The Admirer Who Fought — Off My Stalker Was An Even Worse Hot

That kiss was a mistake. It was an invitation I didn't know I had issued.

He stepped closer, invading my personal space with a chillingly familiar ease. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray, wet lock of hair from my forehead. His touch was electric, but his gaze was suffocating.

The first man had been an erratic, terrifying nuisance. This man was an obsession incarnate. He was intelligent, wealthy, devastatingly handsome, and completely unhinged. He hadn't intervened out of morality; he had eliminated the competition. the admirer who fought off my stalker was an even worse hot

For six months, the man in the grey hoodie was the background noise of my nightmares. He knew my coffee order, the exact time my shift ended at the library, and the fact that the lock on my apartment’s back window was broken. The police called it a "civil matter" until there was physical proof.

"Going somewhere?" the man rasped, his hand reaching for my shoulder. That kiss was a mistake

We want to believe that the man who saves you cannot possibly be the next monster. We want to believe that the exit from one nightmare is an entrance into a sanctuary. But life, unlike the movies, has a sick sense of irony. Sometimes, the knight who slays the dragon doesn’t take you to a castle. He takes you to a deeper, darker dungeon—and he looks devastatingly beautiful doing it.

The admirer who fought off my stalker was an even worse hot because he weaponized my relief. He traded on the debt I thought I owed him. And by the time I realized the debt was a cage, I was already inside it. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray,

I never asked Elias what he’d done. I was afraid of the answer.