“And why didn’t you call us immediately?” they would ask.

“Sorry, officer. I was too busy diddling myself instead.”

Ugh. And also? I’d asked for this. I wasn’t victim-blaming myself; I had literally begged for it to happen. At one point, I’d even left a comment offering him money to break in and wait for me in the dark. How would that hold up in court? His defense could probably argue that all their client had done was take me at my word. I should ask the hospital’s lawyers about it. Technically, I was one of their clients as an employee. That meant they couldn’t tell all my coworkers about the freaky shit I was into outside of work, right? Client privilege and all that?

I got up and cleaned myself off. I was soaked. Wetter than I’d been in a long time. Regular sex was fine, cathartic even, but at this point, it’d become less exciting than it used to be and more about stress relief and the need for physical intimacy with another person – a reminder that people could give each other pleasure instead of pain.

My job was truly starting to impact my life. I’d known it was a possibility going in. School had tried to prepare me. Back when I’d first entered the career field, my on-the-job trainer and other co-workers had told me how much of a toll trauma nursing could take on someone, detailing the sky-high divorce rates at the hospital, PTSD diagnoses, and addiction issues, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been too naïve and headstrong. No one had been there when my mom needed it, and I couldn’t let what happened to her happen to anyone else if there was something I could do about it.

Now, I was starting to become numb. I’d seen so much shit that my faith in humanity was at rock bottom, and I’d lost contact with everyone but my nursing and other first responder friends because no one else understood what I faced day in and day out. Even sex had lost its thrill. Or at least, vanilla sex had. What I had just done proved that I needed something spicier to get me off. Something darker with a sharp edge of danger.

A soft meow pulled me from my thoughts. Right. I’d locked Fred in the bathroom. It made me feel like a bad parent after the night he’d had. He’d probably hidden under my bed and only came out when I got home. He didn’t like or trust most people, especially men (who could blame him?), and he’d run from or hissed at every guy I’d ever invited over. A stranger being in his space when I wasn’t even here must have scared him shitless.

I got changed into pajamas and then let Fred out. He zoomed into my room and went straight to the door. Poor guy probably had to pee.

My nerves returning, I scooped my gun off the dresser and carefully slid the chair from beneath the knob, half afraid that someone was waiting to bust inside. I flicked open the lock and then cracked the door, gun aimed. No one stood in the short hall separating the bedrooms – thank god – and I’d left so many lights on that I didn’t see anyone anywhere else when I craned my head around the corner and looked into my open-concept living area.

Still, my paranoia had reached an all-time high, and while Fred raced toward his litter box, I cleared my house for the second time. A chime had me turning back toward my bedroom when I was done. I’d left my phone in there. Had completely forgotten to respond to the video the Faceless Man sent me.

A blush stole up my cheeks. If only he knew the reason why. He’d probably be even more convinced that I approved of what he’d done and was hopeful for a repeat, preferably while I was home.

I scooped my phone off the dresser and froze. Was I hopeful for a repeat? I shook my head. No. Absolutely not. That would be crazy, right? But there was no denying the heat blooming in my core or how my heart tripped in response to the thought.

My phone chimed again, and I glanced down at it. I saw two new social media notifications. The Faceless Man had sent me more messages.

My fingers shook as I unlocked the screen. What had he said? Did he send another video? And why was I so desperate to find out when I should be blocking and reporting his ass?

It wasn’t another video. Just two simple, heart-stopping messages.

Sleep tight.

Alyssa.

I blinked. Not Aly. Alyssa. My full name. That I hadn’t used in my profile, comments, or anywhere else on this goddamn app. I wasn’t even surprised. He’d broken into my house, so he must have learned my full name, and god only knew how much else about me before he came here. Still, having him type it out felt even more intrusive for some reason, and not in an entirely bad way, either.

What the hell did I say back to him? Thank you? Go fuck yourself, you creep? Try something like this again, and I’ll shoot you? Get your ass back here right now, you monster, you can’t leave me this turned on?

It felt like my brain was splitting in half. On the one hand, this was the hottest thing that had ever happened to me. On the other, it was also the most fucked up.

This truly was the horror movie I would die in, wasn’t it?

Somehow, despite how horny and afraid I’d been, I managed to fall asleep. I’d barricaded myself in my room with Fred, moving his litter box into my bathroom and his food and water bowl by my dresser. I also fell asleep clutching a baseball bat, my gun within easy reach.

I was convinced I’d have nightmares, or worse, sex dreams, but I’d slept like the dead for a solid ten hours, waking only when Fred got bored with his imprisonment and started running laps around my bed.

Now, I sat at my small dining table, clutching a huge mug of coffee while my mind worked on overdrive. Part of me couldn’t believe what had happened. The Faceless Man broke into my house last night. Even thinking it felt surreal. Like I’d detached from reality and resided in a dark matrix glitch of my own making.

He could have hidden in here and murdered me the second I walked through the door, but he didn’t. I was still whole and hale, if more than a little rattled, and that had to mean something, didn’t it? That he didn’t want to kill me?

Don’t be a dumbass, I told myself.

Right. For all I knew, this was foreplay to him. He could be like a cat toying with its prey, relishing the chase, watching mercilessly while I flailed around, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. He might really be a killer and did this with all his victims. Lured them to him online, flirted, broke into their houses, maybe even fucked them a few times without hurting them. I could see it now, how easily someone could fall for that trap, dropping their guard only for him to serial murder them in some spectacularly messy way.

Well, I’d be his next victim over my dead – whoops, wrong phrase for right now. I wouldn’t be his next victim. Later today, I’d add the gun store to my long list of errands. They sold more than weapons. In addition to personal defense items, they carried home defense supplies. I’d get cameras. An alarm. That motherfucker wouldn’t be getting back in here without one hell of a fight.

I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the fact that despite my newfound resolve, I was still turned on and had been since last night, my panties damp and my nipples shooting little shivers of pleasure through me every time they brushed against the inside of my sweatshirt.

Stupid kink making me lust after a man who probably wanted to carve my skin off and make himself a pair of gloves out of it.

I grimaced at that image and took another sip of coffee. This whole situation was beyond frustrating. Did he want to hurt me, or didn’t he? And why had he chosen me, out of all the people in his comment sections, to single out? Did he live somewhere nearby? Had I met him offline somehow? Bumped into him in my favorite coffee shop or lifted weights next to him at the gym?