Page 14 of Savage Stalkers
I park, grab my bag, and slowly climb out. Then I turn toward him.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask when I’m a few feet away.
He pushes off his bike, a stupid grin spreading across his face. “We’re practically engaged. I’d call it ‘making sure my future wife gets to work safely.’”
My bag slips from my shoulder, and he chuckles at my clumsiness. “How did you know I work here?”
His head tilts, and something shifts in his expression—something playful. “Maybe I am stalking you after all.”
He walks toward the entrance, leaving me standing outside with my mouth half open. I watch him disappear through the glass doors, then follow like I’m the one stalking him.
Inside, Seb waves from behind the espresso machine, looking relieved. He hates the mid-morning rush.
I clock in, tie my apron, and slide behind the register as the first order comes up.
“Zay,” I call out, reading the name written on the takeaway cup.
Motorbike guy appears at the counter, and the cup nearly slips from my grip as heat climbs my neck.
“Zay and Skye,” he croons, and as he reaches for the cup, his fingers linger against mine. “Sounds good together, don’t you think?”
My mouth opens, then closes, words abandoning me entirely. How does he know my...
My eyes drop to my chest, to the plastic name tag pinned there in block letters. Of course. Though I duck my head, I can feel him watching the blush spread across my cheeks.
“I promise next time I’ll have a ring for you,” he says, backing toward the door.
“I much prefer the stalker angle.” The words escape before I can catch them. His laughter fills the entire coffee shop, and I want to crawl under the counter and die. Customers turn to look, some smiling, others rolling their eyes.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he calls back, and then he’s gone.
The rest of my shift flies by, and I have to race to campus to make my class. I hate being late, and I manage to run through the door with a minute to spare. But I struggle to focus because Silas stares at me for most of the lesson; there is something intense about him.
After class, Adrian and Macey convince me to meet them at a popular bar to eat. I decide to go but regret it as soon as I see the bar is full of dude bros—the type who get more obnoxious the more they drink. After I eat, I hit my limit for the amount of stupidity I can deal with. Macey is happy to stay, but she doesn’t come from a family like mine, so she doesn’t realize the strings that come with guys like this. Either you will only ever be the sidepiece because you’re not good enough for their family and chances are they have already been promised to another, or if you actually get a foot in the door, the family will make your life a living hell until you leave. There is no winning.
I welcome the quiet the instant the doors shut behind me as I leave the bar. The faint sound of voices carries outside, but it’s a relief. I just want to go home, shower, and watch reruns of Gossip Girl. As I pull into the underground parking, I can practically hear my bed calling my name. Reaching into the back seat, I grab my bag and step out of the car, but then the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
Before I can move, a hand clamps over my mouth, and I’m dragged back against a hard chest. My stomach sinks and ice fills my veins, paralyzing me as my limbs turn to lead. Every muscle locks in place.
Then the purple glow of the mask turns on, and my body instantly relaxes. The panic inside me is replaced with something else entirely. His mask presses against the side of my face, and I realize this isn’t the same man from last night—he isn’t as tall.
“You look beautiful while you sleep.”
His hand eases from my mouth, and he trails his fingers along my jaw, his thumb pushing at my chin.
“Tilt for me.”
I do. God fucking help me, I do it without thinking.
My head falls back against his shoulder, my throat bared like I’m offering it up to him. My pulse thumps wildly against his fingertips, so he’ll know how much this is affecting me.
His touch is slow. Almost as if he has forever to memorize my every freckle and imperfection. His fingers drag down the column of my neck, lighting up my nerves like a Fourth of July party. When he traces my collarbone, my breath hitches.
“You’re trembling,”he says in a slightly robotic voice.“You like being scared. Noted.”
Am I? I hadn’t noticed. Everything feels discombobulated, like I’m floating outside my own body, watching this happen to someone else.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, it hurts.”
