Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Mia
My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matches the rhythm of my boots against the rain-slicked pavement.
The night air is thick with the scent of gasoline and wet asphalt, clinging to my skin like a suffocating shroud.
I can't breathe.
I can't think.
All I know is that I have to run.
The streets of London blur around me, a kaleidoscope of neon signs and shadowy alleyways.
My lungs burn with each gasping breath, but I can't stop.
The image of her—body crumpled and broken on the road, is seared into my mind.
The sickening crunch of metal and bone echoes in my ears, drowning out the distant wail of sirens.
I stumble, my ankle twisting as I round a corner.
Pain shoots up my leg, but I force myself to keep moving.
I can't use the car to escape this time.
It's there, at the scene, a damning piece of evidence that won’t truly tie me to the accident.
It was a rental, and I was too young to secure it myself so a man in line helped me obtain it.
I won’t get caught.
I can’t get caught.
A concerned voice calls out from a nearby doorway. "Hey, miss! Are you all right?"
I don't answer, don't even look back.
My feet carry me forward, driven by pure instinct and terror.
The cobblestones beneath me are treacherous, slick with rain and centuries of grime.
I slip, catching myself against a rough brick wall.
My palm scrapes against the surface, leaving behind a smear of blood.
The pain is grounding, anchoring me to this moment .
I pause, gasping for air, and try to get my bearings.
Where am I?
How far have I run?
The streets all look the same in the darkness, a labyrinth of Victorian architecture and modern storefronts.
A group of late-night revelers stumbles past, their laughter grating against my frayed nerves.
I press myself deeper into the shadows, willing myself to become invisible.
My heart is still racing, but the initial surge of adrenaline is fading, leaving me shaky and nauseous.
"What have I done?" I whisper to myself, the words barely audible over the ambient noise of the city. "Oh god, what have I done?"
The reality of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave.
I've killed someone.
I've taken a life.
The fact that it was an accident doesn't matter.
She is dead because of me.
Henrik .
The thought of him sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
I force myself to start moving again, slower this time.
My ankle throbs with each step, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.
I need to find somewhere safe, somewhere I can hide and think.
As I limp down the street, my mind races through possibilities.
The pounding of footsteps behind me jolts me from my thoughts.
I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat. Henrik's tall, lean figure emerges from the shadows, his icy blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"Mia!" he calls out, his voice a mix of concern and something darker. "Stop running!"
I don't hesitate.
I bolt, my feet pounding against the wet cobblestones.
The crisp London air burns in my lungs as I push myself harder, desperately trying to put distance between us.
"You can't escape this, Nattblomma !" Henrik's voice echoes off the buildings. "I know everything!"
I dart down a narrow alley, the sound of his pursuit growing closer.
My mind races, replaying the accident in vivid detail—the sickening crunch of metal, the spray of blood .
I killed his wife.
How can he be chasing me?
Why isn't he calling the police?
Suddenly, I jolt awake with a strangled gasp.
My body is drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs.
Before I can orient myself, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Shh, it's okay," Henrik's voice murmurs close to my ear. "You're safe, Mia. It was just a dream."
I freeze, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.
Henrik is here, in my bed, trying to comfort me.
How is this possible?
"Henrik?" I manage to croak out, my throat dry and tight. "What... how are you here?"
His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture both tender and possessive. "I couldn't leave you alone, not after everything that happened. You were having a nightmare."
I struggle to sit up, pulling the duvet tighter around me.
Henrik's presence is overwhelming—his scent, the heat of his body so close to mine.
My mind reels, trying to piece together the fragments of memory and nightmare.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, his blue eyes searching mine in the dim light of my bedroom.
I shake my head, unable to find words.
How can I tell him I was dreaming about killing his wife?
About him chasing me through the streets of London?
Henrik's hand cups my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You're trembling, Nattblomma . Let me help you relax."
The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the predatory gleam in his eyes.
I'm caught between desire and fear, my body responding to his proximity even as my mind screams warnings.
The intensity of his gaze makes me shiver.
My heart races as I struggle to piece together the events of last night.
