8. Nell
Holy fucking shit.
My fingers shake as I watch the feed back, the way he loaded the gun… the bag full of everything I feared.
He’s coming for her.
It’s too soon. I’m not prepared. I haven’t got enough information, but I need to warn Darcy.
We’re taking him down tonight.
I should’ve checked the feed last night.
Damn it.
By the time I got home, I crashed hard—face first into my pillow, fully clothed, like some tragic parody of self-care.
Even Boomerang noticed.
Which says a lot, considering he usually treats me like a glorified food dispenser. But this morning? He was relentless—batting my hair, licking my nose, chirping like he’d just uncovered a body.
It was sweet. Disturbing, but sweet.
I bolt upright, heart lurching, my brain reminding me of fact I need to call Darcy.
No stalling. No prepping.
Just fingers dialling fast, breath short.
She picks up immediately.
“Don’t tell me you’re calling in sick again?”
she snipes. Her voice is sharp enough to leave a sting—but I don’t even flinch. There’s no time for polite greetings or guilt tripping.
“Darcy—”
I cut in, voice tight.
“I need to tell you something.”
She hears it, the shake laced panic in my voice.
But she stays silent for too long.
“What’s happened?”
I unload everything—no filter, no breath.
I tell her how I followed him home, how I bugged his house, how I watched footage last night that made my blood run cold. Words tumble out so fast I’m not even sure she catches half of them.
But when I finally stop, when silence settles between us—she doesn’t speak. And that is deafening. My heart thrashes inside my chest. I’m screaming on the inside, willing her to say something. Anything.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Is she mad at me?
Surely not.
“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. But I’ve got a plan.”
A rushed, barely-holding-it-together kind of plan. But still—a plan.
“Go to work like normal. Don’t let on that anything’s off. I’ll handle things from my end, and tonight… we get him.”
Darcy’s quiet on the other end.
“You need to stick to your routine,”
I press, voice low and firm.
“If he senses anything, he’ll vanish. I’m telling you—he won’t make a move until after the gym. That’s when I’ll be there. And that’s when I’ll stop him.”
“Nell, come on. We should just go to the police. They’d actually—”
“They won’t help.”
My voice cracks, heat rising in my throat.
“You think they would dismiss how I got the footage in the first place? Everything I’ve got, it’s inadmissible. Illegal. I’d be the one arrested.”
She’s silent again.
“This is our only shot, Darcy. And we’re ahead now. I promise you, I can do this.”
“If you say so.”
The doubt lingers under her words. Maybe she thinks I’m spiralling. Maybe she’s right.
“You know you’re going to get sacked if you call in sick again.”
“Fuck Mick.”
I say it without hesitation.
“Cover for me?”
My job’s already half dead. Darcy’s life matters more. And honestly? If this works—maybe I’ve got a future in something darker. FBI. Private investigations. Something with purpose. And it will be better pay than Mick’s misery factory.
“Be careful, Nell.”
Me? Be careful?
Does she understand her stalker might try to take her tonight?
“Love you,”
I say quickly.
“Love you,”
she echoes, both of us breathing into the same fear—and then she’s gone.
But she’ll be safe for now. I’ll keep a close eye on stalker boy, and the minute he leaves the house with his kit, I’ll be hot on his heels.
No one tries to kidnap my girl and gets away with it. He’s fucked with the wrong bitches.
I don’t even bother calling in sick.
At this point, I’ll just cross my fingers my desk hasn’t been cleared by the time I eventually roll back in. Assuming, of course, I haven’t torpedoed my entire career by kidnapping stalker boy.
Which, let’s be honest, might make returning to the office a little awkward. Maybe I can convince him to cover my rent.
Kidding.
Sort of.
One thing at a time.
Boomerang looks thoroughly unimpressed that I’m still here. For all his affection, he adores having the place to himself during the day, basking in sunbeams like he pays the bills. Now I’ve wrecked his routine and he’s not subtle about it.
He throws me a sideways glare as I drag the bed into the corner and start shifting furniture to make space for our incoming guest.
It’s a look that says, you’ve completely lost it, and I will not be involved in your crimes.
Honestly, fair.
Thank God number ten’s vacant right now.
Otherwise, I’d have no way to explain the symphony of banging and dragging echoing through the floorboards.
Once I’ve carved out a semblance of space—barely enough for movement, let alone drama—I set the chair dead-centre. One of those cold metal kitchen ones, heavy and unwelcoming.
Perfect.
I step back to admire the scene; clutter pushed to the edges, shadows pooled in the corners, the kind of setup that screams purpose without ever saying a word.
An hour and a half in, and I’m already ahead of the game.
For someone improvising a miniature interrogation room in her own flat, I’m doing disturbingly well.
I slump into the sofa, tea in hand, just taking a breath—but instinct kicks in. I check the camera feed. His bag’s gone. Gun too. A motion alert popped up half an hour ago.
My pulse jumps. No—surely I haven’t missed my window. He wouldn’t grab her in broad daylight, would he?
