Page 51 of For Fillies and Monsters

A crash downstairs has me yelping and jumping from the strangle of blankets around my body. My eyes ping around the darkness of my room, and then I hear another shuffle from below and I bolt toward my door.

Dale is passed out on the couch, too drunk to even make it up the stairs. If anything happens to her because I chose to provoke my deranged stalker in a fit of horniness, I will burn this house down with myself trapped inside.

I will never forgive myself.

Sliding into the living room, dark light pooling through the massive dining room windows, I spot Dale, still dead asleep on the couch. Her ample chest rises and falls slowly with the heavy blanket of sleep surrounding her, her black hair strewn haphazardly over her face. She looks soft and innocent, and I desperately want to curl up next to her.

She is the only true bright spot in this fucked up life of mine.

With my nerves fried from panic, I gingerly walk into the kitchen, swipe the half-drunk bottle of whiskey from the counter, and tip it back. I don’t like whiskey—more of a gin or vodka girl—but I’m desperate for anything to calm my nerves before I go snooping around the house to find the noise. Because even if I’m terrified, I’ve been on my own too long to not face shit—even if that shit is a fucking stalker.

After several long pulls, I tiptoe toward the staircase. It’s so dark that my eyes strain to make out any movements or shapes in the inky black. I should have grabbed a knife, or a pan, or held onto the fucking bottle.

What am I going to do? Tackle them?

I run smack into a rippling wall of muscle, and I open my mouth to scream when a hand clamps painfully over my lips. A husky, andvery angry, voice cuts through the eerie darkness, and I sag into his hand. The adrenaline and fear coursing through my system, mixing with the alcohol, has my body collapsing almost instantly.

“Do you want to scare Dale half to death?”

I can’t make out much of his features in the darkness, but his curly hair is tousled and frizzy, like he has been endlessly running his fingers through it. My fingers itch to reach up and feel his curls for myself.

Are they as soft as they look? Will my fingers tangle in them? Will he groan if I pull on them?

He shifts, and I realize his hand is still clamped over my lips. And his chest bumps into mine—that is braless, mind you—and I note that he’s shirtless.

Fucking perfect.

He’s panting, breaths ragged and shallow, like he was running or something. I pull my head back, and he reluctantlyreleases his grip on my face. He doesn’t step any farther away, though, and I can’t force myself to, either. Even if I know I should.

“Were you working out or something?” I can see the dark shapes of his eyebrows scrunch together.

“No, why the fuck would I work out at two in the morning?”

“Well, you’re up. And you’re panting.” I can’t take my eyes off his dark features. I wouldn’t be able to if you paid me. He truly is a dark shadow, a monster prowling in the night. It’s more terrifying than anything I have ever seen, and my thighs drip with my desire for such things.

For him.

After several deep breaths, he speaks again, his voice barely audible. “I thought I heard something upstairs, so I went to check. And then you weren’t in your room, so I got worried someone had grabbed you.” He states it nonchalantly, like being grabbed in the night is something he is used to seeing.

Too nonchalantly.

“There are so many things wrong with that sentence.” I step toward his chest, uncaring that my skin is all but flush with his; and how much that makes my heart race. Call it a death wish, or snapping from one too many controlling men in one night, but I can’t help the bite in my voice. “One, do not come into my room unless I am screaming. Two, who the hell would have grabbed me? Three, don’t worry about me. I’ve been taking care of myself for years now.”

He stares down at me, and I want to punch him, claw at his face in the darkness, because even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smirking at me. My attitude and boundaries are nothing but an annoyance or act of a petulant child to him. And I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of him being in my space, and it’s only been one day.

He huffs, clearly decidingheis the bigger person and therefore won’t stoop to my level, which only pisses me off more.

He strides off, and I stand there, more pissed off that he didn’t push me against the wall than I am that he walked away. He gets to his room, the door swinging closed, and I hear his husky voice fill the darkness. “If you’re screaming, it’s because I’m already in your room.” And then the door clicks shut, leaving me fuming, my earlier text conversation completely forgotten.

I’m in deep shit.

TWENTY-ONE

STETSON

April 26th, 2024

I pullup on Winston’s reins, urging him to stop. At this point in the day, his head is hung low from heat and exhaustion. I pat his sweaty neck, similar exhaustion weighing on my own bones.

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