Chapter Two #3
My back hits the wood and I slide down to the floor, breath shaking, hands pressed to my face.
I take out my phone and dial the first number I can think of, Jace
He picks up after a few rings.
“I wasn’t fucking crazy.” My voice is quiet, scared that he can hear me from where I’m sitting, pure terror lacing my tone.
“He was here Jace.” my tone is clipped, not wanting to voice too much because he could still be here, listening, waiting, ready.
“I’m on my way.” Jace calls out over the phone and I can almost hear him grabbing his keys and sprinting out of the door, his engine revving to life and the squeal of tires on tarmac as he speeds towards me.
He’s here in minutes, face flushed, sweat pouring down his face as I open the door with trembling hands, my face sickly pale and my eyes wide I look up at a familiar face, he’s holding the box, the one that was left for me…
“Put that down, I don’t know what’s in there.” I shove the box from his hand, it clatters to the floor, the wooden lid splinters and falls open, a small glass vial rolls out, and I see something white.. and red…
“God is that…”
Teeth, this motherfucker left a vial of teeth on my kitchen counter.
Kade
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The camera feed sharpens her features in perfect clarity, every detail, every flicker of emotion. The moment realization hits her that I was there.
That I stood in her home. That I crossed the line she thought existed between her world and mine.
Her skin goes pale, her mouth tightens, her eyes dart around the room as though she can still feel me in the air.
She should. I left pieces of myself everywhere.
I watched her move through the apartment earlier, completely unaware that I was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, breathing in the quiet parts of her life she never shows anyone. I saw the softness she hides. The mess she pretends she doesn’t make. The exhaustion she carries in her shoulders.
I saw her bed. The sheets still warm from the night before, scent clinging to the fabric in a way that made something inside me twist.
I saw the pile of laundry in the bathroom, the sketches scattered across the dining table, the half finished bottles of bourbon tucked away in her cabinet.
All the little pieces that make her who she is, things she never lets the world see.
Knowing her on this level does something to me. Something deep, something consuming.
It is not enough to watch her from a distance anymore.
Not enough to protect her from the shadows.
Not enough to know her name, her voice, her fear.
I want everything. Every habit, flaw, every secret she thinks she has buried.
She is beautiful in a way that hurts to look at, damaged in a way that calls to me, exquisite in a way that makes restraint feel impossible.
The more I learn, the more I need. The more I see, the more I crave. The more she tries to hide, the more I want to tear the world apart just to get closer.
She thinks I invaded her privacy.
She has no idea how far this goes. How far I am willing to go. How deep this obsession runs.
And watching her now, trembling in her own doorway, staring at the box I left for her…
It only makes me want her more.
Mara
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My fucking leg will not stop. Tap tap tap on the hardwood floor, over and over, drilling straight into the last shred of sanity I have left. The rhythm is frantic, uneven, a physical echo of the panic clawing at my ribs.
I stand so fast the chair scrapes behind me. The movement is sharp, desperate. I kick the wooden table leg, the crack of my platform boot against the wood snapping Jace out of whatever daze he was in.
“We should call the police.” His voice is quiet, too quiet, and his eyes drift to the vial still lying on my floor.
The vial. The one I have been pretending not to look at. The one I have been pretending does not exist.
He crouches, squinting at it, counting the teeth inside. My stomach twists so violently I have to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
Too many. Too many for it to be an accident. Too many for it to be anything other than deliberate.
And I can only guess who they belong to.
A cold wave rolls through me, starting at the base of my spine and crawling all the way up to my throat. My breath stutters. My hands shake. My mind races with images I do not want to see.
Someone was in my home, left that box, left this vial. Someone is watching me unravel.
Jace looks up at me, worry etched across his face. “Mara… this is serious.”
I know. God, I know.
Because the scent in my apartment earlier was not a coincidence.
The box on my counter was not a coincidence.
The feeling of being watched for days was not a coincidence.
He was here, close enough to touch my things, to leave a message, Close enough to make sure I understood exactly how far this obsession goes.
My pulse thunders in my ears, my throat tightens, my vision blurs at the edges.
I am terrified. Not just because someone invaded my privacy. Not just because someone left something so horrifying in my home.
But because a part of me already knows who did it.
And that part of me is not surprised.