Page 32 of Prey

"She could ruin you. Your career."

"Let her try."

"Cain."

I pull back. Look at him. "I’m rich darling, I don’t care about my career," I say. "I don't care about the board. I don't care about Rose or anyone else other than you."

"Stay with me," I continue.

"I'm right here."

"No. I mean," I take a breath. "Stay with me. Move in. Make this real."

He stares at me. Is it too much. Too fast.

"I can't lose you," I say. "Not now. Not after I just found you."

He doesn't speak for a long moment. And then, slowly, he nods. "Okay."

"Okay?"

A small smile. The first one since the text. "I'll stay."

I pull him close, holding him. She won't touch you. I won't let her. I'll destroy her and anyone else who tries to take you away from me.

Chapter 17

Grey: Flashback

I was sixteen the first time I followed someone home.

I told myself I was just walking. Just taking the long way. Just curious. That’s what people say when they’re already lying to themselves. His name wasn’t Cain. He was nothing like Cain. A high school teacher with a crooked tie and bad coffee breath, the kind of man no one paid attention to. I did.

I noticed him the same way I notice everyone. The small things. The way he drank his coffee, always from the same chipped mug. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was tired. The way his voice softened when he talked about books he loved, like they were people he was trying to protect.

I told myself I was just paying attention.

He lived in a building with a buzzing intercom and a lobby that smelled like old carpet. I stood across the street for forty-seven minutes. I counted.

The next day, I took his spare key from his desk drawer.

It was so easy. He left it in the top drawer, loose, like he didn't think anyone would want it. Like no one would notice. I copied it at a hardware store that didn't ask questions. The man behind the counter looked at me, looked at the key, looked at my shaking hands. He didn't say anything. People never do.

I stood outside his apartment door for a long time. My palms were sweating. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I told myself I just wanted to see. Just wanted to know. Just wanted to be closer.

The key turned. The door opened. I stepped inside.

His apartment smelled like him, paper, and dust. There were books everywhere. Stacked on the floor. Piled on the coffee table. Spilling off shelves that couldn't hold them all. I walked through his living room. Touched his things. His glasses on the counter. His coffee mug in the sink. His jacket hanging on the back of a chair. I held it to my face and breathed in.

I didn't know why I was doing it. I still don't. I was sixteen. I was lonely. I was desperate for someone to see me the way I saw them.

The third time I broke into his apartment, he came home early. I heard the key in the lock. I heard his voice, muffled, talking to someone on the phone. I froze and hid in his closet. There was no other exit. The windows were too high for me to jump from. Just the closet. Just me, the smell of his clothes and the sound of my own breathing.

He walked through the apartment. I heard him set down his bag. I heard him pour a glass of water. I heard him sit on the couch.

I waited. I counted. One minute. Five. Ten.

Then he opened the closet door.