The room spins slightly, and I clutch the duvet tighter around me, suddenly acutely aware of my nakedness beneath.
"Henrik," I start, my voice shaky, "what exactly happened? I... I can't remember much."
He shifts on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. "I had a bit too much to drink myself, if I'm honest. Thought it best to stay and make sure you were all right. "
The explanation sounds plausible, but something doesn't sit right. I try to keep my tone even as I ask, "And Larsa? Is she okay?"
"She's fine," Henrik assures me, his hand resting on my knee over the covers. "Sleeping it off in her room, I expect."
I nod, but my mind is whirling.
When did Henrik arrive?
Was he here when... no, that's impossible.
The Stalker couldn't have been here with Henrik in the flat.
Could he?
"I feel so out of it," I mumble, rubbing my temples. "Did you... did you see anyone else here last night?"
Henrik's brow furrows. "Anyone else? No, just you and Larsa. Why do you ask?"
I shake my head, trying to dispel the unsettling thoughts. "No reason. I just... It's all a bit hazy."
"That's understandable," he says, his voice soothing. "You were quite... enthusiastic last night. I stepped out to get some water and painkillers for you both, and when I came back..." His eyes roam over me, a glint of something dangerous in their depths. "Well, you'd decided clothing was optional."
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and confusion. "How... how long were you gone?"
"Oh, about twenty minutes or so," Henrik replies, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just long enough for things to get interesting, it seems."
The look in his eyes makes me shiver, a mix of desire and unease coiling in my stomach.
Twenty minutes.
So much can happen in twenty minutes.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
The weight of Henrik's presence, the gaps in my memory, and the lingering sensation of... something else, all press down on me.
But through the haze of confusion and fear, one thing becomes clear—Henrik helped us last night, regardless of what else might have happened.
Henrik's expression softens, the dangerous glint in his eyes replaced by something warmer, yet no less intense.
He reaches out, his long, artist's fingers gently caressing my cheek.
The touch sends a jolt through me, equal parts comfort and electricity.
" Nattblomma ," he murmurs, the Swedish endearment rolling off his tongue like honey.
His icy blue eyes lock onto mine, seeming to peer into the depths of my soul. "I'll always make sure you get home safe."
The tenderness in his voice contrasts sharply with the memory of his earlier, more predatory gaze .
I find myself leaning into his touch, craving the warmth and security it offers, even as a part of me recoils at the vulnerability.
My mind races.
How can I feel so safe and so exposed at the same time?
Henrik's presence is both comforting and threatening, and I can't shake the feeling that there's more to last night than he's letting on.
But as I lose myself in the intensity of his gaze, I realize that, for better or worse, I'm drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of desire, I lean in and press my lips against Henrik's.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, but quickly deepens as pent-up longing bursts forth.
My duvet slips away, exposing my bare breasts to the cool air of the room.
I barely notice, too consumed by the heat building between us.
I break away, breathing heavily, my heart pounding in my chest.
Henrik's eyes are dark with want, his pale skin flushed.
Without thinking, I straddle him, my legs on either side of his hips.
He's wearing only boxers, and I can feel him hardening beneath me.
"Mia," he growls, his hands finding my waist.
I kiss him again, harder this time, more urgently.
My fingers tangle in his dark hair as I press myself against him.
The contact sends sparks through my body, igniting a fire I can’t suppress.
Henrik's hands roam my back, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Each touch, each caress, makes me feel desperately wanted, needed.
It's intoxicating.
"I know we shouldn't be doing this," I whisper against his lips, even as I grind my hips against his. "But I want to, Henrik. I always want you."
A low chuckle escapes him, sending vibrations through my body. "Oh, Nattblomma ," he murmurs, his accent thicker with arousal. "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words."
As his lips find my neck, I close my eyes, losing myself in the sensation.
A part of me knows this is dangerous, that Henrik is dangerous.
But at this moment, with his hands on my skin and his breath hot against my throat, I can't bring myself to care .
Henrik pulls back slightly, his icy blue eyes gleaming with a mixture of desire and something darker.
