Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
The man truly is insane. How did I not see it before?
I recall the times his face went cold, and his eyes glinted with green fire. I’d trembled with fear-drenched desire, but that was when I trusted him implicitly. Before I found out that he’s the masked man. Before I knew that he hid behind GentAnon’s screenname to learn all of my most forbidden desires.
He claims that we met the night before he first came into the café. The fact that he stalked me on my way home and then followed me to work the next morning makes a chill pebble my skin.
All those months, he came into the café like clockwork every morning.
Until the day he finally asked me on a date.
The day after the masked man—Dane, I silently correct myself—attacked me.
“Why?” The single word is a razor blade in my throat, dragging its way out of me.
I don’t think I want to know, but I can’t help asking. I can still barely accept what’s happening to me, and I’m desperate to understand.
“Why did you ask me out? Why do any of this?”
His green eyes blaze, burning into me. “Because you’re perfect for me.”
6
DANE
Three Months Ago
I’ve visited the café every morning for a week, and Abigail is simply polite to me, as though I’m like every other customer.
It’s frustrating.
Infuriating.
So, I find myself strolling through her neighborhood after the sun sets. She won’t even look at me when I’m at the café. I must’ve thoroughly intimidated her when I completely misjudged the situation. I’d been overly familiar after our meeting at the bar, and she hadn’t remembered me at all.
I can’t harass her while she’s at work; that’ll only raise more red flags.
But now that I’m a regular at the café, I can’t approach her elsewhere without seeming like I’m stalking her. I’d only spook her even more.
I force my clenched jaw to loosen.
This woman is maddening, but the more difficult it is to pursue her, the more I crave to conquer her.
I’ve never been evaded by a woman before. No one has wanted to evade me.
But Abigail is a stubborn exception in so many ways.
I will learn her secrets, and then she will submit to me. Once she surrenders, I’ll be able to move on from this dangerous fixation.
I shouldn’t be here. It’s risky to follow her home.
And I never put myself at risk. I refuse to do anything foolish that might end with me behind bars. I’ll never be caged.
I’m too smart for that.
I glance around the deserted street. This isn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it’s quiet.
Probably because no one seems to want to live in the dilapidated houses that surround her ramshackle apartment building. There’s small, narrow house directly across the street. The powder blue paint on the exterior is peeling, and it’s dark inside. No one’s home.
The garden is overgrown, and that suits my desires. I duck beneath unruly foliage and push open the rusty gate. Within less than a minute, I settle into the shadows provided by the azalea and hydrangea bushes that haven’t been pruned in years.
Abigail’s window is a yellow rectangle shining through the night. At this distance, I can see her slim form moving around her cramped living room. She’s setting up an easel.
Curiosity nips at me, an insistent bite.
So, my pretty prey is an artist. I’m not surprised to learn that she has a creative streak. Her quirky purple curl and the whimsical badges I’ve noted on her work apron indicate a playful energy that defies stricter social norms for a woman of her age. Her unicorn pin had surprised me when I noted it on my second visit to the café, but I’ve since decided that I find it charming. The smiling iced coffee and frowning broccoli are a bit odder, but her quirkiness makes more sense now that I see her with a paintbrush in her delicate hand.
Despite her perfectly polite demeanor and sunny smiles, Abigail isn’t a conformist. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a difficult time pinning her down.
If I can just learn what makes her tick, she’ll be in my bed, and this strange new fixation will finally be satisfied.
Her hand moves in small, elegant strokes as she works with fluidity but precision. I can only see the back of her brunette head from this angle, but I have a clear view of her canvas.
She’s too far away for me to make out the details of her painting. For a while, I’m content to simply watch her graceful, minute movements as she works. But the longer she continues, the more I crave to know what absorbs her attention so completely.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and open the camera in an attempt to zoom in on her art. But the lighting is too imbalanced at this distance for me to make out more than a navy-blue blur on her canvas.