sheet is sewn to the mattress.

I tug at it a few times, just to be certain I’m not going mad. Nope. It’s attached. Some sort of weird modern design choice? It makes no sense. How do you wash the sheets? But anyway, I’ve got bigger things to worry about. I rake my gaze over the room, trying to find something I can use to cover myself. There’s nothing.

I shift to the edge of the bed. From here, if I stretch the sheet out as far as it can go, I can just reach the door of a huge built-in closet. My bladder screams at me to hurry, and the ridiculousness of what I’m doing almost makes me laugh, but I manage to stifle it. If I can just cover myself, I’ll feel so much safer.

I pull at the door. Locked. Who the heck locks a closet? The knife edge I’m walking between sanity and hysteria sharpens. What’s in there? It could be anything. Murder weapons. Torture implements. Weird sex toys. Or maybe just the clothes I desperately want. I pull at the door again, then smack my palm on it with a yell when it refuses to budge.

I’m completely out of options and about to wet myself. The bathroom has to have towels, surely. I take a deep breath and rush to the door to the left of the bed.

I push it open, half expecting it to lead to a dungeon of horrors and Gabriel with a maniacal grin, lying in wait. Instead, I find a bathroom. A completely normal, large bathroom with an open-sided walk-in shower, deep claw-foot tub, and double vanity .

Normal, except the towel rail is empty and there’s a Dyson Airblade mounted to the wall. No way to cover myself here, either.

Is he messing with me? It’s really starting to feel as though he is.

I slam the door shut. Even if he has cameras, he wouldn’t be creepy enough to have them in the bathroom, would he? Too desperate to wait any longer, I sit to relieve myself and study the bathroom properly. My hand flies to my mouth.

My toothbrush is sitting on the sink in a glass, along with my usual toothpaste. I know it’s mine because it’s a silly Cinderella one I bought when Billie and I went to Disney. I’d never been before and spent the whole time running around like a big kid. I came back with a bunch of random souvenirs, including the brush.

Searching in earnest now, my nudity pushed to the back of my mind by shock, I find more of my personal items. A little shelf under the right sink holds my hairbrush, face wash, and moisturizer. Under the other sink—his sink, I assume—are male products. As if we’re a couple. I open the cupboard under the shelf and find my makeup and sanitary products.

A swoopy, falling sensation hits me, and I bend over, resting my head between my arms on the sink until the black spots clear from my vision. He’s been through my whole house. With a lurch of sudden certainty, I’m sure that somewhere, there’s a closet with my clothes hanging in it and a drawer filled with my underwear.

It’s too much. I’m out of my depth here. I want to be back in my little room, living my quiet life, not in this strange place. That tug toward adventure, the longing for something more that guided that darn champagne glass to my lips, is gone now.

It abandoned me when I need it most .

What now? What the heck now? I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. The cool sensation focuses me a little, and I awkwardly swipe at my wet face with my arm as I consider my next move. I should try to find my bearings. Look out the window, at least, or take a look out of the bedroom door before Gabriel arrives.

I push the door open and let out a strangled yell. Gabriel sits on the bed, dark eyes locked on me. A smile curls the corner of his lip as he takes me in. “Hello, Eve.”