Chapter 6
ALYSSA
Istare at the small package in Damien's hands, a chill crawling up my spine despite the warmth of my apartment.
"What do you mean he wasn't a real delivery guy?"
Damien steps inside, closing the door behind him with his foot, the package between us like a ticking bomb. Doug trots over, sniffing at my ankles before settling at my feet.
"No uniform logo. No ID. Got defensive when I questioned him." Damien places the package on my kitchen counter, keeping his hand on top of it. "And he asked if I was your boyfriend."
My stomach drops. "Delivery people don't ask that."
"Exactly." His jaw tightens. "When I said yes, he looked ... upset."
A memory flashes—someone ducking behind a car in the parking area after our date. I dismissed it as paranoia, but now...
"I've been getting these comments on Instagram." The words tumble out in a rush. "Similar usernames. Always calling me 'the love of my life' or saying we're 'destined to be together.' I blocked the accounts, but new ones keep popping up."
Damien's entire body goes rigid. "How long?"
"Six months? Maybe longer." I wrap my arms around myself. "I thought it was just typical internet creepiness, you know? You post content, you get weird comments. It comes with the territory."
"This isn't typical, Alyssa."
The package sits innocuously on the counter—plain brown, professionally labeled with my name and address. No return address. Just like the last three that arrived mysteriously.
"I've gotten packages before," I say. "Small things. A bracelet. A book of poetry with passages highlighted. A photo frame." My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I thought they were from fans. Some of my followers send gifts sometimes."
"Jesus Christ." Damien runs a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Because I didn't want to sound paranoid! Because women get told they're overreacting all the time!" My voice rises with each word. "Because maybe I just wanted to believe people are decent!"
The silence that follows feels heavy. Doug whines softly, pressing against my leg.
"Do you want to open it?" Damien asks finally, nodding at the package.
"No. I don't want whatever's in there."
"We should call the police."
"And tell them what? That I got a package from someone who might be a fan or might be a stalker? That he looked at me funny?" I laugh, but it comes out brittle. "They'll tell me to come back when something actually happens."
Damien props his hands on his hips and glares at the box. "Something is happening. Right now. This guy knows where you live, Alyssa."
The thought makes my skin crawl. I think of all the videos I've posted, showing snippets of my apartment, my life, my work. How much information have I unknowingly given away?
"I need some air." I grab Doug's leash from the hook by the door. "I'm going to take him for a walk."
"I'll come with you."
"No. Please, Damian? I just need a minute, okay? Just around the block. Doug will protect me. Besides, he's probably left already."
We both look down at the tiny chihuahua, who tilts his head as if accepting this important mission.
"That's not funny, Alyssa."
"I know it's not. But I need to clear my head." I clip the leash to Doug's collar. "Ten minutes, that's all. Then we can figure this out."
Damien's expression darkens, but he steps back. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming to find you after five."
The hallway feels longer than usual as I make my way to the elevator, Doug trotting beside me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Damien already texting to check on me—but I ignore it.
I need these few minutes alone to process everything.
I'm too wired up to think logically. My anxiety bubbles to the surface, and my heart hammers in my chest.
I just need a few minutes of fresh air. One or two then I'm coming back inside.
Outside, Doug pulls eagerly on his leash, happy for the unexpected walk. I let him lead, my thoughts swirling with possibilities, each one worse than the last.
What if Damien's right? What if someone is watching me? Following me? Social media stalkers aren't exactly unheard-of, and I've been online enough to know how many content creators had to deal with crazy fans. It's way more common than people think.
I just never thought I would be one of them.
Doug stops to sniff at a fire hydrant, giving me a moment to scan the quiet street. Nothing seems out of place. No one is watching from parked cars or lurking in the shadows. Just normal people going about their evening.
I'm overreacting. That's all this is.
Then I see him.
Standing half a block away, near the entrance to our building. A man in dark clothes, staring directly at me. Even from this distance, I can tell it's the same person Damien confronted—the fake delivery man.
