“Nice try stalker boy, you’re not getting away that easily.” His eyes narrow, testing me, and the depth in which his eyes reach make me feel almost naked, stripped bare down to flesh and bone.
He’s not just searching my eyes, he’s searching my soul.
“It’s your funeral.”
I pluck Boomerang from his lap—again. This cat clearly doesn’t understand loyalty. He’s never liked men before, not even Adam, so why he’s suddenly snuggling up to the enemy is beyond me.
“Well,” I say, pressing Boomerang against my chest, “until you’re ready to talk, I suggest you get comfy. You’re not going anywhere.”
I push back from the chair and leave, slamming the bedroom door hard enough to make a point. The window’s locked—thankfully. Even if he did manage to Houdini his way out of those knots, there’s nowhere to go.
But now I’m stuck. I can’t risk leaving him alone, not with Darcy still off the radar. And I’m sure as hell not switching on his phone—whoever he works for is probably just waiting for that exact signal to swoop in.
Instead, I turn to his backpack. Rope. Zip ties. Duct tape. The classic kidnapping starter pack. And yet, he sits in there spewing lies like I haven’t just pulled a case file of damning evidence from his belongings.
So, what is it?
Is he completely unhinged, spinning a narrative so warped he’s convinced himself it’s real? Or—worse—is he telling the truth?
I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t started shouting yet. No yelling, no bargaining—just silence. And not the defeated kind either. The plotting kind. The kind that makes my skin crawl. He’s probably running through every possible way to kill me with a chair leg and a shoelace.
I scroll Darcy’s socials again, trawling through every platform, every half-forgotten handle. Nothing. No updates, no cryptic posts, not even a tagged photo. It’s like she’s vanished.
God.
Did I do this?
Did I just sign my best friend’s death sentence by kidnapping her stalker instead of calling the police like a functioning adult?
The longer I sit with it, the worse it gets. My thoughts spiral into a loop of scrambled, chaotic noise. I’ve tied a man up in my bedroom, Darcy’s missing, and I’m acting like I know what I’m doing. I don’t. Not even close.
“Hey, you,” he calls.
I bristle—at the sound, at the arrogance, and then I remember the fact he still doesn’t know my name, but I want to keep it that way.
I push the door open and lean against the frame, hip popped, arms folded. A performance of control I barely feel.
“Ready to talk?” I throw out, confident I’ve crawled under his skin.
Boomerang slips past me like it’s choreographed, tail high, instantly reclaiming his lap. I swear this cat has it out for me.
“No,” stalker boy says, deadpan. “I need to take a piss.”
I scoff. “Nice try. You really think I’m untying you? You don’t think I know exactly how that’ll end? The minute those ropes come off, I’m floor décor. Not happening.”
“You’d rather I piss all over your floor?”
“Ugh.” I forgot about the human element of this. Of course he’ll need to use the facilities and shower, and do everything to stay alive. Hell, I’m probably going to have to hand feed him too.
I yank the mop bucket from my sorry excuse for a storage cupboard and toss it at his feet with a satisfying clatter.
“There. Use that.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you expect me to unbutton anything?”
There it is—that glint in his eye. Amusement. The bastard’s enjoying this.
“Wait there,” I mutter, already heading for the sink and digging out a pair of rubber gloves.
