23. Lydia
TWENTY-THREE
LYDIA
I t starts with the feeling.
The one that crawls along the back of my neck when I’m alone. The sensation of being watched .
At first, I told myself it was nothing. I was paranoid. Just jumpy after everything that happened.
But the feeling doesn’t go away. It clings to me like static, thick and oppressive, making my skin itch with unease.
Trip watches me. But this isn’t him. Trip’s presence never feels like this.
This is colder .
Darker.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. Until the texts start. Why do I always discredit myself?
They aren’t threatening at first.
Just… there.
Miss you.
Wish we could talk.
You’re making a mistake, baby.
Patrick.
I block the number. He uses another one.
I block that one too.
Then the texts turn sinister.
You look lonely.
Bet you wish I were still around to keep you warm at night.
Nice panties this morning, princess. Blue looks good on you.
I stopped wearing blue after that. Stopped streaming, AGAIN .
Stopped going outside, AGAIN .
But it doesn’t stop him .
Trip notices before I tell him.
“You haven’t streamed in a week, little killer,” he murmurs one night, sitting beside me on the couch.
My Xbox menu is still on the home screen, music looping softly, but I haven’t touched the controller in hours.
I hug my knees to my chest, blanket wrapped tight around my body like a shield.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, killstreak.”
I can’t meet his eyes.
“Tell me,” he whispers, voice softer now.
My throat tightens. I want to tell him. I do. But saying Patrick’s name feels like summoning a ghost I’m not ready to face.
So I stay quiet.
The next morning, I find a dead bird on my porch.
Its tiny body is twisted, neck snapped, wings splayed out at an unnatural angle.
Laid out gently. Like a fucking gift.
That’s when I break. I tell Trip everything .
“Stay inside. Keep the doors locked. Don’t open them for anyone,” Trip’s voice is a growl over the phone that night.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Trip…”
“ Lydia. ” His tone sharpens. “ Stay inside. ”
I don’t argue. I do what he says. For two days.
But the feeling never leaves. The anxiety is suffocating.
I sit curled up on the couch, knees pressed to my chest, eyes locked on the security feed from the app Trip installed on my phone.
Nothing. No movement. But I feel it. The air is too still. Too heavy. Like the world is holding its breath.
I text Trip.
I think someone’s here.
No reply.
The silence stretches. I can’t sit still anymore. My chest feels tight.
Check the door. Just once.
I stand slowly, moving like a ghost through my own house. Every creak in the floor sends a jolt of fear through my veins.
When I reach the kitchen, I grab the biggest knife I can find. My fingers tremble around the handle.
Breathe.
“Calm down,” I whisper, voice barely louder than the hum of the fridge.
I turn toward the back door, checking the lock.
Locked.
I take a step back.
Calm down.
The floor creaks behind me.
My heart stops .
The knife shakes in my hand as I spin around, eyes wide, breath catching in my throat. A figure stands in the shadows near the doorway.
Tall. Broad.
Black tactical gear. Gloves. Boots. A mask covering everything but his eyes.
My pulse pounds so loud I can’t hear anything else.
“Patrick…” I whisper, barely able to form the word.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t move .
Just… watches me. The knife trembles harder.
“Please…” My voice cracks.
I take a step back. He takes one forward.
No.
I stumble, back hitting the counter, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
“Trip?” I whisper.
But he doesn’t answer.
I know it’s not him.
Trip doesn’t move like this. Trip doesn’t make me feel this small.
“Patrick… please…” My voice is barely above a whisper.
He grabs my wrist. The knife clatters to the floor. I gasp, my body going rigid as he spins me, pinning me to the cold tile.
“Don’t, please…” I whimper, tears burning in my eyes.
No words. Just his grip tightening. I can’t breathe.
Not again.
I break. My knees give out. I crumble to the floor, body shaking, tears spilling down my face as panic swallows me whole.
“Please,” I sob, curling into myself. “Please, I’m sorry…”
I’m back there.
In his grip.
Small. Helpless.
“Lydia.”
The voice is muffled through the mask. Lower. Softer. I flinch.
“ Look at me. ”
I can’t.
I just can’t .
But then… The zipper. It’s slow. Deliberate.
I hear it before I see it.
The tactical vest hits the floor first. Gloves next. Knee pads. Boots. My breath hitches. Then… the mask.
I blink through my tears, vision blurry, body still trembling.
Trip.
It’s Trip.
His jaw is clenched, eyes burning with something raw. Something aching.
“Your fear and tears are delicious, killstreak,” he murmurs, voice low as he kneels in front of me.
His fingers brush my cheek, wiping away a tear.
“But only when it’s me that’s terrifying you.”
My breath catches.
“Not when you’re scared of someone else. Not when you are scared of him. I want your fear, killstreak . I want your everything.”
The dam breaks.
I collapse into him.
Trip catches me instantly, arms wrapping around me like a fortress. His body is warm, solid. His scent is familiar.
Safe.
“Trip…” I choke out, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear.
“I’m here,” he murmurs into my hair, voice softer now. “I’m here, killstreak.”
I can’t stop shaking.
He doesn’t let go.
His hand strokes my back, his lips press gently to my temple. I sob harder, burying my face into his neck, feeling his heartbeat steady against my cheek.
“I thought…” My voice breaks. “I thought it was– him–”
“I know. Shhh. I’ve got you.”
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
Minutes.
Hours.
Long enough for my tears to slow. Long enough for my body to stop trembling.
I’m empty. Exhausted. But safe.
I press closer, nuzzling into his neck, breathing him in.
His grip tightens.
And when I whisper, “Please don’t leave…”
He kisses the top of my head and whispers back, “I’m not going anywhere.”