You, Me, and the Stalker

by Elle Luckett

  Mark studied my face a while longer. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Lying about wearing clothes?”

  My instinct had kept certain parts of my body covered, and as sex hadn't been on the menu for a while, no one questioned it, unless I was at the pool. It was easy to hide. I could even wear revealing clothes and manage to hide it, but this… this was unavoidable.

  Taking what little breath I could manage, I prepared myself. I'd just trusted this man in a way I hadn't been sure I ever could. I could bare this part of myself to him. Rolling to my back, I lifted my shirt up over my breasts and waited.

  The moment of pleasure died as the chilled air hit my skin, and the ghosts from my past returned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I winced as Mark moved over me. My mind sliding quickly into every memory belonging to every scar he was studying. Some were faint. Some were hideous. All of them left marks so much deeper than just on my flesh.

  “Easy, Zara.”

  At the sound of Mark’s voice wrapping around my name, I came back to myself, feeling the undeniable tremble of my bottom lip as emotions overwhelmed me. In an attempt to draw in a deeper breath and stop the tears before they fell, the heels of my hands found my eyes and dug in as a sob escaped without my permission.

  “Why are you crying?” Mark asked, his voice as gentle as he could manage.

  “Embarrassment,” I mumbled, dropping my hands to push my shirt down. Mark’s hands stopped me before I could move the material an inch, and I cracked an eye open to look at him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking.”

  I pushed at the material again, but Mark was faster, capturing my wrists and easing them over my head. His other hand pushed my shirt up farther. His eyes were the color of metal, tinged with something I didn’t know him well enough to read. My breaths stuttered in my chest, helplessness rushing through me as the feeling of being trapped slammed into my throat.

  “Zara, what are your safe words?”

  The reminder helped but didn’t dampen the shame of having my scars on parade. Cigarette burns, thick rope burn scars, an E and L carved in under my left breast were all on display, as well as a couple of scars from the surgeries I’d had. Elijah knew where to wound me. He always had. Right where no one would see—where I was never bold enough to display.

  “Red and yellow,” I finally stuttered out, feeling my thick throat loosen even more.

  This was Mark.

  Mark, who never had, and I believed, would never hurt me.

  I was safe.

  He was safe.

  “Good girl. Will you keep your hands above your head and linked together for me?”

  “Okay,” I agreed, not understanding why.

  I linked my hands together when he released me, my body easing back into the mattress while a blanket of shame settled around me like an old friend, the tears now falling freely. Mark was studying every mark on my skin.

  “Why are you embarrassed?” he asked, one of his fingers hovering over a cigarette burn that sat on the seam between breast and rib.

  “Because every one of these is a symbol of how weak I was. I let that bastard do this to me over and over again, and I made excuses for him. I... he... it took him almost killing me to leave.”

  I shuddered as Mark’s thumb brushed the wound on my thigh. One I was only now realizing he’d avoided every time he’d touched me. One I’d avoided when I’d touched myself. Taking a deep breath, I was able to swallow back the tears, the fog clearing enough to raise my head and watch his eyes pass over my skin again.

  “What’s this?” he asked, taking my cooperation as a silent agreement to go on. He was circling his finger around the burn again.

  “Cigarette burn.”

  “How?”

  It took me a moment to answer. Between the memory and sense of shame, I needed to find the words to explain.

  “After we had sex one night, we were talking and being playful. I said something he didn’t like, and the bastard put his cigarette out on me. Then when I tried to fight him off, he punched me in the stomach.”

  Mark’s only reaction was a tick in his jaw.

  “This?”

  He traced the E and L lightly.

  “He tried to carve his name into me after he came to pick me up from work and found me talking to a male coworker.”

  The jaw tick became more pronounced, the flesh over bone losing color as it tensed. The more upset Mark became, the calmer I was, which was ridiculous considering how the scars he was studying came about. Maybe it was the knowledge he wouldn’t hurt me that kept that anxiety at bay. Or perhaps it was the fact that his reaction justified my hatred of the man who had caused them.

  “This one?”

