A man eyes the both of us with a predatory and calculated gleam. He looks eerily similar to the man who has his hand wrapped around mine. Same strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, though this one appears younger and a tad more wicked.

The other three men are equally handsome, all sporting the same dark and dangerous type. One man appears European with white-blonde hair, fair, pale skin, and sharp angular features. His hooded icy blue eyes are locked on Daya as hers sweep across the small, intimate room. His gaze is already tracing the dips and curves of her body hungrily. My instincts spike again, telling me to pop the man’s eyes out of their sockets and throw them over the balcony.

The remaining two men are twins with tanned skin, dark hair and eyes and killer bodies. Their suits can barely contain the muscles threatening to rip the expensive fabric at the seams.

One twin has long hair tied back in a bun and several rings adorning his fingers, while the other has his hair cropped close to his head and a diamond nose ring.

All four of them could easily ruin my life. And I would be hesitant to stop them.

“So, you finally grew the balls and got her,” the blonde man says, grinning devilishly at me. He’s the only one out of the four that isn’t eye-fucking us. Honestly, he looks like he’d be far more interested in eating babies for dinner.

There’s a dark aura around him. If I could guess, the unsettling atmosphere up here derives directly from him. His energy sprouts and festers until it makes you feel like you’re trapped in a room breathing in black smoke.

“Quiet, Connor,” the man says from beside me, his tone low and full of warning.

I nearly roll my eyes. He looks like a Connor. The frat boy that hangs around unoccupied drinks and sneaks his phone under girls’ skirts to take pictures.

“Ladies, sorry for his rude behavior,” my new friend says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s my brother, Connor. The twins, Landon and Luke. And then Max.”

He points to each man respectively. Landon being the twin with the man bun, and Luke the one with a nose ring. I train my gaze on my companion with an expectant brow raised.

“And your name?”

“I’m Archibald Talaverra III. You can call me Arch.”

“Sounds pretentious,” I muse, smiling at the fact that he gave me his full name.

Who actually introduces themselves to a stranger that way? Archibald Talaverra, the third. Just call me your Royal Highn-ass.

His brother, Connor, laughs in response, seeming to agree.

Arch opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m Addie. And this is Daya,” I introduce, pointing towards my best friend. She offers a smile, but her stare is sharp and assessing. She’s too keen and intelligent to get sucked into danger like I tend to do.

“Nice to meet you, ladies,” Max murmurs, his attention still glued to Daya. Matter of fact, the twins have hardly looked away from her since the moment she walked into the room, either.

Every bit of me wants to step in front of her and protect her from the prying, feral eyes. But Daya can handle her own, so I stay beside her. Ready to attack if needed.

“Sit, please,” Arch urges. There’s plenty of room on the booth but the two of us decide to sit on the end, closest to Max.

My phone buzzes as soon as my ass hits the soft leather. Noticing that Daya has been immediately sucked into a conversation with Max, and Arch is filling up a glass of expensive bourbon, I sneak a peek at the text.

UNKNOWN: Sneaking off with random men, little mouse? If I catch his hands anywhere near you, they’ll end up in your mailbox by morning.

My heart stills in my chest. This is the first time he has actually communicated with me outside of an ominous note.

My eyes snap up towards the balcony. No one can see us from here. We’re too far back from the railing. But yet, someone is clearly watching me.

But how?

And how the hell did he get my number? Scratch that, that was a stupid question. He’s a fucking stalker, for god’s sake. Of course, he has my number.

Arch walks over and hands me a drink, a smile on his face. He thinks he’s getting laid tonight.

Normally, he might have. But it looks like I might have to save his life instead and get the hell away from him.

An hour passes, and I grow more nervous as each minute ticks by. I haven’t received another text, but it’s sitting there, weighing down the back of my brain. I fear my brain stem will snap from the tension.

Arch’s hands definitely touch me. One currently rests on my thigh, dangerously close to my center. I stare down at the star tattooed on his thumb, my mind conjuring images of holding it—without his body attached.

Yet, I let it happen, even though I shouldn’t. And because I shouldn’t, I can’t stop staring at them, imagining them chopped off at the wrist and bloody. Sitting in my mailbox.

I don’t even have a mailbox.

My house is too far back from the road, so my mail is just left on my front step.

Shouldn’t a stalker know that?

What a shitty little shadow.

“You having fun?” Arch asks, nudging me with his shoulders. I nod absently as I continue to abuse my lip trapped beneath my teeth.

I should run. I should tell this man to get his hand off of me if only it means it’ll never be severed from his body and left in my nonexistent mailbox.

“You’re tense,” Arch observes quietly. I clear my throat and open my mouth, but another buzz from my back pocket interrupts me.

I can feel the color leech from my face. Arch’s brows dip with concern, and it reminds me of the poor man that I nearly gave a heart attack by the cliff’s edge.

He glances down towards the sound. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice only seeming to quieten further.

I’m growing tired of the concerned looks, but yet, they feel like lifelines. Like there’s people out there that will notice my strange behavior and speak out if something ever happens to me.

A news reporter will interview Arch, and he’ll speak of how I seemed spooked by a text message. The construction worker who built my porch—his story will be broadcasted and talked about for weeks. A girl standing at the edge of a cliff, seeming to contemplate jumping and then nearly falling off.

It all connects to the fact that I had a stalker. And the police brushed it off when I made my reports of random roses. But it won’t change anything for the next girl that’s being stalked.

It never does.

In the end, I’ll be another statistic but will fade away as just that. A beautiful girl stalked by an unhinged man. And no one bothered to help her until it was too late.

“I’m fine,” I force out through a stilted smile. It feels wooden and disingenuous, but it does the trick nonetheless. His face relaxes, and the concern bleeds away.

Or rather, Arch is just letting it go because he doesn’t actually care.

“Do you want to leave?” he murmurs, his voice now full of promise and intent. His bottom lip disappears between his white teeth, the act in itself primal.

The word no is on the tip of my tongue, like a little ballerina dancing precariously at the tip, dangerously close to falling off and breaking her ankle. Because if I say no to this man, I’ll spend the rest of my night—week—possibly longer, regretting it.

Hating myself for letting a freak control my life and rob me of a good time with a delicious man.

He’s beautiful, with a shade of darkness surrounding him that’s as enticing and mouth-watering as chocolate cake. There’s a promise that I would be ending the night with him entirely satisfied.

And what if it evolves into more? What if I’m saying no to something beautiful? Those are a little girl’s hopes and dreams, but I can’t help thinking them anyways.