Page 47 of Jealous Stalker

I reach for the mask on my dresser. Leather. Cold. Familiar.

I close my fist around it.

Tonight, the mask feels heavier than the scar.

CHAPTER 18

Ella

Cancún sunsets taste like salt and penance.

For six nights I’ve watched the golden light spill over her balcony, streaking through the fibers of the towel she drapes across the rail. Six nights of reminding myself why lovers carry rings and not masks.

She lies on a lounger most evenings—eyes closed, headphones in, the faintest smile tilting her lips as if she’s replaying every whispered note I ever slid beneath her pillow. I stand past the palms, unseen but not unfeeling, letting the ocean wind rake through the healing skin of my cheek.

Tonight I’m done watching.

I shave. Trim the ragged edge of my beard. Study the pale scar that arcs from temple to jaw—lighter than the rest, like moonlight frozen beneath my skin. Then the mask goes into the trash, the leather folding in on itself like a discarded skin.

Love isn’t a mask you remove; it’s the courage to stand unhidden.

I walk the hallway with hands that haven’t stopped shaking since I booked my own room next to hers. Every step is an old battlefield—only this time, the enemy is doubt.

But then I’m there.

A single knock echoes through the cool corridor.

The air-conditioner hums like a lullaby,but sleep won’t come. Not when every faint sound outside the door flutters into my pulse like wings. When the knock finally lands, my body knows before my mind can catch up.

I open the door. Warm light spills into the hall.

He stands there with no barriers, no hoodie, no mask—only truth:

Half-healed skin. A line of raised flesh slicing across a sharpened cheekbone. One eye, a shade paler, sparking beneath low lashes.

Beautiful. Devastating.

He exhales, voice low and steady. “My name is Caleb. Caleb Huntsman. And I’m yours. Forever.”

Time folds. Fear dissolves.

I step forward until the heat of him is all I feel. My palm curves to the scar; it’s soft, alive, so human it steals my breath.

“I see you,” I whisper. “I always have.”

His eyes close, lashes trembling. Then his arms are around me—an embrace so total it feels like gravity choosing sides. His mouth finds mine, raw and unguarded, tasting of sea-salt devotion and every word we never dared voice in daylight.

We stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind us. Moonlight paints silver on his shoulders. My hands map every inch of his chest—new territory, no shadows. His breath shudders as my thumb grazes the jagged line at his jaw.

“Scars are just stories the skin refuses to forget, and I vow to memorize every chapter.”

He kisses me again, deeper, a promise and an apology woven into one unstoppable motion. Clothes fall away in soft thumps; skin greets skin like long-lost languages colliding in a single, perfect sentence. The bed meets our bodies, sheets whispering around us.

His palm slides down my thigh, reverent. He pauses, searching my gaze for permission.

“Yes,” I breathe. “All of it.”

The world narrows to the sensation of him—warm mouth tracing a worship-path from my collarbone to the hollow of my throat, to the heart thundering beneath. My fingers tangle in his hair, guiding, urging. When he finally enters my body, it’s not conquest; it’s completion.

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