  “Rope burn.”

  “How the fuck…?” Mark paused and shook his head. “Please, explain it to me.”

  “He got drunk with his friends one night. I was asleep and had no idea that he’d brought people home with him. I walked out when I heard a noise. I was wearing a tank top and shorts. He told them to get the fuck out and accused me of doing it on purpose. When I wouldn’t admit to it, he tied me to the bed, tightening the ropes little by little until I admitted what I’d done.”

  Mark’s head dropped, his forehead resting in the cradle between my ribs. For a moment, I froze, then my hands dropped from the pillow above me and brushed over his short hair, holding him to me as my eyes slid closed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “For what?” he asked, lifting his head only enough to drop his chin in the same spot.

  “I don’t know anymore. Sorry that I lied. Sorry that this has affected you. Sorry that I didn’t warn you sooner. Sorry that I stayed there too long. Sorry that you have to see them.”

  “I’m not sorry, and neither should you be.” Mark pushed up to his elbows and covered my body with his, my legs naturally parting to accept him. His hands cradled my face, while mine trailed down his shoulders and over his muscular back. “This is in your past, and not one iota of it was your fault, Zara. Stop apologizing for shit that was out of your control. Looking back, I’m sure you can see a million opportunities you could have walked out that door, but hindsight is unclouded judgment. It’s sitting in a quiet moment of reflection where logic and reason are your only tools. None of that was present while you were living with him. You said it yourself; you never knew what would trigger him.”

  “Everything triggered him. My breathing triggered him,” I whispered.

  “Stop blaming yourself for this asshole’s sadistic nature.”

  “But…”

  “No, little bird,” he said, seeing my line of thought before it had a moment to form completely. “Most sadists in BDSM have willing partners who know what they’re getting into and choose that particular kink because they need it. They know that with one word, they can end it all. These dominants break women, yes, but they also want to put them back together when they’re done, they thrive on the fact that the masochistic subs they choose trust them to do that. What your ex does is take a woman and bend her to the shape he wants. He makes her feel isolated, alone, vulnerable, and utterly dependent on him. Then he makes it impossible for you to leave. When you’re at your most vulnerable, he blindsides you. He wants to break you, and he wants to do it so completely and utterly that you blame yourself, hate yourself, and you stay with him because you don’t think you deserve better. He’s not just a sadist. He’s a master manipulator.”

  “I know that’s supposed to make me feel better, but I just feel weaker,” I said, brushing my hand over the short strands of his hair. “I noticed my friends slipping away one by one. I walked away from my sister, the one person who was my unconditional best friend because she told me the truth.”

  “That’s all part of the conditioning. Again, you’re looking back in hindsight. You can’t tell me when you had that confrontation with Lane, you thought to yourself she was right.”

  I hadn
’t. Things with Elijah had been so good at that time that I couldn’t ever have imagined what he would turn into. It was only when the friendships had gone beyond the point of repair that I began to wonder what had happened to them. Even then, I hadn’t thought it had been something Elijah had done. He wanted to spend time with me. That’s what happened in relationships. Yet the mental block still told me it was my fault that I’d chosen Elijah again and again, even after he’d hit me the first time.

  Around and around my thoughts went until Mark’s words started to chip away at my rationality.

  “I need coffee.”

  “As long as you’re not running away from the conversation.”

  I took the initiative and leaned in to kiss Mark, my lips gentle against his as my short nails rubbed against his scalp. He kissed me back, all heat infused with calm and affection that I hadn’t felt from him before. The intimacy of it warmed me from the inside out. Knowing that my scars and memories hadn’t scared him away, and the little part of me that had been trying to hold back fell a little deeper for the man cradled between my legs.

  When he broke the kiss, my breaths were coming in pants, and my legs had twisted and linked behind him, holding him as close as I could without climbing into his skin.

  Pushing up on one elbow, Mark glanced down between us, his eyes on the scars again. A twinge of the shame inside of me grew, rushing through my bloodstream until it came up against the wall Mark had started to build inside my head and eased a little.

