But let’s not lie here.
I’m not watching for intel anymore.
I’m watching because it’shot.
The way he moves—controlled, hungry, utterly in command—he’s sculpting pleasure like it’s an art form. Her fingers twist through his hair, her body trembling. He’s treating her like worship, like punishment, like a craving.
And I can’t help thinking—if he’s capable of this, of this kind of intimacy… why the hell is he stalking Darcy?
Guys like this, they don’t need to stalk. They walk into rooms and pull attention without trying. Which makes this even more confusing and twisted.
Still, he’s putting on one hell of a show.
And when he lifts her up—thighs over his shoulders, cradling her ass to his chest like she weighs nothing—and walks out of view, I catch myself wishing he’d stayed in frame just a bit longer.
I was ready for a show, and now I’ll just have to imagine how good the sex was.
Another item for my growing interrogation list—something to bring up when he’s finally within reach and tied to a metal chair in my bedroom.
I glance sideways. Boomerang is still perched silently on the armrest, tail flicking, eyes half-lidded in lazy judgment.
“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, flushing slightly as I reach for my now-cold tea. “Yes, I just spent twenty minutes lusting over a potential criminal. Let’s pretend this is all in the name of justice.”
He blinks. Stretches.
No dramatic exit, no offended tail flick.
So, either he’s too used to my morally questionable antics… or he’s just biding his time before he provides a tell-all memoir to the local cats.
Either way, he knows all my sins now.
By the time evening rolls around and Darcy’s due to leave the gym, I’m already on high alert.
Her text comes through—quick, casual, location confirmed—and I’m out the door like a woman on a mission. Backpack packed, nerves taut, rolling pin in hand.
Not exactly MI5 gear, but don’t underestimate the force of a solid rolling pin. That thing’s seen more action than my love life.
I check the live feed once more, just to be sure.
And there he is.
Stalker boy.
Leaving the house—bag slung over his shoulder, and this time? There’s a gun.
A gun.
My stomach coils, breath stuttering with dread.
It’s go time.
There’s no backup. No official plan. No legal net to catch me if this spirals.
It’s now or never.
And I’ll be damned if I let tonight end with Darcy in his sights.
9
