Chapter Six
Skye
My eyes flutter open as a light breeze brushes against my face. I blink, still half asleep, and sit up abruptly. My bedroom window is wide open, the white curtains pulled aside. But I know I didn’t open that window.
A chill runs down my spine—I always keep my windows locked at night. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet touching the hardwood floor. That’s when I see it—a folded paper sits on my bedside table, propped against my alarm clock. My hand trembles as I reach for it and unfold it.
You looked so perfect lying here. Almost too perfect to touch… almost.
A laugh bubbles from my chest. I fold the note and put it back, then I move to my bedroom window. I frantically scan the tree line across the street, and the empty sidewalk below. Can they see me right now?
I step closer and my pulse quickens at the knowledge that someone was in here.
I check the corners of my room, behind the dresser, near the closet door.
This is what I signed up for. Fear that makes my skin feel alive, the rush of doing something Mom would lock me in my room and throw away the key for if she knew.
I catch my reflection in my mirror and freeze. The girl staring back has sleep-mussed hair and yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes, but she’s . . . smiling. Not the polite, practiced smile I have perfected for family dinners and professors, but one that is real.
My fingers find the pearl necklace at my throat.
It’s Mom’s graduation gift, and one I never take off, even though I know I should.
I unfasten it, letting it pool in my palm.
It is weighed down with the years of “yes ma’am” and “of course, Mother” and “I’ll be home by ten.
” I drop the pearls into my jewelry box and snap it shut.
College was supposed to be my chance to figure out who I am without Mom’s voice in my head, yet somehow, she has reached me even here.
I have a shift at Brews before class today, and I need to drag my ass into the shower. I passed out hard last night and forgot, though some part of me liked how he was inside me.
Needing to clear my head, I move across the room and grab my coffee-stained work uniform from the chair, with a name tag that reads “Skye” in block letters. In contrast, a Chanel blazer Harrison bought me for my birthday hangs in my closet, the tags still attached.
As I pass my phone, it buzzes with a text from Mom.
MOM
Your attendance is expected at the annual gala I’m hosting next month, Skye.
I delete the message without responding and shove my phone into my bag, right next to the black card Harrison gave me for emergencies that I’ve never used.
The bag’s fraying at the edges, but I bought it with my tip money from last month.
It looks ridiculous next to my Tesla key fob, but I earned it.
Macey and Adrian had an early class this morning, so I know they won’t be home.
The hot water takes forever to heat in this old building, so I brush my teeth while I wait.
Once steam fills the room, I strip out of my clothes and get into the shower.
I miss the shower at my mom’s. It’s probably the only thing I miss, if I am honest.
There is an upside to putting my foot down and moving out of my mother’s house and not accepting her bribery to stay in the dorms—it’s how I ended up here, a place my mom won’t step foot inside.
This place is beneath her—Mother’s words, not mine—but I am not a snob like her.
I have everything I need. I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and clothes on my back.
Once I wash my hair and shave, I turn the shower off and push back the shower curtain. I reach for my towel and freeze.
Smile for the camera.
The words drip down my bathroom mirror. My towel slips from my grip and silently hits the tiles. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, the steam thicker, making it harder to breathe.
My gaze darts to the corners of the ceiling, scans the light fixture, then shifts to the small window above the toilet.
Nothing.
But someone was here. Someone was watching me strip down, step into the shower, and wash my hair while humming that stupid song under my breath.
My hand goes to reach for my phone before I remember I put it in my bag, out of anger at my mom.
Instead of rushing to grab it and dialing 9-1-1, I step closer to the mirror and trace the edge of where the words are written.
The glass is warm from the steam, and I press my palm flat against it.
My reflection stares back at me, my pupils dilated and my cheeks flushed.
At the very least, I should call campus security.
Breaking into my home goes beyond so many boundaries, even for a fantasy, yet instead . . . I’m smiling.
It’s the same way I smiled when I climbed out of my bedroom window at seventeen, out onto the roof.
