CHAPTER FIVE #2
She’s heading to the motel at the edge of the district. Smart. Or it would be if I hadn’t already paid the guy at the front desk to let me know when she checked in.
I lean against the side of the building across the street, watching her struggle with the motel door, her hands still shaking. The moment she disappears inside, I let out a breath, the tension winding through me like a coiled wire.
I light another cigarette, the smoke swirling around me. I’ll let her settle in. Let her think she’s safe again.
Then, I’ll remind her that no lock, no door, no room will ever keep me out.
I hum softly, the melody slipping from my lips like a promise.
“Incy wincy spider, weaving through the night,
Little spider’s running, but she’ll never leave my sight.
Caught up in the web now, every thread’s my own.
And when the night is over, she’ll know she’s not alone.”
I can’t help but grin as I watch the motel light flicker through her window.
Tomorrow, I’ll make her see me. Really see me.
And when she does, I’ll make sure she knows—no more running.
Once a spider catches something, it cannot escape.
I wait. I can wait for a very long time.
As the night deepens and the city thins out, the stragglers stumble home from bars; cabs slow at red lights with drivers nodding off behind the wheel. I lean against the cold brick wall, letting the cigarette burn low between my fingers, eyes fixed on the motel window.
The curtains are drawn tight, but her pacing back and forth is clearly visible. She’s nervous. Good. Fear makes people predictable.
I tap out a message on my phone.
Are you comfortable, Little Spider? Do you feel safe?
I see her pause, head snapping toward the phone. She hesitates before picking it up, and I almost laugh. I can picture the way her hands are shaking, how she’s biting her lip raw. She reads it. Doesn’t reply.
I expected that. She’s learning, trying to take control back. It’s cute.
My phone buzzes. A message from my guy at the front desk.
She asked for an extra lock. Should I give it to her?
I smirk, typing back.
Sure. Let her think it’ll help.
I toss the cigarette, grind the ember out under my heel, and push off the wall, making my way to the side of the building where the fire escape creaks in the wind. The rusty metal groans as I climb, slipping through the shadows until I’m level with her window.
She’s still pacing, phone clutched to her chest, muttering to herself like she’s working through a plan. I can’t hear her, but I don’t need to. I know that look—desperation mixed with hoping she’s not really losing her mind.
I dig out my phone, snapping a quick photo through the gap in the curtains. Her body turned away, head bowed, like a doll left abandoned. I send it.
Her reaction is instantaneous—she drops the phone, stumbling back until she hits the bed, eyes wide and darting. I watch as she picks it up, face pale even in the dim light.
Another message from me.
You really think that room will protect you? I could be inside right now. Watching. Waiting.
She rushes to the door, checking the lock, pushing the dresser against it like that would stop me. I press my fingers against the glass, relishing the way her panic spills out in waves.
I could make a move now—let her see me, break that last thread of hope. But I hold back. The tension needs to build. A spider doesn’t pounce—it lets the prey wear itself out.
I let out a slow breath, the condensation blooming on the glass. Her shadow moves closer to the window, hesitant. I take a step back, making sure I’m just out of sight.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s her.
Why are you doing this? Please just stop.
My fingers hover over the keys, and I can’t help but smile.
Because you’re mine. Stop fighting it. It’ll be easier when you accept it.
The curtain shifts just an inch, and I see her eyes—wide and wild—scanning the dark. I lean closer, just enough that if she looks the right way, she’ll catch a glimpse of my silhouette.
She pulls the curtain shut again, dropping to the floor, pressing her back against the wall like she can melt into it. I hum softly, the sound carrying through the cracked window.
“Incy wincy spider, creeping through the night,
Little spider’s trembling, hoping for the light.
But shadows are my kingdom, webs are what I weave.
And when you finally stop fighting, that’s when you’ll never leave.”
I hear her muffled sob, and it wraps around me like a lover’s touch. I pull away from the window, making my way back down the fire escape, letting the creaks and groans mask my movements.
Back on the street, I light another cigarette, letting the nicotine settle my pulse. I shouldn’t have gone that close. I shouldn’t have let her almost see me. But I couldn’t help it. The way she looked so broken, so on the verge of collapse—it’s addictive.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from her.
What do you want from me? Just tell me. I’ll do it.
I exhale a stream of smoke, savouring the taste. She’s getting closer to the edge, finally ready to break. I can feel it—like a string pulled too tight, just waiting to snap.
I type back slowly, making every word count.
I want you to stop pretending you’re innocent. I’ve seen the way you look over your shoulder. The way you bite your lip when you think someone’s watching. You like being chased. You like being caught. You’re mine, and I’m just helping you realise it.
I can almost hear her gasping for air, choking on fear and confusion. I pocket the phone and start walking, knowing she’s unravelling in that room, probably trying to convince herself that I’m wrong.
But I’ve been watching her for too long. I know the way her pulse races when I’m close, how her eyes widen like a doe in headlights, too stunned to move.
My phone pings with another photo—the front desk camera. She’s sitting on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, her face buried in her hands.
I send one more message.
I’m closer than you think, Little Spider. Go ahead—leave the light on. It won’t save you.
I can’t help the thrill in my chest when I imagine how she’s crumbling, trying to piece together a plan that won’t work.
