Page 4 of Beautifully Deranged

Mikhail

I have a little stalker.

She thinks she’s subtle, but I notice everything. The ghost of her perfume in places she shouldn’t be. The smudged lipstick on a coffee cup in my sink, even though I never invited her inside. How she mouths my name when she thinks I’m not looking. She haunts my nights, slips into my days, trying to hunt me down. It’s the first time I’ve seen prey trying to catch a predator.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. She just stands there, wearing that pretty little smirk. Like she hasn’t just been somewhere she shouldn’t.

“Lola,” I say.

She beams at me. No shame. “I was checking if you were home.” She fetches a paper bag from her horrendously huge purse, the sweet scent of freshly baked cookies curling into the air between us. “For you,” she adds.

My lips twitch. Clever girl. She’s giving herself an excuse, planting a reason for standing at my door. “Thoughtful,” I murmur.

Her perfume wraps around me, making my blood run hot. “You work so hard,” she continues. “Late hours. Long days. It must be exhausting.”

Her fingers brush against mine when she hands me the bag. Deliberate. I exude indifference, but inside, I’m a fucking storm. My little stalker. She’s good—too good. If I hadn’t caught that flicker of tension in her stance when I first saw her, I might’ve actually believed her.

She knows how to cover her tracks. How to lie with a smile. And I’ve come to a horrific realization: I’m entertained. I enjoy the way she watches me. How she schemes. How she thinks she’s the one playing the game.

She doesn’t realize she’s already lost.

“Try one.”

Did she actually bake these? Or did she buy them just to sell the story? I reach inside and grab one. I take a bite. It’s good.

Damn her.

She watches me chew like she’s waiting for something. A reaction? Praise? I give her nothing.

“Not bad.”

She pouts. “Just not bad?”

“You expected me to moan?”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Dangerous little thing.

I scowl, covering the way my body reacts to that idea. She’s good at this. Knows how to play, how to push, how to get under my skin.

I should end the game before it spirals further. But where’s the fun in that? I want to see how far she’ll take this. How deep her obsession runs. What lengths she’ll go to if I keep this indifference up.

“Well, I suppose I should go before you accuse me of trying to fatten you up. But... if you ever get lonely in there, you can always call me.” She taps a manicured finger against my chest. “I make house calls. Late at night. Strictly for... emergencies.”

My fingers flex against the doorframe.

Her nails dig into my chest lightly. “You should let me take care of you sometime. You work so hard.” She feigns concern. “Bet you carry all that tension right here.”

Her gaze drops to my dick. Pointed. She’s daring me to react.

I don’t.

Because she’s baiting me, and I’m starting to like the taste of the hook. “Not happening.”

She snorts. “We’ll see.” Then she struts away, back to her apartment.

I step inside my own. She’s been here.

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