Chapter 2
Prudence
I stare at the man filling the doorway, a knife in his hand, his muscular legs bent at the knees in effortless balance.
The light from my screen sizzles down the reflective surface of his black motorcycle helmet.
For a moment, I wonder if I fell asleep and started dreaming about a game, but I haven’t played anything similar recently.
This looks cyberpunk-ish. The sharp contours of his body coupled with the contrastive play of light make for a striking image. I’d play this game for visuals alone.
Again, I look at the knife. Not my preferred choice of weapon. I’m usually a sniper, not a melee fighter. Still, I have to admire his grip. He holds the knife like a pro, his fist wrapped tightly around the handle, the blade pointing straight down.
“In The Rookie, John Nolan said once that if an attacker holds the knife the wrong way, you have a chance. You seem to be holding it the right way.”
My voice is oddly soft as I look up at the faceless man who barged into my gaming room with the obvious intent to kill me.
It’s eerie how little that matters. I should be terrified, shocked, something.
Instead… I just want to know who he is. Because who would even bother with me?
Did EchoWitch714 finally get the guts to face me in the real world?
She uses feminine pronouns, so that’s unlikely.
This is very clearly a man.
A small shiver goes down his frame. He shifts until his pose is a tad less violent. The helmet cocks to the side.
“What?”
I flinch at the harsh, low sound. He is very, very angry or very, very stressed. If I wanted to calm him down in a game, I’d have to use charisma. Not my biggest strength.
“John Nolan,” I say, not even trying to soothe him since I’d fail anyway. “From that police procedural show, The Rookie? I watched all seasons. It’s very entertaining.”
“Police?”
He takes a jerky step forward, and suddenly, the man with the knife is inside the room with me.
My gut tightens. When he stood in the doorway, it felt less immediate.
Kind of liminal. But now? The room fills with the scent of blood and male sweat, and something else, something primal. A thick, choking aura of danger.
The silence is eerie. In a game, fight music would play.
“No calling the police,” he rasps, his free palm curling into a big fist. “Where’s your phone? Hand it over.”
I reach slowly to where it rests on the desk. My phone is in its new, fluffy case with cat ears. I have three of these in various colors. This one is purple.
Not moving from my gaming chair, where I sit cross-legged in the wide seat, I stretch my hand with the phone. The man leaps forward and snatches it, knocking my hand aside.
“Ow,” I say automatically, my fingers throbbing.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my eyes drawn to the knife, as if hypnotized. He lowers it enough to be less threatening, but my body is still alert, buzzing from his proximity. This room is my inner sanctum. I’ve never let a man inside.
“Everything,” he says in a low, angry voice, putting my phone in the pocket of his black pants. They rustle as he moves. His entire outfit is matte black and kind of angular.
“Are these skiing clothes?”
The man groans and raises his head, looking at the window. It’s covered by thick blackout curtains.
“Turn off the screen and open the curtains. I need to see outside.”
I unfold my legs, wincing when pins and needles attack my calves. I’ve sat in one position way too long.
When I unwrap my electric blanket from around my shoulders, the cold in the room makes me shiver. Damn, I should have turned on the heat, but I was too engrossed in my game and lost track of time.
As soon as I pull the curtains open, the man is at my back. A strong arm snakes around my collarbones, and he drags me to the side. He is so tall, the back of my head rests against his chest. I shiver. I can’t remember when I was last touched by a man.
“Don’t try anything funny, like opening the window and screaming for help,” he growls in my ear, sending an electric current down my back.
Oh my.
“I wasn’t going to.” I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat. He’s so solid, his body pressing to every plane and curve of mine. “It wouldn’t be logical, anyway. If anyone heard my scream, which is unlikely, they wouldn’t get here in time to prevent you from knifing me.”
“That’s right,” he rasps, shifting his hips until we’re even more tightly pressed together. Wow. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”
My stomach clenches and releases with a strange, swooping feeling. As if something inside me took flight. Maybe the curry was bad.
“I suppose you could call me smart, for a certain value of smartness. What I lack in emotional intelligence, I make up for in strategic thinking.”
He tenses, the strong forearm pressing down on me growing harder, the body at my back stiffening. Then it vibrates. A low, raspy sound comes out muffled through the helmet.
After a moment of confusion, I realize he’s laughing.
His laughter cuts off immediately when the street outside pulses red and blue. A police car passes without a sound. The man releases a harsh breath.
“Oh.” I sigh in realization as I connect the facts. “Are they looking for you? What did you do?”
“I murdered someone,” he says in a cold, tense voice. “And if you don’t do as I say, you’ll be next.”
I swallow with difficulty, trying to stop thinking about how he’s still so solid and big against me. I’m not cold anymore, even though his clothes are well insulated, and I don’t feel much of his body heat. The heat is all mine.