I decide to give her the night to stew, to wonder if I’ll break in while she sleeps. The anticipation will hollow her out. By morning, she’ll be nothing but frayed nerves and paranoia, and I’ll be right there, ready to catch her when she finally falls.
The night stretches on, and I disappear back into the city, humming my song under my breath.
Tomorrow, I’ll be closer.
And soon, she’ll stop running.
When the spider finally gets its prey, it doesn’t kill right away.
It savours.
The city is a maze, but I know every alley, every shortcut, every place someone can slip away and think they’ve vanished. I stalk through the dark like I own it, boots heavy on cracked pavement, hands stuffed in my pockets to hide the way they’re shaking.
It’s her fault. The way she looked at me through that curtain—like she could almost see me. Like I was some ghost clawing at the edges of her sanity. That little glimpse of her eyes, wide and wet, had my pulse hammering, and now I’m wound too tight, coiled like a snake ready to strike.
I lean against a graffitied wall, the smell of piss and rot in the air. My knuckles graze the rough brick, and I press harder until the skin splits, pain blooming like a fresh hit of adrenaline. I bite back a groan, watching red bead and trickle down my fingers.
I want her to see it. Want her to know that I bleed for her, that I ache in places she hasn’t even touched yet. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard my head throbs. I can’t stop seeing that look on her face—the fear and the hope crashing together.
She’s mine.
She’s been mine since that first night I followed her home, watching the way her steps quickened when she sensed me.
A little rabbit, twitching its nose, sensed danger without knowing which way to run.
I’d stayed in the shadows, careful not to let her see me then.
But now? Now I want her to know I’m close.
I pull out my phone, thumb smearing blood across the screen as I type.
You’re running out of places to hide, Little Spider. You know that, don’t you? Maybe I’ll come inside tonight. Maybe I’ll just watch. Maybe I’ll make you beg.
I hit send, feeling that familiar rush when I picture her reaction. She’ll check the locks again, hands shaking, heart thundering like a rabbit’s before the snare snaps shut.
I spit on the ground, wiping my bloody hand on my jeans. The wound stings, and I press it harder, forcing the pain to sharpen my thoughts. I can’t go soft. Not now. Not when she’s so close to cracking.
The phone vibrates. A reply.
Please… just stop. I’m begging you. Please.
I bark out a laugh, the sound scraping out of me like gravel. She doesn’t get it. Begging isn’t weakness—it’s surrender. And I won’t take it until she means it.
My phone pings again—a voice message. I press play, holding it close so I can hear every breath.
Her voice, wrecked and raw:
“You’re sick. You need help. This isn’t love—it’s torture. You’re killing me.”
A shiver ripples through me, electric and hot. Killing her? No. I’m keeping her alive—keeping her on the edge, where she’ll never forget me. I’ll remain in her skin and thoughts forever, like an indelible brand.
I hit record, my voice low, almost soothing.
“You say that like you don’t want it. Like you haven’t been waiting for someone to notice how breakable you are. I see it, Raven. I see you. You can’t hide from me.”
I send it, licking the blood from my split knuckle, the taste metallic and sharp. I imagine pressing that bleeding hand against her throat, watching the red smear across her pale skin. Claiming her, marking her.
I pull out another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. The smoke burns on the way down, settling in my lungs like a hot ache. I look back at the motel window, the light still on, shadows flickering behind the curtains.
I want to rip that curtain down. I want to kick the door in and see her eyes widen when she realises I’m not just a ghost anymore. I’m real. I’m here.
I force myself to breathe, slowly and deeply. She’s not ready for that yet. I need to give her time to break on her own, to crumble until the only thing left is the part that needs me.
The phone buzzes. Another message from her.
I’ll do anything. Just please stop.
I almost choke on a laugh, flicking ash to the ground. Anything? She doesn’t know what that word means—not yet.
I type back slowly.
Anything, Little Spider? You say that so easily. Would you let me tie you down, watch you struggle, listen to you cry until your throat’s raw? Would you let me press my mouth to every bruise I leave, whisper that you’re mine while you’re too tired to fight back?
I hit send, feeling my pulse race. She won’t respond to that. She’ll curl up, hide under the blankets, whisper to herself that it’s not real. But it is. I’m real. I’m right here, and she can’t escape me.
My phone pings again. A photo this time. I open it, and my breath catches.
She’s on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, eyes red-rimmed and terrified. She must have hit the camera by mistake, but it’s perfect—the vulnerability, the defeat. I can almost hear the ragged way she’s breathing, like she’s choking on the air.
I save it. I’ll look at it later, when I’m alone, when the need for her coils too tight in my chest to ignore.
I send another message, voice rough, low, dripping with intent.
“I’ll make you feel it, Little Spider. Every inch of my obsession. You’ll scream for me, and when it’s too much, I’ll make you take more. You’ll never forget me.”
The phone remains silent. I know she’s breaking, crumbling piece by piece. I let out a slow breath, dragging my hand through my hair. I’m close—so close to finally seeing her shatter.
I walk, heading back toward the motel. I won’t go inside. Not yet. I’ll let her feel me outside the door, let her think every creak and whisper is me coming to get her.
When the time’s right, I’ll make her see me. And when she finally looks into my eyes, she will realise I was always meant to find and catch her.
And when I have her?
I’ll never let her go.