Chapter 2
Because She’s Mine
Eli's Search History: How long can someone stay in one place before they need fresh air?
Eli
Why did I choose the most boring woman on earth to stalk?
Did I strangle a nun in a past life?
She’s a therapist. I thought that meant depth. Secrets. Darkness. People like that usually have skeletons—whole graveyards—in their wardrobes.
But no.
She reads. She works. She comes home. Reads some more. Always alone. Always quiet.
I have watched her pour exactly one glass of wine in the last three weeks. One.
When I planted the cameras, I braced myself for something messy. Something twisted. I wanted twisted.
Instead, she gives me silence and second-hand embarrassment.
Right now, she’s on the couch, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. A mug of chamomile tea in one hand, and in the other “The Body Keeps the Score.”
Yes. That one. The trauma bible.
She’s been devouring it like it’s a thriller. Nodding. Annotating. Pausing to stare into space like she’s either unravelling a memory or diagnosing the air.
Sometimes she talks to herself. Softly. Like she’s the patient, too.
I’ve watched twelve hours of footage today. She’s moved maybe twice. Blinked twenty-thousand times. (Yes, I counted. Don’t judge me.)
And yet… I can’t stop.
It’s not just because I want her. And God do I want her.
It’s because I’m terrified of what will happen if I stop.
When I was seven, I took my eyes off my mother—playing at the neighbour’s house—and when I came back, she was gone.
I am the anchor. I have to keep my eyes on Emily, or the tide will pull her away.
And yet, I could’ve stalked someone thrilling. A murderer. A con artist. A politician.
Instead, I picked the quiet woman dissecting the human psyche in an avocado Oodie.
The only interesting thing about her, is that on Tuesday’s she has some sort of off-the-books therapy session via video call. I don’t know who the client is, but clearly, it’s someone important.
I watch the sessions through my own camera’s, zooming in on Emily’s laptop. She doesn’t know that I broke into her flat and added one to every room. She should really lock her windows. It’s not safe. But thankfully, she has me now.
Yesterday, at exactly seven, just as every Tuesday evening, she opened her laptop and started the call.
A woman, not much younger than her, with blonde hair and blue eyes filled the screen—I hated the brief moment when the blonde hair appeared, and I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wondering.
Was it Jenny? Did I want it to be? But, of course, once I’d zoomed in fully, I saw the eyes, the rest of her features—it wasn’t her.
There was a relief there I hadn’t expected.
They discussed a lot, but the main take-away I got from it, was that there is more to Emily than meets the eyes.
Yes, she has a boring life. One that should be filled with far more interesting things. But… she and this woman discussed murder so casually you’d have thought it was normal. In my world, it is. But Emily seems too innocent for that.
Doctor Emily Morgan isn’t just a therapist who plays by the rules.
She breaks them. For whom? I don’t know yet.
But I think she has a saviour complex.
And I’m about to be her next project.
Whether she knows it yet or not.
Oh.
Movement.
I lean forward, breath caught, eyes locked on her as she yawns and arches her back like a cat.
Oh my god.
Code Beige.
Code fucking Beige.
She’s rising—yes, rising—from the sofa.
This is the third time she’s moved today. A landmark occasion. Shall I call the BBC?
Please. Do something exciting. Something feral. Give me chaos.
Please—
She walks into the bathroom.
Brilliant.
The unmistakable sound of a flush filters through the speakers. (Yes, there are microphones. Of course there are.)
Moments later, she emerges—hands damp, patting them dry on her shorts instead of using a towel like a civilised adult. Barbaric. Maddening. Somehow… endearing.
And then—
She lowers herself back onto the sofa.
Of course she does.
The circle of life, Emily Morgan edition.
She doesn’t move again until she finally retreats to her bedroom. I switch the feed without thinking, gaze locked, anticipation coiling low in my gut.
This part?
Not boring.
Well—technically, it should be.
But obsession has a way of warping things.
Emily, for all her beauty, doesn’t have the faintest clue how to make herself sexy. There’s no performance, no seduction. Just her. Unfiltered. Unaware.
She tugs off her oversized Oodie with zero ceremony. Her hair—so sleek and put-together all day—erupts in wild angles, a halo of chaos.
Underneath, she’s wearing what can only be described as a granny bra. Enormous cups. Full coverage. Absolutely criminal.
Oh, Emily.
How much longer am I meant to watch you waste yourself in this grey little existence?
My mouth goes dry as she reaches behind her back. The clasp gives, and that hideous bra slides off her arms, crumpling to the floor like it’s been relieved of duty.
And there they are.
Soft. Heavy. Perfect.
She’s a mess.
A beautiful, curvy, delicious mess.
All belly and thighs and soft, tan skin that I want to worship. I want to map her with my tongue. I want to teach her what her own body is capable of.
Fuck. I’m hard.
When she peels off her shorts and underwear, standing there completely bare, I nearly groan.
It’s like she’s offering herself to me. Like she knows. Like she’s giving me permission.
So I do it.
I slide my hand down, stroking from base to tip, breath catching in my throat as I drink her in.
She climbs into bed too fast—damn it—but the damage is done. That image is scorched into me.
My fist works faster. The rhythm matching the thud of my heart. Her name slips out of me like a prayer—
And then I’m gasping, shaking, spilling into my boxers with a guttural sound that’s part relief, part hunger.
I don’t bother cleaning up.
Don’t bother tucking myself away.
Because she’s still there.
On-screen. Peaceful. Breathing slow.
And I watch.
Because she’s mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.