Chapter 5 #2
His gaze flicks past me to the desk, taking in the notebooks and photographs with a quick, assessing glance. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I know he can read the guilt written across my face.
"Find anything interesting?" he asks, his voice too casual.
"I was looking for a bathroom," I lie, the words coming out too fast, too breathless. "I got turned around."
"The bathroom is down the hall. In the opposite direction." He steps into the room, and suddenly the space feels much smaller. "This is my office."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't lie to me, Sloan." His voice is still soft, but there's a hard undertone now. "I’m not an idiot. You’ve been looking around. I get it. It’s what I’d do. It’s what I expected you to do."
There's no point in denying it anymore. He knows, and pretending otherwise will only make things worse. So I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on, trying to project more courage than I feel.
"You've been stalking me for months," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "You have hundreds of pictures of me. You know so many things about my life that you shouldn't."
"I prefer the term 'research.'" He moves closer, and I instinctively back up until I hit the wall covered in photos of me. "I wanted to understand you. To know what would make you happy."
"What would make me happy is going home."
"This is your home now." He reaches out to touch one of the photographs—me laughing at something Cara said during our last brunch together. The memory feels different now. Tainted. "Everything you need is here. Everything you could want."
"I want my freedom."
"Freedom is grossly overrated." His fingers trail down the photograph, tracing my smile. "Freedom is just another word for being alone. You would have settled for less than you deserve."
"And what exactly do I deserve?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, but I'm too angry to care about managing his mood.
He turns to look at me then, his eyes burning with an intensity I'm starting to recognize. "You deserve to be worshipped. Cherished, Sloan. Protected from a world that would never understand what you really are."
"I’m a person. A human being with my own thoughts and desires and choices."
"What you really are," he says, moving close enough that we’ll touch if I breathe, "is mine."
The possessiveness in his voice makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach.
Despite the stalking and the murder and the kidnapping, there's a fucked up part of me that is being reminded how alive I was under his touch and how thoroughly he shattered every wall I’ve ever built. He’s too close.
And that terrifies me.
"I know what you're thinking," he says softly, reaching out to trace his fingers down my cheek. "I can see it in your eyes."
"I thought you were Alex." The words come out as a whisper.
"Did you?" His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and I hate the way my body responds to the touch, instinctively arching off the wall behind me. "Or did some part of you know the truth?"
"You're delusional."
"Am I?" He leans even closer, close enough that his breath warms my skin. "Then why aren't you fighting me right now? Why aren't you screaming? Why is your pulse racing for all the wrong reasons?"
Because he's right, and we both know it. Because standing here surrounded by evidence of his obsession, I should be fucking terrified. I should be planning violence, my escape, anything except wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me right now.
"I hate you," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.
"You think you do." His forehead rests against mine, and we're breathing the same air. "But hate and want aren't mutually exclusive, are they? You can hate me for what I've done and still want me to do it again."
The truth of those words hit me. He's right.
I hate him for deceiving me, for killing my boyfriend, and for trapping me in this beautiful fucking cage.
But I also remember the way he made me feel. The way he touched me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And that memory is stronger than it should be.
"Thank you," he says suddenly, pulling back to meet my eyes.
"For what?"
"For being brave enough to explore the cabin while I was outside. For wanting to understand." His smile is gentle, almost fond. "It shows me you're not giving up. I'd be disappointed if you gave up too easily."
He talks so coolly about my resistance, like it's his own personal brand of entertainment rather than my desperation… But there's something in his expression. Something that looks almost like... respect?
"I'll never stop trying to escape," I tell him, meeting his gaze steadily.
"I know." He steps back, finally giving me space to breathe. "I'm counting on it. The chase is half the fun, after all."
The words send a chill down my spine. Because I'm starting to understand that this isn't just about possession for him. This is about the game. The hunt. The constant push and pull between predator and prey.
And despite all logic and reason, some sick part of me is starting to enjoy it too. Because I’m too competitive for my own fucking good.
"Come on," he says, turning toward the door. "I made you breakfast. You need to eat something."
Just like that, he moves on. Like I didn’t just discover how truly psychotic he is.
But as I follow him out of his office, I catch one last glimpse of those photos covering the walls. Hundreds of moments from my old life, arranged like a museum exhibition dedicated to his fixation.
In the back of my mind, I'm already planning how to use his obsession against him.
If he wants to play games, I'll play.
But I'm going to win.