My heart doesn't just stutter—it slams against my ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape. The sound of my pulse fills my ears, drowning out everything else until it's just a roaring rush of white noise. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark and fuzzy, until all I can see is his face.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
My hands start trembling first, then the shaking spreads up my arms and down through my legs until I'm not sure I can stay upright. Every breath feels too shallow, like I'm trying to breathe through a straw, and my chest tightens because I can't get enough air into my lungs.
The rational part of my brain—the tiny corner that isn't screaming in panic—tries to catalog escape routes. The building entrance is behind him. The street is empty. No one else around. My phone is in my pocket, but my hands are shaking too badly to even think about reaching for it.
He smiles when our eyes meet, and it's the wrongness of that smile that freezes me in place. It's too familiar, too intimate.
I don't know this man.
Doug growls, the sound so unexpected from his tiny body that I almost laugh despite my fear.
The man approaches, his pace unhurried, confident. "Alyssa, sweetheart. Finally. Just you and me."
My throat closes. How does he know my name?
Stupid question. Of course he knows my name. He's been sending me packages. Commenting on my videos. Watching me. Learning about my life with every video and photo.
"I don't know you. Please leave me alone."
"Don't be silly. It's me, Barry. You know, Marcus Lover. Marcus is my middle name." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell stale sweat and something chemical beneath it. "I've been trying to reach you for so long, but they keep getting in the way."
Doug barks sharply, placing his tiny body between us. The sound seems to startle Barry, whose smile falters.
"You need to shut that rat up."
"He's not a rat. He's my dog." I take a step back, tightening my grip on the leash. "I'm going inside now."
"We have so much to talk about, Alyssa. I've been so patient." He steps closer, his eyes never leaving my face. "Did you like the gifts? I picked each one especially for you."
"Please don't come any closer." My back bumps against the brick wall of the building. When did I get here? "I don't want your gifts."
His face changes, hardening into something ugly. "You're just confused. They've poisoned you against me." His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. "We belong together. I know it. You know it."
Pain shoots up my arm as his fingers dig into my skin. Doug erupts into a frenzy of barks, lunging at Barry's ankles.
"Let go of me!" I try to twist away, but his grip tightens.
"You're hurting her! Let go!" The voice belongs to Mrs. Simone from 1B, appearing from around the corner with her grocery bags. "Young man, unhand her this instant!"
Barry's attention shifts for just a second—enough for me to wrench my arm free. Doug continues his assault, tiny teeth bared at Barry's pant leg.
"Fucking mutt!" Barry aims a kick at Doug, who dodges with surprising agility, his barking growing more frantic.
Mrs. Simone drops her groceries and charges forward with surprising speed for a seventy-year-old woman, swinging her cane wildly. It connects with Barry's shoulder, making him yelp.
"You leave her alone, you monster!" Mrs. Simone's voice carries down the street. "Help! Someone help!"
Barry lunges for me again, but Mrs. Simone interposes herself between us, her cane raised like a sword. "Run, Alyssa! Get inside!"
I can't leave her. I can't leave Doug. My fingers fumble for my phone, ready to call 911, when a blur of motion catches my eye.
Damien.
He moves with terrifying speed for such a large man, covering the distance between the building entrance and us in seconds. His face is a mask of cold fury as he grabs Barry by the back of his shirt, yanking him away from me and Mrs. Simone.
"I told you not to come back here." Damien's voice is barely recognizable, a low dangerous growl that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Damien slams him against the brick wall, forearm pressed against his throat. "You think I was joking? You think I wouldn't protect what's mine?"
Barry struggles, his face reddening. "She's not yours. She's mine. We're meant to be together—"
"Shut. Up." Damien increases the pressure, just enough to cut off Barry's words. "The only thing you're meant for is a cell. You come near her again, you so much as think about her, and I will end you. Understand?"
I've never seen this side of Damien—this raw, primal fury barely contained in human form. It should terrify me. Instead, I feel oddly safe, protected.
"Alyssa, call the police." Mrs. Simone picks up Doug, who continues growling at Barry. "This man needs to be arrested."
My hands shake as I dial 911, explaining the situation to the dispatcher. The entire time, Damien keeps Barry pinned to the wall, speaking in a voice too low for me to hear. Whatever he's saying makes Barry's eyes widen with genuine fear.