Page 13 of Where Angels Fall

Instead of rushing to the shower and scrubbing my skin the way I assume a normal person would have, I fell onto my couch, hand wandering over my skin, tracing the places he touched. Actually, a normal person would have gone straight to the police station and reported the stranger.

But no, not me. I let my fingertips swirl over my sensitive clit before sinking into my sore core, trying to replicate the feeling he gave me. The feeling of my pulse going wild and my skin burning. The feeling of not being able to breathe until he decided I could.

The orgasm I chased ran faster, until my other hand skimmed over my torn blouse, fingers causing a shiver to run through me as I imagined they were rough, blood-covered hands. A short-lived pleasure coursed through me when I squeezed my own throat, around the already tender muscles. But it was nothing like before. Not even a fraction of the fire that ran through my veins like before.

So, no, I’m not full of shame. I’m frustrated. Angry. Pent up. And it’s all because I made the mistake of stepping foot into an unsavoury bar, ran by criminals. I need to put an end to it.

Not only is it dangerous to have this blue-eyed lunatic following me around and taking me at my workplace... dangerous may be an understatement. But I work for a billion-dollar company, and I can only imagine what my father would say if he saw me next to the man with torn, leather clothing and black ink crawling up his face. I would be a disgrace.

Everything about me is tailored to look a certain way. Act, walk, talk, be a certain way. My hair is dyed a natural-looking blonde, bright and champagne coloured and cut in a perfectly straight line just below my shoulders. My teeth are whitened to sparkly pearls and lips injected with just enough filler to still look natural, but make men look at them and dream about sliding their dicks into.

Nails are sharpened to a point, painted with white French tips, and my wardrobe is worth more than most people’s houses.

Don’t get me wrong, I was never ugly. But in this world, people expect utter perfection. So, Father turned me into just that. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help me out. Men move out of my way, even if it’s just so they can look at my behind. Doors open, people listen, opportunities land.

But the glossy veneer cuts both ways.

Because the same men who open doors also think they can own me. They see the pristine exterior and decide I’m something pretty to be gained, like the Rolex on their wrist. They speak to me with that practiced politeness that barely hides their hunger. They assume I’m fragile. Obedient and tame. A prize, not a person.

And women? They watch me with sharp eyes, clutching their husbands tighter when I enter an event. They should. Because their husbands’ dicks have most likely been in my mouth at one time or another. Not that I want it. The thought makes me feel so nauseous that I refuse to let it linger in my mind.

So that is why I can’t take chances with this incident. I need to clean up this mess and chalk it down to a momentary lapse of judgement and forget all about it. Even though it’s barely lunchtime and I have completed none of the endless work constantly piling up, I leave the Dally building. Walking to the police station that is a few blocks away.

As I said, being a Dally has perks. One of them being, if we want a problem to disappear, it vanishes. I would feel bad for the mystery man who has been haunting me for a week, but he brought this on himself.

For a gang leader, he sure doesn’t do his research on who and who not to mess with.

I lift my chin as I enter the station, a sense of calmness settling the turmoil inside me. Knowing that someone will sweep up my mess in a few hours helps me forget the way he made me feel.

In no time at all, I’m taken into an office, the chief police officer taking notes as I let him know about my issue. I leave out the part where I willingly walked into his establishment, and the part where I came over his fingers. Just sticking to my story that I’m being stalked and that I need this problem fixed… yesterday.

“Okay, Miss Dally,” his tone steady as he types the statement into the system. “I understand your concern, and I will do everything personally that I can to see that we fix your issue. But I’m going to need more to go on. A tall male, heavily tattooed, well, that description applies to a significant portion of the individuals frequenting Havenport Harbour’s less... reputable districts.”

His eyes flick to mine, probing. Professional, but cautious, as if he’s deciding how far he’s allowed to push.

“Do you have a name, something you’ve heard in passing? Or vehicle? Anything more specific and I can really narrow down the search.”

My nails dig into my fingers as I try to think of anything... anything that could help identify the man in question. But the moment I reach for details, my mind can’t find a name or vehicle.

It gives me him.

The cold floor beneath my knees. The weight of his hand locked around my throat. Blue eyes gleaming at me like I’m prey pinned beneath a predator. And worse, how my body reacts to it.

A wave of heat and humiliation rolls through me, turning my stomach. My throat tightens. The air becomes shallow and sharp. The room feels small. Too small. Like the walls are inching closer with every breath I fail to take. The sound of the keyboard buttons clicking echo in my head, the ticking of the clock on the wall bursting my ears.

“I...” My voice fractures. I swallow once, twice, but it doesn’t help. “Can I just... I need a moment.”

The officer straightens, his fingers pausing above the keyboard. His eyes flick to mine before he nods once. “Of course, Miss Dally. Take your time; I’ll come back in ten to see if you’ve thought of anything. There is no rush.”

But there is.

Every second this case remains unsolved is another second he could pounce again. With the way my mind is spiralling after only a couple of interactions, I doubt I’d survive another.

The second he leaves, I take my first full breath, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Shaky hands pull my phone out, and I pull up a message thread, a moment of desperation making my fingers work.

Maddison: What is your name?