Then with my heart hammering, I dropped into the garden just so I could see a boy Mom had forbidden me to see.
Or the way I grinned when I signed the lease for this apartment, knowing Mom would lose her mind.
I lean closer to the mirror and whisper, “I’m not calling anyone,” all the while hoping they can see me. Then I wipe the words away, erasing the evidence. I can’t have Macey and Adrian asking questions I’m not ready to answer.
Dressing quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on my uniform shirt, I finally feel alive and in control of my life.
I pack a bag with a change of clothes for my afternoon class, and head down to the parking garage.
As I get into my car, a motorbike engine revs and I look over my shoulder.
I watch the guy pull out of his spot and zoom off as I flick on my playlist, then make my way out onto the main road at a more respectable speed.
Pulling up to a set of traffic lights, I belt out the tune about it being a beautiful night as if I’m at Coachella living my best life.
“Hey, baby,” a voice singsongs, cutting through my off-key singing.
My mouth snaps shut mid-note.
A motorbike idles beside my passenger window, and the rider flips his visor up. His ice-blue eyes are very familiar. I realize it’s motorbike guy, and he’s singing along to my playlist. How can he even hear it over his engine?
“We should get married,” he calls out, his voice carrying a teasing tone. “You’ve got the voice of an angel.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I fumble for the window button, but the light turns green, so I slam the gas pedal. My car lurches forward without me even checking for oncoming traffic.
Of course, the next light is red, as is the one after that.
Each time I pull up, I make sure my windows are sealed tight.
At the fourth red light, he maneuvers his bike close enough to tap his knuckle against my window.
I try to stare straight ahead, but his laughter is infectious, the sound bubbling through the glass.
“Hey, pumpkin,” he calls, loud enough I can hear every word. “I’m wounded. I propose marriage, and you speed away like I’ve got the plague.”
When I glance over, I see he’s now leaning against my car, one elbow propped on my roof like we’re friends.
“So what do you say?” he asks, pushing back from my car, and he spreads his arms wide, nearly losing his balance. “Wanna get married?”
“No.”
He clutches his chest with both hands, swaying dramatically. “Why not?”
“You’re a stranger.”
His shoulders lift in an easy shrug. “That’s how the best adventures start.” The light changes, and he winks at me. “I’ll see you around, pumpkin.”
He speeds off, and some asshat toots their horn behind me as they yell something obnoxious out their window.
When I get to work, the damn motorbike is parked out front like a trophy to my humiliation.
He is leaning against it, his arms crossed, watching me circle the parking lot twice before admitting the only free space is right beside him.
I park, grab my bag, and slowly climb out. Then I turn toward him.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask when I’m a few feet away.
He pushes off his bike, a stupid grin spreading across his face. “We’re practically engaged. I’d call it ‘making sure my future wife gets to work safely.’”
My bag slips from my shoulder, and he chuckles at my clumsiness. “How did you know I work here?”
His head tilts, and something shifts in his expression—something playful. “Maybe I am stalking you after all.”
He walks toward the entrance, leaving me standing outside with my mouth half open. I watch him disappear through the glass doors, then follow like I’m the one stalking him.
Inside, Seb waves from behind the espresso machine, looking relieved. He hates the mid-morning rush.
I clock in, tie my apron, and slide behind the register as the first order comes up.
“Zay,” I call out, reading the name written on the takeaway cup.
Motorbike guy appears at the counter, and the cup nearly slips from my grip as heat climbs my neck.
“Zay and Skye,” he croons, and as he reaches for the cup, his fingers linger against mine. “Sounds good together, don’t you think?”
My mouth opens, then closes, words abandoning me entirely. How does he know my . . .
My eyes drop to my chest, to the plastic name tag pinned there in block letters. Of course. Though I duck my head, I can feel him watching the blush spread across my cheeks.
“I promise next time I’ll have a ring for you,” he says, backing toward the door.
