Chapter Three
A chill ran down my spine, and I was glad for the hoodie, for multiple reasons. I’d blown off Brad’s warning about the Centerfold Slasher, but now it was possible he could be standing in front of me.
Whoever he was, he stood in my spare bedroom, the place that was supposed to be my secret sanctuary.
I’d been so wrapped up in my strip trivia session, I didn’t hear someone let themselves into my apartment.
The door was most definitely locked, and this man, in his red plaid flannel shirt and his bear head disguise, was absolutely not an invited guest.
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I could feel his gaze on me, and it made me feel like I’d been dipped in hot garbage.
“Ellie.” How did this man know my real freaking name? The bear head muffled the word, and I hoped the camera didn’t pick it up...
“No,” I said, still reveling in the fantasy that I could somehow handle this intruder without any interruption to my live broadcast.
He slid something out of his pocket, and my brain couldn’t process what it was.
An envelope, maybe? He tapped his fingers against the edge.
My brain registered that his fingers looked old.
But I didn’t have time to assign any other significance to it because the bear headed man was stalking toward me.
“No! No, no.” My intruder obviously didn’t give one good shit about boundaries.
He bumped into my camera, knocking it over. Heat rocketed in my body, and my bear was about to make an appearance and rip that fake bear head right off. But polite, never-make-a-fuss Ellie wanted to pick up the camera and keep doing her silly little video.
The man grasped my wrist, forcing me to look him in his weird fake fuzzy face that was shadowed by my ring light.
Without a word, he handed me the paper he’d pulled out of his pocket. I blinked, not believing my eyes. It was an old-fashioned Polaroid picture of me.
In my bed.
Sleeping.
In pajamas I’d bought last week.
Someone had been in my house while I was sleeping and I had no fucking idea.
My heart thrummed so loudly in my chest I wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear it on the live feed.
Like Only Bears was even important anymore.
I hoped one of my viewers did something…but what? They didn’t know who I was, where I was…but this guy in the ridiculous bear head did. He knew everything about me.
“Who are you?” I hated how much my voice shook.
“Not important, Ellie,” he scolded. “I bet your fans would love to see this picture.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Now you’re asking the right questions,” he said, far too calmly. “I want you.”
“You want me to do what?” Still in character, because if I broke it, this was real. I was used to fans making ridiculous requests, and some of them pushing a little too far to make their fantasies come true. But even Synamon knew nothing about this was harmless fun.
The bear head muffled the sound of his chuckle. “Lots of things. I like that you’re willing to do them.”
“Didn’t say that.” My heart was thundering, and my body had gone completely numb. I needed my bear. She’d know what to do. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions.”
“It’s cute that you think you deserve answers.” He grasped my arm. Those fingers looked like they belonged to a shrunken apple doll, but they were surprisingly strong.
He managed to lift me from my chair. I thrashed my body to get away from him, but he only tightened his grip.
“Why are you hiding?” I asked. Synamon Honey still didn’t give a single solitary fuck. “The bear head’s making it hard to take you seriously. I like a man who’s not afraid to show me who he really is.”
“That’s rich, coming from you, Eleanor Lindsay Carmichael.” He put emphasis on my name as he swung me around so my back was pressed against his chest. “The whole world’s about to know who you are.”
I wriggled, pushing as hard as I could against his arms, cringing every time my cheek made contact with that ridiculous bear head. It had the same texture and smell as a musty old rug in an outdated Vegas resort. Each breath wheezed out of him.
Maybe he’d die before he could finish the job.
His dick was hard against my ass, reminding me he was more alive than I would’ve liked and not to be underestimated.
“You’re gonna tell them all my real name?” If he doxxed me, I’d be so screwed.
You need to worry about staying alive more than keeping your job, my bear reminded me.
“You could say that.” He snickered. “I’m gonna make you a household name, baby. America loves a tragedy.”
“No.”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” His grip loosened. “To be famous?”
“Is that what you wanted?” I countered. “When you killed all those women?”
“They deserved it.” There was an unnerving growl to his voice. “That's what they wanted that attention. Just like you.”
My bear entered the chat just in time, because there was no way Synamon could delulu her way out of this by simply staying in character.
In fact, it could be the very thing that would make her nothing more than a notch on his belt.
A star in a segment of one of those murder shows my grandma loved so much.
You’re not going down like this, my bear insisted as my temperature spiked. My skin stretched and now it was the Centerfold Slasher’s turn to squirm. He tried his damnedest to contain me, muttering swears as the heat rose.
Bones snapped and fur blossomed.
I broke away from him, unzipping my hoodie and tossing it at him. It definitely wasn’t the striptease I had in mind, but I had to hold onto hope that I’d have a reason to wear these cute clothes again.
But now, I was a full-on bear, snarling and growling. I lunged at my intruder, who wasn’t so tough when he was no longer the alpha.
Dude stumbled on his way out of the room, and I took his foot between my jaws. I’d rip his whole leg off if I had to. But he kicked me in the face, and startled me enough that I let him go.
Damn it.
Even limping and with that giant, ridiculous bear head, he was faster than I anticipated. He made it out of the apartment. I chased him down the stairs, into the parking lot. My plan was to push him toward the wooded area where I could rip off that stupid disguise and make sure he kept quiet.
But instead, he got into the passenger’s side of a waiting car and sped away.
I growled, fully aware that my neighbors were staring at me, standing on their porches, stopped mid-task near their cars. This was a quiet neighborhood, and they had no idea I was a shifter, let alone Synamon Honey.
But that was the least of my problems. That guy didn’t deny my accusation he was the Centerfold Slasher. He could’ve played along just to freak me out.
Whoever he was, it would take me a minute to digest the fact it hadn’t been his first visit.
And he wasn’t working alone.
Did serial killers have assistants? Or was he someone else? An obsessed fan who got too close? A coworker who figured out my secret identity?
No matter who it was, I couldn’t go back to my apartment, or my real life—as Synamon or Ellie.