A smirk plays at the corners of his lips as he regards me, his hands still firmly on my hips.
He snickers, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. " Nattblomma ," he purrs, his voice low and commanding, "call me Daddy."
The request catches me off guard, and for a moment, I'm frozen.
My heart races, pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird.
Is this what I want?
But as I look into Henrik's eyes, I see the hunger there, the need.
It mirrors my own desperation, my own craving for connection, no matter how twisted.
At this moment, I want to give him everything he asks for.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice barely audible. Then, louder, more confidently, I meet his gaze. "Yes, Daddy."
I can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the way Henrik's grip on me tightens ever so slightly.
What am I doing?
A small voice in the back of my mind screams.
But it's drowned out by the roaring of blood in my ears, the heat of Henrik's skin against mine.
I've stepped over a line, I know.
But as Henrik pulls me closer, his lips crashing into mine with blazing heat, I can't bring myself to regret it.
In this moment, lost in the darkness of desire, I feel more alive than I have in years.
Henrik's hand trails lower down my body, his fingers finding my clit, my thoughts scatter like ashes in the wind.
"Oh God," I moan, arching my back.
His touch sets my nerves on fire, each stroke of his fingertips like a fuse being lit, detonating a cascade of pleasure that centers in my core.
"You're so wet," he growls, his voice guttural in my ear. "You like it when Daddy plays with you, hmm?"
"Yes," I pant, my hips bucking against his hand. "Yes, Daddy."
He chuckles, low and menacing, the sound sending chills down my spine.
"Good girl," he praises, then sucks a nipple into his mouth, the sensation almost unbearable.
I can't help it—I sink down on his cock, taking him all the way inside me.
"Fuck," he hisses, his grip on my hips tightening even more. "You feel so fucking good, baby girl."
Beneath me, Henrik's body tenses, his muscles coiling like a spring wound too tight .
I can feel the tension in the air, the knowledge that we're both teetering on the edge.
And as Henrik's thumb traces patterns on my clit, something within me snaps.
"Daddy," I whimper, my voice hoarse with need. "I want you to fuck me like a naughty girl."
"That's it," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Tell me how bad you want it."
"I want it, bad. I want it more than anything else."
I throw my head back, lost in the sensations coursing through my body.
Henrik's hands roam my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
Every touch, every kiss, ignites something primal within me.
It's intoxicating, this raw passion, and I find myself chasing it like an addict seeking her next fix.
"God, Daddy," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his dark hair. "I need you."
He responds with a growl, flipping us over so I'm beneath him.
For a split second, he slides out of me and I whimper.
As he enters me again, I'm struck by the intensity in his icy blue eyes.
There's something almost predatory in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down my spine—part fear, part excitement.
Yet even as I lose myself in Henrik's embrace, unbidden thoughts of the Stalker creep into my mind.
The way his presence makes my heart race, how his very existence seems to breathe new life into my world.
With Henrik, I feel desired, wanted.
But with the Stalker... I feel seen.
Truly seen, in all my broken, twisted glory.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions warring within me.
What kind of person am I, to crave both these men?
To need the stability and passion Henrik offers, while simultaneously yearning for the dangerous thrill the Stalker provides?
"Look at me," Henrik commands, his voice husky with desire. I obey, meeting his gaze once more. "Where did you go just now, Nattblomma ?"
I bite my lip, guilt gnawing at me.
"Nowhere," I lie, pulling him down for a kiss to distract him. "I'm right here with you."
As our bodies move together, I can't help but wonder—what if they did know each other?
What if, in some twisted way, they could both be part of my life?
The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
I know it's wrong .
I know I'm playing a dangerous game.
But as the pleasure builds, pushing me toward the edge of oblivion, I can't bring myself to care.
For now, I'll take what I can get from both worlds, consequences be damned.
"That's it," Henrik murmurs against my neck. "Let go for me, Mia. Let go for Daddy."
And I do, shattering into a thousand pieces in his arms, even as part of me wonders what it would be like to fall apart under the Stalker's touch instead.