“I much prefer the stalker angle.” The words escape before I can catch them. His laughter fills the entire coffee shop, and I want to crawl under the counter and die. Customers turn to look, some smiling, others rolling their eyes.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he calls back, and then he’s gone.
The rest of my shift flies by, and I have to race to campus to make my class. I hate being late, and I manage to run through the door with a minute to spare. But I struggle to focus because Silas stares at me for most of the lesson; there is something intense about him.
After class, Adrian and Macey convince me to meet them at a popular bar to eat.
I decide to go but regret it as soon as I see the bar is full of dude bros—the type who get more obnoxious the more they drink.
After I eat, I hit my limit for the amount of stupidity I can deal with.
Macey is happy to stay, but she doesn’t come from a family like mine, so she doesn’t realize the strings that come with guys like this.
Either you will only ever be the sidepiece because you’re not good enough for their family and chances are they have already been promised to another, or if you actually get a foot in the door, the family will make your life a living hell until you leave. There is no winning.
I welcome the quiet the instant the doors shut behind me as I leave the bar.
The faint sound of voices carries outside, but it’s a relief.
I just want to go home, shower, and watch reruns of Gossip Girl.
As I pull into the underground parking, I can practically hear my bed calling my name.
Reaching into the back seat, I grab my bag and step out of the car, but then the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
Before I can move, a hand clamps over my mouth, and I’m dragged back against a hard chest. My stomach sinks and ice fills my veins, paralyzing me as my limbs turn to lead. Every muscle locks in place.
Then the purple glow of the mask turns on, and my body instantly relaxes. The panic inside me is replaced with something else entirely. His mask presses against the side of my face, and I realize this isn’t the same man from last night—he isn’t as tall.
“You look beautiful while you sleep.”
His hand eases from my mouth, and he trails his fingers along my jaw, his thumb pushing at my chin.
“Tilt for me.”
I do. God fucking help me, I do it without thinking.
My head falls back against his shoulder, my throat bared like I’m offering it up to him. My pulse thumps wildly against his fingertips, so he’ll know how much this is affecting me.
His touch is slow. Almost as if he has forever to memorize my every freckle and imperfection. His fingers drag down the column of my neck, lighting up my nerves like a Fourth of July party. When he traces my collarbone, my breath hitches.
“You’re trembling,” he says in a slightly robotic voice. “You like being scared. Noted.”
Am I? I hadn’t noticed. Everything feels discombobulated, like I’m floating outside my own body, watching this happen to someone else.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, it hurts.”
His palm spreads flat over my heart. The weight pins me to his body, solid against my back. I can feel my heart racing against his palm, thumping frantically.
“Mine.”
The reasonable part of my brain—what’s left of it—knows this is all role-play, but damn he is so fucking good at it.
“I’ll always be watching.” His mask catches on my hair as he bends close, sending shivers cascading down my spine. “Always.”
There is a pause, and I wait to see what he does next.
“And if anyone else dares to touch what’s mine . . .” His hand slides lower, painfully slow, down my stomach. His fingers ghost over the waistband of my jeans, and his promise burns in the almost touch. “I’ll end them.”
The words would normally terrify me—a huge red flag if I have ever seen one. But I’m doing this is for me—something dangerous—and the way his threat sounds like obsession wrapped in violence . . . I am so here for it.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I need his hand to slide lower. My breath comes out short and uneven, my skin now hypersensitive to every whisper of contact between us.
“Say you’re mine.”
I need him to touch me so badly I would say anything. If this fantasy means belonging to a masked stranger, then so be it.
“I’m yours for as long as—”
“You’re all in?”
“Yes,” I gasp out as he pushes his hand beneath my underwear, his finger pressing against my clit. With a few light strokes, he somehow has me coming undone, and my knees wobble as he caresses me through the aftershocks.
“Sleep tight, I’ll be watching.”
He removes his hand, lets go of me, and backs away.
I stare after him in a daze as he turns his mask off and disappears out of the garage.
The darkness swallows him.