Someone has been in my apartment.
A hairbrush moved an inch. A pillow that smells like a cologne I don’t own. The sense of a body that was here and left just before I got home.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
So why am I standing in the middle of it with my heart racing for an entirely different reason?
His name is Ezra. He’s been watching me for six weeks—from across the street, through a scope, from inside my own walls. He knows I sleep on my left side. He knows I cry in the shower. He knows the exact sound I make when I fall apart.
And when he finally steps out of the dark, he doesn’t lie about any of it.
He tells me what he’s taken. What he’s touched. Then he tells me to say stop and mean it.
I can’t.
I leave the curtains open now. I check the corners for him and hate that I’m disappointed when he isn’t there.
Every rule I had about safe, about sane, about no—going dark, one by one.
I didn’t have something dark happen to me. I looked at the dark. And I walked in.
A dark stalker romance with an obsessive hero, a desire she can’t fight, and a possessive happily-ever-after. He isn’t sorry and neither is she.