Shit.
I rewind, volume cranked to full, hunting for the last glimpse of him. Anything that proves I haven’t royally screwed this up.
There. He’s on camera. Sort of. Definitely not what I expected.
He’s wearing nothing but boxers. Just boxers. And when I say he’s packing—I mean, Jesus.
I feel like a creep. A total voyeur. But stalker boy has no idea he’s being watched, and frankly, after everything he’s done to Darcy? A little invasion of privacy feels like poetic justice.
Still, this feels… wrong. Deliciously wrong.
I can’t look away. Those abs deserve their own goddamn billboard. For a second, I consider pulling the footage up on my laptop for a better view.
Don’t judge me.
Then a woman enters frame. Fully dressed—tight skirt, fitted blouse—the kind that screams control. He smooths the fabric, tucks her back in. Tender and intimate, something I wouldn’t expect from him.
Is she his girlfriend?
She’s never shown up before. And now I’m hooked. Halfway down the rabbit hole and no intention of turning back. She could be relevant. Useful.
I scrub the footage back, looking for the moment she arrived.
And what I find?
Let’s just say… I’m in for a show.
A voice in me whispers that watching this makes me no better than him. That I’ve crossed a line. But I stay glued to the screen anyway. Mesmerised.
She enters about an hour earlier, met by his large frame at the door, and when I say they don’t even get chance for a hello. The second the door clicks shut, he’s on her—pinning her to the wall directly in view of the camera.
She’s completely ravenous. Grabbing at him like hunger incarnate, yanking his T-shirt up, exposing the dense muscle coiled beneath. Raw and bunched in a beautifully dangerous sort of way.
And okay, maybe voyeurism isn’t entirely off the table for me.
This is… far too hot for what’s supposed to be surveillance.
Even his jeans don’t stand a chance—clinging just right, the curve of him making my jaw slack.
Focus, Nell.
He’s everywhere—gripping her thighs, hiking her up, pressing full-body against her like he wants to crawl inside her skin. It’s carnal and unapologetic, and for a moment, the camera feels invasive. Or maybe not invasive enough.
Why can’t I find someone who’ll do that to me?
Maybe it’s only the perverts who get good sex like this.
But the heat’s building fast. I shift on the sofa, mouth dry, eyes locked on the screen as he drops to his knees in front of her, hands slipping under her skirt and hiking it to her hips.
Holy shit.
His face stays out of frame—frustratingly so—but I catch more detail this time; dark hair, shaved down the sides, the kind of modern mullet that somehow works on him in a way it shouldn’t.
And then he dives in.
No hesitation.
No warm-up.
He’s devouring her like she’s the last meal he’ll ever get, grip firm on her hips, her back arching under him like a live wire. The sound alone makes me lower the volume—just in case my neighbours are close enough to hear.
Maybe she’ll moan something useful.
But let’s not lie here.
I’m not watching for intel anymore.
I’m watching because it’s hot.
The way he moves—controlled, hungry, utterly in command—he’s sculpting pleasure like it’s an art form. Her fingers twist through his hair, her body trembling. He’s treating her like worship, like punishment, like a craving.
And I can’t help thinking—if he’s capable of this, of this kind of intimacy… why the hell is he stalking Darcy?
Guys like this, they don’t need to stalk. They walk into rooms and pull attention without trying. Which makes this even more confusing and twisted.
Still, he’s putting on one hell of a show.
And when he lifts her up—thighs over his shoulders, cradling her ass to his chest like she weighs nothing—and walks out of view, I catch myself wishing he’d stayed in frame just a bit longer.
I was ready for a show, and now I’ll just have to imagine how good the sex was.
Another item for my growing interrogation list—something to bring up when he’s finally within reach and tied to a metal chair in my bedroom.
I glance sideways. Boomerang is still perched silently on the armrest, tail flicking, eyes half-lidded in lazy judgment.
“Don’t judge me,”
I mutter, flushing slightly as I reach for my now-cold tea.
“Yes, I just spent twenty minutes lusting over a potential criminal. Let’s pretend this is all in the name of justice.”
He blinks. Stretches.
No dramatic exit, no offended tail flick.
So, either he’s too used to my morally questionable antics… or he’s just biding his time before he provides a tell-all memoir to the local cats.
Either way, he knows all my sins now.
By the time evening rolls around and Darcy’s due to leave the gym, I’m already on high alert.
Her text comes through—quick, casual, location confirmed—and I’m out the door like a woman on a mission. Backpack packed, nerves taut, rolling pin in hand.
Not exactly MI5 gear, but don’t underestimate the force of a solid rolling pin. That thing’s seen more action than my love life.
I check the live feed once more, just to be sure.
And there he is.
Stalker boy.
Leaving the house—bag slung over his shoulder, and this time? There’s a gun.
A gun.
My stomach coils, breath stuttering with dread.
It’s go time.
There’s no backup. No official plan. No legal net to catch me if this spirals.
It’s now or never.
And I’ll be damned if I let tonight end with Darcy in his sights.