But like all those days, I fished my phone back out and glared at it. The same way I glared at her from afar.
While I watched her.
Followed her.
Hacked into her phone and computer.
Murdered every shred of her privacy.
Read her fucking journal that’s full of psychological bullshit and Landon.
When I checked my phone again, I found out she’d followed me on Instagram, too. Probably another drunken mistake.
But maybe the DM was meant for me, after all. Not Landon. Me.
That’s all the logic my brain needed to storm out of the meeting and come here.
In the middle of the fucking night.
It’s also what made me climb her balcony, creep inside, and touch her like she was already mine, partially forgetting that my little sister was on the other side of the door.
I should probably leave before one of her gazillion friends comes to check on her, but I don’t move.
Instead, I take time to look around her room, the walls covered in manga pages like some edgy teenager. I move closer and study the names at the top of each, committing them to memory so that I can search what she likes to read.
Then I do a whole sweep of the space.
Cecily’s room is simple—despite the manga wallpaper. Her wardrobe is casual and is full of T-shirts with sarcastic quotes. She owns no dresses or skirts or anything girly.
Her makeup table barely has anything on it aside from different brands of sunscreen. And perfume. Water lilies. I can’t help spraying it into the air and inhaling it.
Smells like Cecily. But not quite. It’s missing the scent of her skin.
I put back the bottle exactly where I found it, like a perfect creep, but then I place it on its side. I don’t give a fuck if she knows I went through her things. In fact, I want her to.
Let her be on the edge as payment for all the annoyance she’s brought into my life by merely existing.
I tilt my head in her direction. “Why the fuck did you come to that initiation, Cecily?”
If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be acting completely out of character by inserting myself into her life and learning things about her I’m not supposed to.
Once I’m done going through the small space, I sit at her desk.
Psychology, philosophy, and nonfiction books line her small library.
And mangas.
Slice of life. Shounen, and… I grab one and my brows lift.
Boys’ love.
Well, well. Would you look at that?
I slide that manga back in place and open her laptop. I already hacked it once, so I know it’s as boring and meticulous as the image she projects onto the outer world.
All filled with school projects and pictures from family holidays.
Still, I open her browser and look at her history.
Considering that seeing sex made her physically ill the other day, I doubt she watches any. Or she could be using a private browser.
I find no trace of porn. However, I land on an interesting burst of similar searches, usually conducted late at night.
The psychology of rape fantasy.
Why do many women have rape fantasies?
The sociology of judging women who seek out or enjoy sex rougher than most men.
The sociology of rewarding men and punishing women for enjoying sex.
Is there an underlying mental disorder associated with rape fantasies?
Paraphilias listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
Is primal kink a sexual deviation?
Serial killers’ kinks.
That one puts a smile on my face.
Jesus.
I can almost imagine the deer-in-the-headlights expression she had while reading all of this stuff.
My gaze slides to her sleeping form. “You need to stop forcing labels on yourself.”
I skim through the articles written by some hotshot psychologists who try not to be judgy but sometimes let their true colors show.
Cecily must’ve been in a position where she had to see her preferences through a professional lens and wondered if something was wrong with her.
She’s shackled in some way.
And something tells me it’s not only due to her rigid codes of honor, stiff personality, or altruistic little heart.
Something deeper lurks beneath the surface, and I’ll find it if it’s the last thing I do.
My plans to only watch from afar just to catch Landon through her lie are forgotten as I dig, probe, and search.
Words and websites start to blur together, but I don’t stop.
People like Cecily carry their wounds so deep that even those in their closest circle have no clue about them.
I’m positive she’s kept it a secret from her parents and grandparents, with whom she’s close to, so as not to burden them. Ava, too.
But no matter how much she hides it, I’ll figure out her secret and drag it out of her kicking and screaming.
The commotion starts to die down outside her door, and that’s my cue to leave.
I quietly close her laptop and make a mental note to hack into it again later to dig deeper into her search history.
Then I take a few pictures of the books and mangas she reads. I’m about to leave from the balcony when her phone vibrates on the bedside table.
I stalk to her side and pause when I see the name on the text.
The motherfucking non-prince.
I unlock it using her passcode. She uses the same one for everything—her parents’ marriage date.
Landon: Hi, stranger.
My fingers tighten on the phone, but I type back.
Cecily: Hi :)
I tut at the smiley face. But if I want to make him believe it’s her, I have to mimic her style.
Landon: Everything okay? Is Jeremy still bothering you?
Bothering.
That’s what she told him? That I was bothering her?
Granted, stalking could be called bothering in certain circumstances.
But I wouldn’t have resorted to that method if I’d known what this motherfucker told her to do.
Cecily: Everything’s great. He’s not following me anymore.
Or that’s what she believes, anyway.
Landon: For how long?
Cecily: About two weeks.
Landon: That’s not long enough. He’s a dog who doesn’t give up on the bone he found, so he could and would come back at any time.
This fucker is too smart for his own good. I’ve always plotted his demise, but right now? I’m downright scheming for his murder and the best burial site to erase his existence from life.
Cecily: I’ll be careful.
Landon: That’s my Ces. Stay safe. I mean it.
My Ces.
My. Ces.
It takes everything in me not to smash the phone to pieces. I delete the conversation and return it to her bedside table instead.
I was going to leave quietly, but now, I’m pissed off.
Pushing her hair away from her neck, I lean over and bite down so hard, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.
But I will.
Soon.
And when I do, it’ll be much more brutal than this.
Cecily groans, then moans and hides her face in the pillow.
I cover her neck with her hair, take one of her mangas, and jump out the window.
Instead of going home, I choose to spend time blowing off steam.
On my bike.
I’ve already toured the whole island, but the subtle feeling of intoxication, asphyxiation, and complete irritation hasn’t disappeared.
By sunrise, I stop at the top of a hill, leaning against my bike.