Page 73 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
I find myself in my study, standing at the window, staring at nothing. The sketch is in my pocket—her serpent and dahlia, worn soft from constant handling. I pull it out and trace the lines with my finger, remembering the look on her face when I asked her why she drew it.
I felt something watching me. Something interested.
She felt me before she knew me. She drew us before we'd ever spoken. Whatever connection exists between us, it predates the gala, the murder, the careful game I've been playing.
Maybe it predates both of us entirely.
The thought is uncomfortably close to fate, to destiny, to all the mystical nonsense I've never believed in. I don't believe in anything I can't see, touch, control. The universe is chaos, and the only order that exists is the order we impose through strength and will.
And yet.
And yet this woman drew a serpent whispering to a flower weeks before I stood over a corpse and watched her watch me. And yet she kept the dahlia I left on her doorstep instead of throwing it away. And yet she looked at me through that doorway and saw the monster and still—
Still.
A knock at the study door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
"Come in."
Josiah enters, his expression the careful neutral that means he's about to say something I won't like.
"Brother. I was hoping we could discuss the Henderson matter."
"Not now."
"It can't wait much longer. He's been making noise about—"
"I said not now."
Josiah stops, studying me with those sharp eyes that see too much. I keep my face blank, but something must show through, because his expression shifts from neutral to concerned.
"What's happened?"
"Nothing."
"You look..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Distracted."
"I'm fine."
"You've been 'fine' for weeks now, and the business is suffering for it. The Brotherhood is starting to ask questions." He moves closer, lowering his voice even though we're alone. "Gabriel, whatever this is with the florist—"
"Her name is Poppy."
The sharpness in my voice surprises us both. Josiah's eyebrows rise.
"Poppy, then. Whatever this is, it's affecting your judgment. You need to—"
"I need to what?" I turn from the window, letting him see the warning in my eyes. "Choose your words carefully, brother. You're treading on dangerous ground."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. He's not afraid of me—he's one of the few people who isn't—but he's smart enough to know when to push and when to retreat.
"I'm concerned about you," he says finally. "That's all. You've never been like this before. Not with anyone."
"Like what?"
"Consumed." He says the word like a diagnosis. "She's all you think about. All you talk about. All you care about. It's not healthy, Gabriel. It's not safe."
He's right. I know he's right. But knowing doesn't change anything.
