Page 21 of Stalk Me

"Luna." Erik's voice is soft behind me. I didn't even hear him follow me out. "Let me help."

I laugh, the sound raw and broken. "You can't help me. No one can."

"Try me." He reaches for my hand, but I jerk away.

"Don't." My voice cracks. "Please. Just… don't."

Understanding floods his features. He's probably figured out more than I wanted him to. But he doesn't push, doesn't try to fix me or save me. He just stands there, offering silent support as I try to pull myself together. Slowly, my breathing steadies, the panic fading back into a manageable knot.

"You don't know what you're dealing with," I whisper, more to myself than him. "None of you do."

"Then tell me." His voice is gentle, but there's steel underneath. "Let me in, Luna. Whatever's going on, you don't have to face it alone."

For a moment, I'm tempted. The weight of my parents' threats, the constant surveillance, the fear for Alex's safety—it's crushing me. But letting someone in means giving them power over me, and I can't afford that weakness. Not now. Not ever.

"I need some space," I say, pushing past him and toward the nearest bathroom. "Please. Just… leave me alone."

"Luna—"

"Don't follow me." I meet his eyes, letting him see the truth. "They're watching. They'll hurt you too."

Before he can respond, I turn and walk away. My heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing like a countdown. Behind me, I can hear Belle's sobs echoing off the stone walls. The sound should satisfy me, should feel like victory. Instead, it just reminds me of all the times I've cried alone, all the pain I've swallowed to survive.

The game has changed now. My parents think they can control me with threats and surveillance? Fine. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what I'm capable of when pushed too far.

Let them see what happens when you back a predator into a corner.

Because here's the thing about sharks—we don't just swim away when threatened. We attack. And unlike my parents, who hunt in packs with their wealth and connections, I've learned to strike alone. More precise. More lethal. I've been swimming with sharks my whole life, learning their moves, studying their weaknesses. Now, it's time to show them what I've learned.

They wanted to break me? Fine. But I'm taking everyone down with me.

As I walk to the dean's office, my phone buzzes again. Another message from the unknown number: "You're playing a dangerous game."

I'll let them come. I'll allow them to try to control me, hurt me, and fit me inside their neat little box. They have no idea how strong I am. They don't know what I'm willing to do to keep the people I love safe.

They want a monster? I'll give them one.

I'm ready to show them who the real predator is.

A Summons

The manila envelope on my desk catches me by surprise. It looks like a loaded gun, a bomb that's ready to go off. There's no return address, but I know it's from my parents. My mother's the only one with that kind of handwriting. Just like everything else in her life, the letters in my name are perfectly bent, with each stroke deliberate and controlled. My hands shake as I pick it up, the paper smooth and expensive beneath my trembling fingers. Do I even want to open this?

The question's pointless, really. Whether I want to or not, I know I'll read it. My addiction to chaos is why I'm here at Shark Bay in the first place. That's the paradox: Order and control only fuel the hunger. It's my safety valve, the thing keeping me from losing it entirely. I need it to survive.

I rip the top of the envelope. I know what's inside even before I glance at its contents. The only question is which form of torture they've chosen this time.

A cool fall breeze comes in through my open window and brings with it the salty smell of the ocean and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks at Shark Bay. The smell of the ocean used to make me feel better, but now it just makes me think of how stuck I am on this beautiful island where everything has eyes. My parents' reach extends everywhere, their influence seeping through every crack and crevice until there's nowhere left to hide.

I open the envelope and spill what's inside all over my desk. A first-class plane ticket. A boat timetable. A note written by hand on thick cream paper that probably costs more than most people spend on food in a week. The words are few, but cutting:

“Your presence is required at home in twelve hours. A boat will be waiting at the dock to take you to the mainland, where you'll board our private jet. Don't be late. And don't even think about refusing—you know what's at stake.”

And I do. My stomach churns, the familiar taste of fear and hopelessness rising in the back of my throat. This is their real power, the way they control me: not by exerting actual force, but by dangling Alex's safety like a threat in front of my face. I have no way of protecting him, no way of even knowing what's happening except the snippets I catch through the photos they send me.

Home. The very word tastes like poison on my tongue. That mansion isn't home—it's a gilded cage where monsters wear designer suits and serve trauma with afternoon tea. Every room holds memories I've tried desperately to forget; every mirror reflects back versions of myself that I don't recognize anymore. They want me to go back there, to willingly subject myself to the pain and isolation, and the worst part is I'm going to do it. But why bother? It's just another party where people will treat me like a valuable item. Under the disguise of a family tradition, they'll use this chance to teach me how to be obedient.

"Fuck!" I hurl the envelope across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying thwack before falling to the floor, the pristine paper now crumpled and bent. The sight gives me a savage sort of pleasure. At least I can still damage something of theirs, even if it's just paper.

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