My heart races from adrenaline, and my mouth goes soft and uninhibited as panic wipes out my mental filters.
When I get nervous, I babble.
“That’s not very logical, though, is it? If you kill me, you’ll raise your chances of being caught, which already seem high. I mean, they suspect you’re somewhere in this area. You don’t need another body.”
Just look at me, half-heartedly fighting for my life with logical arguments. Go, girl.
He grunts once, shifting his stance. I stumble and lose my balance.
Faster than I think possible, he hooks his leg around mine to keep me upright.
We’re entwined, and it’s so intimate, I feel like I’m about to self-combust. All my senses are in overdrive, and I don’t even know what I feel anymore.
Am I terrified? Thrilled? Aroused? It’s so confusing.
The knife fills my vision as he lifts it to my face. In the faint light from the window, I can tell it’s sticky with something dark and viscous. Blood.
“See this?” he asks, his voice softening. “I’m a murderer. I’m in your house. Nothing will stop me from cutting your throat. So stop thinking and trying to be smart, and do as I say.”
My hands tremble. He’s being very clear. And yet…
“But you could have killed me already. You were going to, weren’t you? Instead, you’re holding me in this really confusing manner. You took my phone. I don’t think you want to hurt me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The cold edge of the knife presses to my throat. I freeze completely, my heart pounding so fast, it feels like my ribcage will burst any moment.
“Then again, I’ll be happy to follow your instructions,” I whisper, doing my best not to move my throat. The knife presses into my skin a touch too close. It feels like it will cut me if I take too big a breath. “I’m just saying. You don’t need to threaten me, is all. You could just ask.”
He pulls the knife away, and I’m ready to collapse from relief. My legs are jelly. The only reason I’m still upright is because the killer holds me up.
“I’m not stupid, so stop trying to get me to trust you,” he hisses. “I’m going to tie you up. Does this house have a basement?”
Panic sticks to my sweaty hands and coats my tongue with a bitter taste. I don’t know how to stop myself from babbling like an idiot.
“No. Only an attic, and it’s small. So, what’s your plan? We both hide in the attic and pretend no one’s home when the police knock on the door? They’ll find us. An attic is a pretty obvious hiding place.”
He curses, and the knife presses back to my throat. I close my eyes, releasing a shaky breath. I am scared, but not as scared as I should be. Some wires must have crossed in my brain, because I keep thinking that this is a bit nice. To be held close like this.
I had no idea pressing against another body could feel so good. Once this is over, I’ll have to reevaluate my way of living. Maybe try dating.
“You talk too much,” he says. “This house is practically invisible from the road. No one will think to check here.”
I huff with a bit of disdain. Because really. No wonder he’s being chased by the police. If I decided to kill someone, I’d make sure the body wasn’t discovered until days later. This must be a very sloppy killer. Maybe it was a crime of passion.
“What?” he says through gritted teeth, the knife still at my throat. It doesn’t even twitch. His hand is shockingly steady.
“I mean, what if you’re wrong? What if someone does check here? You’d be in a pickle. The police are pretty good at this, you know. At least, from what I see on TV.”
His chest rises at the back of my head as if he forces himself to take a deep breath. The air tumbles out of him in a whoosh before the knife slowly pulls away from my throat. I clear it, trying to erase the memory of sharp metal pressing to my skin.
He steps away and turns me fast. My back presses to the wall, and the man blocks my view, his forearm leaning on the wall above my head. I see my pale reflection in the faceless visor of his helmet.
“Well, what do you think I should do, smart girl?”
His voice is biting and hostile, but I see my reflection smile wanly in response. It’s not logical, but I kind of want to help him. He could have killed me and he didn’t. That means something.
“Well, you have a solid disguise. Maybe just take it off?” I say.
He scoffs in disbelief. My face heats. Not what I meant.
“And no one will recognize you,” I clarify. “If they do come in, you could pretend you’re visiting or something.”
He releases an impatient breath. “That would require me to trust you, and I don’t.”
I think it through, watching my reflection. I wish I could see his face. If he does kill me, I’d rather know what he looks like so I can haunt him as a ghost.
Before I gather my wits, he pushes away from the wall and grabs my wrist. “Come on, smart girl. You’re going to tell me where you keep zip ties.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure. You could try grandpa’s tool box.”
He stiffens. “Grandpa? Does he live here?”
I look away. The grief I’ve suppressed for the past six months wells in the pit of my stomach. “No. Just me.”
He’s silent as I furiously blink the unshed tears away. When I finally look at him, the helmet is thoughtfully tilted to the side. I clench my teeth and raise my chin, daring him to say something about my pitiful breakdown, but all he does is pull me out of the room.
“Show me that toolbox.”