Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 17
the lamb
from the doorway of my bedroom and am instantly hit with the sweet, syrupy smell of vanilla. The room is illuminated by the soft, flickering lights coming from the dozens of candles lining the bathroom counter and the sides of the tub that's nestled into the back corner of the room. Water is pouring out of the spout into a sea of bubbles that's nearly full, and a glass of white wine is perched on the ledge.
And sitting right beside it is another perfectly ripened fig.
I have no idea what to make of this.
Stepping into the bathroom, I reach down to turn off the spout, and then spin in place, taking the scene in.
It would be incredibly romantic if there were actually someone here to explain themselves. If I didn't live alone in this house. If I didn't forget to even give Halen and Kennedy the spare key.
Instead, I'm left reeling.
Because no one should have access to my home to do this. Someone was here. In my space, without my permission.
Of course, my mind lands on one person. Someone who shouldn't even be a blip on my radar. Someone I finally convinced myself wasn't even real. That thought alone nearly sends me spiraling. But he's the only person who would use the fruit as a message.
But… how?
How did he time it perfectly for me to show up just in time to turn the water off?
I suppose he's done it before. Though, why did it feel so much less violating when I was home?
“What are you waiting for? Get in,” that familiar, rough voice startles me from behind.
I whip around to face him, jumping when I find that he's standing less than a foot away from me in the doorway. From this close, I can see he's got to be at least a foot taller than me, his shoulders twice as wide.
“What are you doing in my house?” I immediately confront, scowling. My hands are trembling so badly at my sides, I have to ball them into fists so he doesn't notice.
He tilts his head, carefully considering me for a moment. He’s wearing his black mask to cover his nose and lips, but I can still read his expressions.
“Running you a bath,” he explains slowly, as if I'm dense.
“I mean, why are you here? What do you want from me?” I hate the way my voice shakes—the weakness it shows.
I'm not sure why this feels any different from him sneaking into my room while I slept, but it does. I feel like he's crossed an invisible line here. A much larger, more intimate line than before.
“You've had a hard week. I figured you could use a break.”
I want to ask what he means by that. How does he know how my week has been? How did he know when I'd be home tonight after taking on a last-minute shift? But fear has my mouth clamped shut, trapping all my burning questions inside until they're scorching my tongue.
He walks around my frozen body to lean his weight onto the counter across from the tub, then stares at me expectantly.
“Well, now that that's settled, you can get in.”
“I'm not stripping in front of you and getting in that tub,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest.
His face drops, all emotion wiped from his expression within a millisecond. A cold, hollow mask takes its place, and my breath hitches at the dangerous gleam that's filled his eyes.
How the hell did he do that?
“You're going to get in that tub and you're going to relax, or else I'm going to rip your clothes off and throw you in there myself.”
“Who the hell even are you? What are you?”
Those eyes cut over to me. “Me? I'm your worst nightmare, little Stardust.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Would you rather I use your real name, Jovie?”
I don't know how he does it, but my name sounds like a threat. A promise for something more—something worse—if I don't obey. I still, swallowing through the lump of fear lodged in my throat.
Why should it bother me so much to hear my name on his tongue? That he even knows it in the first place? He clearly has no boundaries, breaking into my house at all times of the day, watching me as I sleep, expecting me to strip bare in front of him.
“Point taken. You know about me,” I finally push out through the fear.
“I know everything about you,” he corrects in a cocky tone. The statement sends chills rumbling down my spine, because I have no doubt that it's true.
“Then it's only fair that I know something about you…”
His brow quirks up. “Do I look like the type of man to bargain with?”
Not at all, the voice in my head screams, but I don't let the words leave my lips. Instead, I jut my chin out and nod toward the steaming bathtub.
“One answer for every piece of clothing,” I offer, fully expecting him to decline.
He surprises me by rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why can't you just let me do this one nice thing for you?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Fine,” he says with a stiff shrug, shaking his head.
I don't waste any time asking, “What's your name?”
“Bash. Start with your shirt.”
Glaring at him, I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, exposing the lacey, white bra I'm thankful I had the urge to put on this morning.
Did I really just say I'm thankful?
Fuuuuck.
“Bash? Bash what?”
Slanted, feline eyes—which the candlelight reveals are an impossibly light shade of green—bore into my face. His jaw flexes beneath his mask, as if to further prove his point.
He's not telling me his full name.
“Fine. Where do you live? I know it's not Styx.”
He doesn't hesitate this time. “New York.”
I push my jeans down my legs and step out of them.
“That’s a far drive to be making this often…” I fish, hoping he’ll give me more.
“I have business here that requires my attention,” he says in a response that doesn't really answer anything. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, like I'm supposed to be taking off more clothes, but I shake my head.
“I didn't get to ask another question,” I whine, placing my hands on my hips.
His eyes openly roam over my chest and abdomen, a hungry look flashing across his features before he buries it away.
What is it about him that turns me on so easily? I should be putting distance between us. I should be having him arrested for breaking into my home and running me a bath, then demanding I get naked in front of him. Instead, I'm going right along with the psychosis, stripping my clothes off and sharing random facts.
“Maybe I should ask you questions instead. Why don't we start with what happened the night you were brought to Sunnybrook? With your mom?”
I freeze. How could he know about that? Sure, it's public knowledge that I went to the rehab facility. I suppose he could have somehow even dug into my medical records and saw the injuries I was brought into the hospital with that night. But there's no way for him to have known who was there with me before the ambulance came. I never told a soul.
Is it because he really is a stalker? Because he's a figment of my imagination, burrowed deep into my subconscious, where all my secrets hide?
Either way, I'm not reliving that night. Not even for a man who looks like he would kill me if he grew too bored of my company.
His gaze darkens. “I thought so. Get in the tub. I won't say it again.”