Page 3 of The Stalker
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” I murmur, my voice low and dark, threaded with the ghost’s hunger and my own.
Her lips part, confusion and fear flickering in her gaze.She takes a half step back toward the door, but I’m already moving forward, closing the space between us.
This is it.No more watching.No more waiting.Tonight, she’s mine.
Chapter Two
Is That You
Bianka
I hate mirrors.I learned that the hard way.
Once, I used to spend hours in front of one, trying on outfits, practicing smiles, curling my dark hair just to see what shape it took in the light.Back when life was simple.Back when my face was mine.
But not anymore.
Now I avoid them.Every reflective surface is a reminder of what I lost—smooth skin, symmetry, any semblance of normalcy.The car crash stripped it all away in a storm of fire and glass.What’s left is twisted, ridged, and cruel.A roadmap of pain carved down the right side of my face, across my jaw, and over my shoulder, trailing like a snake down my back.
I tell myself I should be grateful.Alive is better than dead.Isn’t it?But sometimes when I look at myself, I wonder if it would’ve been easier if I hadn’t crawled out of that wreck.
I ran home the moment they discharged me from the hospital.Back to the safety of the town I grew up in and ran from the moment I got my diploma.Now I’m back in my mother’s old house and grateful I never had the heart to sell the place.
Ashburne itself hasn’t changed much.It still has the same cracked sidewalks, the same sagging porches, and the same whispers that travel faster than smoke.When I came back last year, I thought maybe the familiarity would feel like home.Instead, it’s just a prison with longer bars.
People stare.They think I don’t notice, but I do.The quick glances, the pity in their eyes, the way their gaze catches on my scars before darting away.I hear the words they don’t say.
Ugly.
Broken.
Damaged.
And maybe they’re right.
I tug the collar of my sweater higher around my neck, hiding what I can.The fabric scratches, but it’s better than the burn of their stares.
