Page 3 of Jealous Stalker

And not the kind of sleepwalking where she jolts awake the second a floorboard creaks.

No.

She’s the type who could stroll straight through a war zone and never blink.

She’s fucking dead to the world. Wide-eyed and fragile and barefoot, walking through her apartment like a dream in motion.

The first time I saw it, I thought I was going to die.

She lives in a single-story bungalow tucked at the dead end of a quiet, half-forgotten street.

The kind of place where the neighbors wave politely but don’t ask questions.

The paint’s peeling in places. The porch light flickers. The screen door hangs just slightly crooked.

It backs onto a wooded lot—nothing big, just enough trees to make the dark feel thicker. Menacing.

Just enough to hide a my six-foot-four man like me.

From there, I can see her kitchen window.

Her bedroom light. The faint outline of her as she moves through the house thinking she’s alone.

I’d snuck in.

Quiet, careful. Just to check on her. I don’t sleep much anymore—not when I can’t be sure she’s safe. And I wasn’t even inside her room.Yet.

I was standing at her door. Watching. Guarding. Breathing in the lavender scent of her shampoo clinging to the air like the sweetest lullaby.

And then she rose. Dainty feet barely making a noise as she came straight at me.

I plastered myself agains the wall as she stepped out. Eyes wide but empty. Silent. Floating like a dream goddess from her bed.

She passedright by me. So close I could have touched her. Slipped a hand around her pretty throat. Pinned her to the wall and just…just…

I didn’t.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’tmove. Every instinct in me warred at once—don’t scare her, don’t touch her, don’t let her hurt herself.

But God, the need. Theneedto scoop her up, carry her back to bed, tuck her under the covers and keep her there—safe, warm,mine—was like fire under my skin.

Then came the tsunami when I realised what was happening.

Worry. Raw, ragged, panic-smeared worry.

Because I noticed it then—these...patheticlittle safeguards she’d set up.

A long string tied to her wrist. Trailing the floor, along the hallway. One end taped to the kitchen counter, so if she wandered too far, it would tug her back.

Keep her from walking straight out her own damned front door and into the arms of some fucking deranged psycho who wouldn’t hesitate to steal and assault my girl.

I’d shuddered with pure, unadulterated rage and dream as I stood in that hallway, watching the piss-poor mechanics of what she’d put in place, and told herself that would be enough. That she’d wake up. That the piece-of-shit string would catch her.

And her front door? Yeah. She has an alarm. One of those tiny stick-on ones you get at a hardware store.

The same one her roommate, Jules, forgets to turn it on most nights.

Like that would stopanyone.

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