Page 88 of Problematic

I stood there, staring at that glossy black bow while my mouth went dry and my knees remembered the window, the wave, the tiny smile I had failed to kill in time.

My monster had answered again.

The boxes sat on my bed, perfectly arranged. I had given him a dare. Now, he was daring me back with wrapping paper and satin bows.

I stood in my bedroom doorway with one hand clamped around the frame and the other pressed against my stomach.

The smaller box sat on top, thinner and rectangular. The larger one underneath was deeper, heavier-looking, and that bothered me more than I could explain.

My bed was still rumpled from this morning, blanket twisted, pillow shoved near the headboard and flattened into an emotional support pancake. His gift sat in the exact center of that mess.

I reached for the top box but stopped short and pulled my hand back to my chest.

“Nope.” I paused and reached again. “Should I?” I picked it up against my better judgment. It was heavier than I expected. The paper felt expensive under my fingers, thick and smooth. The bow slipped loose with a single tug.

My hands shook as I peeled back the paper. A book slid into view, and for a second, my brain couldn’t process any more than the dark cover, red foil, and familiar author.

Then the title hit me, and I screamed.

. . . Well, it was more of a strangled, wounded squeak than a scream, if I’m being particularly honest.

“No fucking way.”

No . . . No, no, no.

This book didn’t come out for months. Literal months. I had alerts set. I’d been checking the preorder page twice a week like a crazy person hoping the release date would move up. I had watched the author’s updates, read the teasers, zoomed in on the cover reveal, and emotionally prepared myself for the long wait ahead. And here it was. The third book in the stalker romance series I had been reading. Unreleased.

I forgot the cameras. I forgot the bed. I forgot the fact that my masked stalker had broken into my apartment again and left gifts in the room where I kept my underwear and smut.

Because holy shit, he got the book. My fingers ran over the cover. Glossy. Smooth. Perfect. My pulse shifted from terror into something embarrassingly close to reverence. “How the hell did you get this?”

I flipped it open. The title page had been signed by the author. I actually stopped breathing. Then I saw the note beneath the signature. But it wasn’t the author’s handwriting. Nope, it was his. My masked Murder Boy. Elegant black ink, curved, controlled, and criminally beautiful.

Little Flower,

I knew you couldn’t resist.

I stared at the sentence. “Smug bastard.”

Of course he knew. He knew I would open it. He knew I would forget to be afraid for at least twelve seconds because this book wasn’t supposed to come out for months, and I was weak in exactly the ways BookTok warned women about. He knew I’d see the tabs he left and immediately become more concerned with his opinions on the plot than with personal safety.

And there were tabs everywhere. Black and clear tabs inscribed with dark ink. At least this time he spared the integrity of my book. The man can be taught. That’s a good sign.

A laugh slipped out of me as I turned to the first tab. His ink waited in the margins of a scene where the heroine found a gift on her bed and debated whether opening it made her reckless or realistic.

She knows she’ll open it. The curiosity would be too much for anyone to stand.

I snapped the book shut. “No way he is fucking mirroring my books now.” My cheeks burned. Pulling a scene out of the book and plopping it in my bedroom was kinda hot in ways I really didn’t want to think about.

I opened the book again. The next tab waited beside a scene where the heroine stood in front of a window, pretending she was searching for proof when every line of her body screamed invitation.

His note sat beneath the paragraph. I bet she left the curtains open on purpose. Under his first note, smaller, he had added:

She’ll lie to herself about why, but that’s half the fun, isn’t it?

My stomach did an ugly, thrilling little flip. I turned to another tab.

This one marked a scene where the fictional stalker warned the heroine not to run unless she wanted to be chased. Very dramatic. Very toxic. Very much the sort of line I would have highlighted and reread a thousand times.