Page 19 of Stuffing My Obsession
A cold chill ripples through me. My hands tremble as I open his photos. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Me at the café. Me in class. Me unlocking my door. Me asleep in the lobby waiting for a package.
The roses. The shadow in my room. The feeling of eyes on me.
All of it.
The front door opens again. Laughter carries in as Dad and Myles step inside, Danny trailing behind. Myles looks relaxed, almost at ease until his eyes find me. Until he sees his phone clutched in my hand.
“What is this?” My voice cracks, sharp and broken. I shove the phone at him, the screen glaring between us. “What the hell is this, Myles?”
Dad freezes, confusion etched across his face. Danny perks up, interested for the first time all night.
Myles’s face drains of color. “Paris—”
“You’ve been stalking me.” The words burn my throat. “The roses. The texts. It was you.”
“I can explain.” His voice is low, urgent, hands raised slightly, like I’m about to bolt.
“Explain?” My laugh is harsh, strangled. “How do you explain this? How do you explain making me feel safe when you were the one I needed protecting from?”
His jaw clenches. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“But you did!” My voice cracks again. My chest aches like it’s caving in. “You lied. You made me trust you. You made me—” My throat closes before I can finish. I throw his phone at him and he catches it before it can hit him in the face.
Something in his eyes fractures, raw and desperate. “Paris—”
“Leave.” It comes out a whisper, then stronger. “Leave, Myles. Now.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me, like maybe if he holds on long enough I’ll change my mind. But then he nods once, stiff, and turns for the door.
I watch him go. And even as fury burns through me, something deeper hurts worse.
My heart, breaking piece by piece.
Chapter Eight
Myles
I should’ve told her.
That thought’s been burning a hole through me ever since I saw her with my phone, ever since she looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am. I knew this moment would come—hell, I thought I was prepared for it. But nothing prepared me for the hurt in her eyes. Nothing prepared me for the pain that tore through me at the sight of her tears.
I should’ve told her the truth from the beginning. Told her that I was the one trailing her steps at night, leaving those roses, making sure no one touched what was mine. I should’ve given her a choice. But I didn’t, and now I see the disgust in her eyes every time I close mine.
Fuck.
I walk the dark stretch of road away from the house, duffel in hand, my boots crunching on gravel, chest tight with a rage I can’t aim at anyone but myself. I’ve faced war, watched men bleed out in the sand, taken lives without hesitation, but nothing compares to the wreckage in my chest from hearing Paris ask me to leave.
I should probably do as she asked—leave her life and never appear before her again. She deserves better. Not a man ruined beyond redemption.
But even though I know all that, I can’t bring myself to leave. Not without her.
Paris belongs with me. She just doesn’t realize it yet. And until she’s ready to listen, there’s only one thing I can do—go back to watching her from the shadows. Like before.
I veer off the main road, circling wide around her family’s property. Old instincts kick in without thought. I scan perimeters, count exits, track the blind spots a man could use to slip through. I note the loose boards on the back fence, the tree line that runs close enough to give me cover. The place is safe, but safe isn’t good enough.
Not when it comes to my girl.
I find my spot on a rise overlooking the farmhouse. From here, I’ve got a perfect view of the front porch, the living room windows, the driveway where that old truck sits. I crouch low, settle against the trunk of an oak, and check my line of sight.
