His brother, Connor, laughs in response, seeming to agree.
Arch opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m Addie. And this is Daya,” I introduce, pointing towards my best friend. She offers a smile, but her stare is sharp and assessing. She’s too keen and intelligent to get sucked into danger like I tend to do.
“Nice to meet you, ladies,” Max murmurs, his attention still glued to Daya. Matter of fact, the twins have hardly looked away from her since the moment she walked into the room, either.
Every bit of me wants to step in front of her and protect her from the prying, feral eyes. But Daya can handle her own, so I stay beside her. Ready to attack if needed.
“Sit, please,” Arch urges. There’s plenty of room on the booth but the two of us decide to sit on the end, closest to Max.
My phone buzzes as soon as my ass hits the soft leather. Noticing that Daya has been immediately sucked into a conversation with Max, and Arch is filling up a glass of expensive bourbon, I sneak a peek at the text.
UNKNOWN: Sneaking off with random men, little mouse? If I catch his hands anywhere near you, they’ll end up in your mailbox by morning.
My heart stills in my chest. This is the first time he has actually communicated with me outside of an ominous note.
My eyes snap up towards the balcony. No one can see us from here. We’re too far back from the railing. But yet, someone is clearly watching me.
But how?
And how the hell did he get my number? Scratch that, that was a stupid question. He’s a fucking stalker, for god’s sake. Of course, he has my number.
Arch walks over and hands me a drink, a smile on his face. He thinks he’s getting laid tonight.
Normally, he might have. But it looks like I might have to save his life instead and get the hell away from him.
An hour passes, and I grow more nervous as each minute ticks by. I haven’t received another text, but it’s sitting there, weighing down the back of my brain. I fear my brain stem will snap from the tension.
Arch’s hands definitely touch me. One currently rests on my thigh, dangerously close to my center. I stare down at the star tattooed on his thumb, my mind conjuring images of holding it—without his body attached.
Yet, I let it happen, even though I shouldn’t. And because I shouldn’t, I can’t stop staring at them, imagining them chopped off at the wrist and bloody. Sitting in my mailbox.
I don’t even have a mailbox.
My house is too far back from the road, so my mail is just left on my front step.
Shouldn’t a stalker know that?
What a shitty little shadow.
“You having fun?” Arch asks, nudging me with his shoulders. I nod absently as I continue to abuse my lip trapped beneath my teeth.
I should run. I should tell this man to get his hand off of me if only it means it’ll never be severed from his body and left in my nonexistent mailbox.
“You’re tense,” Arch observes quietly. I clear my throat and open my mouth, but another buzz from my back pocket interrupts me.
I can feel the color leech from my face. Arch’s brows dip with concern, and it reminds me of the poor man that I nearly gave a heart attack by the cliff’s edge.
He glances down towards the sound. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice only seeming to quieten further.
I’m growing tired of the concerned looks, but yet, they feel like lifelines. Like there’s people out there that will notice my strange behavior and speak out if something ever happens to me.
A news reporter will interview Arch, and he’ll speak of how I seemed spooked by a text message. The construction worker who built my porch—his story will be broadcasted and talked about for weeks. A girl standing at the edge of a cliff, seeming to contemplate jumping and then nearly falling off.
It all connects to the fact that I had a stalker. And the police brushed it off when I made my reports of random roses. But it won’t change anything for the next girl that’s being stalked.
It never does.
In the end, I’ll be another statistic but will fade away as just that. A beautiful girl stalked by an unhinged man. And no one bothered to help her until it was too late.
“I’m fine,” I force out through a stilted smile. It feels wooden and disingenuous, but it does the trick nonetheless. His face relaxes, and the concern bleeds away.
Or rather, Arch is just letting it go because he doesn’t actually care.
“Do you want to leave?” he murmurs, his voice now full of promise and intent. His bottom lip disappears between his white teeth, the act in itself primal.
The word no is on the tip of my tongue, like a little ballerina dancing precariously at the tip, dangerously close to falling off and breaking her ankle. Because if I say no to this man, I’ll spend the rest of my night—week—possibly longer, regretting it.
Hating myself for letting a freak control my life and rob me of a good time with a delicious man.
He’s beautiful, with a shade of darkness surrounding him that’s as enticing and mouth-watering as chocolate cake. There’s a promise that I would be ending the night with him entirely satisfied.
And what if it evolves into more? What if I’m saying no to something beautiful? Those are a little girl’s hopes and dreams, but I can’t help thinking them anyways.
He looks like a man that I could settle down with but dangerous enough to keep me excited.
“Yes,” I say quietly—finally. “But after I know Daya gets home safely.”
Arch smiles slowly. Salaciously. “I can see to that.”
Chapter 8
The Manipulator
D
aya takes Luke home while I take Arch back to the manor. He asked me to go to his, but I felt much safer at my own home. More in control.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t take him to a house that sits on a cliff, surrounded by woods and several miles out from civilization. Worst of all, with a stalker that lingers around and likes to break in.
God, this was stupid.
My house isn’t safer by any means, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to his place. I don’t like being in unfamiliar places with strangers. Like I could be walking into a house that I’ll never come back out of. It makes me feel far more vulnerable, though I’m in the most vulnerable position I could possibly be in right now.
“You have a beautiful home,” Arch compliments, his eyes sweeping over the entirety of the living room and kitchen. I updated the wallpaper to a more modern black paisley, got rid of the tragic gold curtains, replaced them with red ones, and updated the couches to red leather.
But his eyes keep drifting back to the black wooden steps as if he knows they lead to my bedroom.
Except I have different plans.
“That’s not the best part,” I tease, grabbing his hand and leading him down the hallway to my favorite room in Parsons Manor.
The sunroom.
I don’t go back here very often. It’s where Nana and I spent most of our time together. It hurts to come in here when the room is still thick with her presence.