Stalker - Clarissa Wild Page 0,97

he storms down the stairs and out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Phoenix is still breathing heavy, like he’s consumed by his own temper.

“You did the right thing,” I say softly.

“Don’t,” he says.

I look at the floor and wrap the curtain tighter around my body, clinging to what little warmth it provides.

Suddenly, Phoenix turns around, sighing as he comes to me. He picks me up from the floor, making me squeal and drop the curtain that was covering my body, but then I realize he’s carrying me toward my own room. Not the attic. Not the prison-like cage downstairs, but my real bedroom.

He opens the door and a thick vapor of smoke floating through the room makes me cough. Inside, it’s a mess, with clothes and items lying scattered on the carpet. My make-up stand is thrown upside down, the mirror is shattered, on the windowsill is an ashtray filled with old smokes, and the bed is kept untidy.

So this is where he’s been sleeping all this time when he left me alone in the cage. In my room. In my bed. On my pillow.

And as he brings me to my own bed, I can’t help but wonder if it smells like him now.

He places me down on the mattress and covers me with a blanket, gently patting me down as if he’s trying to soothe me.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Stay here.”

“I’m not going anywhere right now,” I mutter. “But where are you going?”

“Getting rid of the body.”

“Stay with me,” I say, grabbing his arm.

He stops for a moment. “I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t have to see it,” he mumbles, looking at the door.

This makes me blush a little. Is he doing this for me? And even though this is about cleaning up a corpse, somehow I feel flattered.

“I’ll wait,” I say.

“Good.” There’s a hint of a smile on his face, and then he turns around and walks away, closing the door behind him. I hear him rummage around on the hallway, some sliding and pushing going on, and I’m guessing it’s because he’s moving the body. He’s probably trying to get rid of it as quickly as possible, although I’m not sure how long it takes to bury a body. He probably won’t do it right away but dragging the body downstairs must be tough already.

It takes him a few minutes to come back with bloodied hands and messy hair, which he flips to the side. His whole body is covered with sweat, and there are cuts and bruises all over his skin from the guy fighting him off. I look down at my own hands and the bruises all over my body, and they make me want to cry.

I’m a bumbling mess because of that guy assaulting me, and that never happens to me.

I shiver and pull the blanket up further.

Phoenix walks to the bathroom to the left, glancing at me for only a second, but the moment he does, he bites his lip. I can see the concern in his eyes, and it makes me want to pull the blanket up to my face and cover myself up. I don’t want him to see me like this. Weak. Vulnerable. I hate being any of those things but hating them won’t make the feelings go away.

The faucet turns on and sounds of water splashing onto the skin are audible. After a few minutes, Phoenix steps back out the door, his hands clean and his face pristine. Any sign of blood is gone. If he went out onto the street right now, nobody would be able to tell he just committed a murder.

And he doesn’t even seem to be fazed by it, baffling me completely.

He’s really something.

He walks toward me, and I crawl back further into the bed. I don’t know why, but I have the constant sense that I’m in danger. That I should run. That everything around me is a threat. Even him.

And he is. He locked me up. He imprisoned me in my own home and used me to his heart’s content, so I should be afraid. I guess it’s only natural to feel that way. The problem is that I don’t want to feel that way.

He sits down on the bed beside me and leans in to gently caress my cheek.

“Calm down,” he says. “It’s just me.”

“Is he gone?”

“Like he never existed in the first place.”

I frown, nodding, but something about this still doesn’t feel right. I can’t get