Choke on that, douchebag.

His response is nearly instantaneous.

Unknown

Good girl. Now get some rest. You’ll need it for what comes next.

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2

The next morning, I’m filled with all kinds of regret, mostly for the sheer amount of alcohol I imbibed. The memories sit in my sour stomach and my pounding head. And the texts on my phone.

I scroll through them again, alone in my bed, Luke’s side long since gone cold. I’m not even sure when he left. He said he had an early day, and now that I’m sober, I’m nearly certain he didn’t give me the details. Oh well. We’re ships passing in the night, always. The more pressing issue is the fact that I have acquired a stalker.

I read through the texts a third time. There’s no clue, no hint to his identity. And I sent him a picture of my breasts. Brilliant. I delete the text thread with a curse. I could go to my fathers with this. Or, if not them, my mother. They would fix this little problem inside of twenty-four hours.

But then I would have to admit what I’ve done. I’m not ready to do that.

If I get a little thrill from the threat this stranger poses . . . Well, I’m in a free fall. What’s another weight added to my legs?

I haul myself out of bed and get ready. A hangover has never been enough to make me late for work before, and it won’t be today either. I drive onto the Belmonte estate with minutes to spare. Mother has been petitioning for the family to move to a proper office for years, but Aunt Cordelia insists on tradition. The house is easier to defend, the large property ringed with heavy fences and armed guards. It doesn’t matter that neither have been necessary for as long as I’ve been alive. There was a time when they were necessary, and that’s enough for my aunt.

I let myself in through the front door and walk down the wide entrance hall to the east wing, where the offices are kept. Mine is right next to my aunt’s. She pokes her head into my office and waves. Aunt Cordelia is a fierce woman, and she only seems to get fiercer with age. She and my mother share the same coloring—dark hair, dark eyes, olive-toned skin that harkens back to our Italian ancestors.

She smiles. “There are some reports on your desk, Ruby. Could you have them back to me by end of day?”

“Of course.”

Her smile falls away. “Is everything okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine. I was out with Michelle last night.”

Cordelia’s smile goes a little tight. “And how is she?”

“Good.” I keep my voice bright. Michelle’s parents are the same age as mine and still in good health, but my aunt never forgets that Michelle is the heir to their territory. A change of power is always rife with potential challenges. If Carver City is to fall back into war, it will happen then.

It’s not something I like thinking about. So…I don’t. Instead, I do the books and pretend the family isn’t backing me into leadership, and they allow me some element of freedom. But someday Michelle and I will be dealing with each other not as friends but as leaders of our respective territories. I shudder at the thought and cover the motion up with a cough. “Well, I’ll get to work.”

“Sounds good.”

My phone pings as Cordelia steps back into the hall. I jump. “Goddamn it.”

It’s probably Michelle. Or maybe Luke. Except, when I flip over my phone, it’s a text from an unknown number. Again.

Unknown

I like you in red.

Unknown

Fitting.

I glare at my phone. I’m too hungover for this shit.

Fuck off.

The response is almost instantaneous.

Unknown

What did I tell you about using language like that?

Here, in the fortress that is my family household, I actually laugh.

Come and get me, then.

What is wrong with me? Last night I had the excuse of alcohol, but that’s not the case right now. “Enough of this.” I reach for the landline at my desk. I’ll call Da and let him handle this.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown

Can’t stay hidden and safe there forever. You’ll wander eventually.

I stare at my phone for a very long time. I know what the smart, normal response to this man would be. Allow my fathers to do what they do and take care of the threat.

But . . .

I tap my desk with a single finger. That feeling, the one that blossomed into existence over the course of the past few months and culminated in me going to that bar last night? It’s still there. Stronger, even. As if by giving in to it once, I’ve fed a beast inside me that slumbered previously.

It’s awake now. And there’s a fizzling in my veins, a thrill that makes me shift in my seat. This stalker is dangerous. Then again so am I.

If you come for me, you’re dead.

The day passes uneventfully. There’s a big deal in the works, the kind that happens once a decade, so everyone is wrapped up in the details. I already ran the numbers and compiled the reports, so my part in the process is done until Cordelia has signed on the dotted line.

My stalker has been silent for most of the day. That won’t last. I walk into my apartment and look around. The lights are all off, just like I left them. Luke must not be home yet. I glance at my phone. He’s late. But then, he’s been working late more and more often in recent weeks. The business trips have increased too: long weekends and sometimes entire weeks. Maybe he’s having an affair. I examine the thought from different angles. A year ago, the very possibility would have sent me into a spiral. Now I just feel . . . tired. We’re going through the motions, and we’re not even doing a good job of it.

I toss my purse onto the counter and shrug out of my jacket. It’s time.

It takes me a few minutes to stage the photo the way I want it. I take a few extra photos for good measure. Yeah, that will work. I look sexy as fuck with my red dress hiked around my thighs and falling off one shoulder. Not enough to expose me fully, but the promise of more is there. I send it to the unknown number and type.

You want to wash my mouth out with soap, fucker? Come get me.

That reckless feeling inside me gets stronger, strong enough to make my head spin. You’re calling his bluff. That’s it. I’m normally a better liar, even to myself. I shove up from the couch and stalk to the kitchen. There’s a safe hidden in the cabinet above the fridge. I have to drag a chair over to get to it. Da would yell at me something fierce if he knew; a weapon is only as good as your ability to use it, and if I were under attack, I’d get myself killed before I’d be able to reach the gun.

But when would I be under attack? My life is so devastatingly normal that it makes me want to scream sometimes.

I drag my finger over the pad, and the safe pops open. It’s second nature to pull the gun out, eject the magazine, and ensure the chamber is empty. Then I load it and test its weight in my hand.

It feels good.

I’m not a fool. I know the cost of war, that conflict in Carver City would mean being on opposite sides of a line from Michelle and the other families. I don’t actually want that. But I crave . . . more. I don’t even know what that more looks like.

I look at my phone again, but there’s no response. Trust a stalker to run away the moment his victim stops playing the scared little girl. If he wanted some to whimper and run to hide, he chose the wrong woman.