  One day at a time.

  I had to take this all one day at a time and search for the woman I had been so I could introduce her to the woman I was now. Mark was an excellent bandage for my self-doubt and hatred, but eventually, I wanted to hunt out that strength in myself. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone again, even if my heart had already attached itself.

  “Coffee,” I grunted, trying to shake off the lust burning my flesh and running through my veins. “You want some?”

  “Thank you. Coffee would be good. Can I use your toothbrush?”

  “Sure.” I pointed to my en suite. “Help yourself.”

  Mark smiled at me, glancing down between us and shaking his head slightly.

  “What?”

  “You have phenomenal tits.”

  I started to laugh and pushed him away from me playfully. He landed on his back, his arms behind his head as he watched me get up from the bed and slide the shirt down over them.

  “Let me see them again,” he said with a growl.

  “No.”

  “Zara.”

  I lifted my shirt again. Considering the discussion we’d just had, this felt entirely normal, even when Mark shook his head with an appreciative sigh.

  “I want to fuck you all over again.”

  I dropped my shirt, headed toward the door, and disappeared through it before he could distract me further.

  I went through the motions downstairs, throwing the coffee together in the percolator before I headed toward Lane’s rooms to see if she was home. I was hoping she wasn’t. Only because Mark and I hadn’t made any secret of what we’d been doing.

  I was on my way back out of her empty room when I noticed a small white envelope that looked as though it had been slid under the front door. I wasn’t sure what I thought as I swooped down to pick it up. Part of me believed that it was from Lane, and that maybe she’d walked in and right back out again after hearing the commotion from upstairs. That belief was why I didn’t bother looking at the front of the envelope, and I opened it while heading back to the kitchen.

  Only when I unfolded the cheap white paper and saw the ugly scrawl in pencil did my head catch up, and my heart explode into a gallop in my chest as the words came into focus.

  Did you forget you were mine? I heard you fucking him. I heard you calling his name from out here in the hall.

  You little fucking cunt.

  I’ll kill you both.

  You’re mine, Zara, and I’m coming for you.

  The note wasn’t signed.

  It didn’t need to be.

  I knew exactly who the author was, and he was in New Orleans.

  The only warning of what was coming next was the high-pitched ringing in my ears before the beautiful floor of Lane’s kitchen rose to meet me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Zara.” Mark's worried voice hovered somewhere above me, the rough hoarseness of it bringing me a zen kind of calm that felt wrong while my heart and head pounded in unison amid headache and panic attack.

  Words swirled in my head. The ugly scrawl of Elijah's penmanship reminding me where I was and why the surface below me was so damn hard.

  I was in the kitchen.

  “There you are.” Mark sounded relieved. His warm hands were supporting my neck, the heels of his hands cradling my jaw. I could feel his breath over my face and knew he was close, but not even that sight could coax me from the safety of the darkness I held.

  If I opened my eyes, it would be real. I would have to deal with the reality of what the note meant.

  I could lose everything I'd built here these past weeks. I would have to let Mark go.

  All because Elijah knew where I was.

  “Open your eyes for me.”

  “I can't.” My voice was cracked and broken.

  “Why?”

  “I don't want this to be real.”

  “You don't want what to be real?”

  I flexed my fingers, but there was no sign of the note. The realization made my eyes flutter open. “Th… the note.”

  “What note?”

  I blinked at the fuzziness that danced over my vision and ignored the sore spot where I was sure my head bounced off the floor. I searched for a sign of the note I'd picked up. I spotted the envelope first, noticing Elijah had used the stationary from the building's business center. The thought that he'd been inside and had such free access was sobering in its own right. Not that his access mattered now. My eyes scanned the floor of the big open room before finally finding the folded note under one of the island stools, the creases in the paper from where I'd gripped it too tightly, making it curl.

  “That note,” I stuttered out, nodding in the direction, one hand making its way to the egg on my skull.

  Mark helped me lean against a cabinet before he moved away to pick up the paper. My eyes followed him through my fuzzy vision as his scanned the lines on the page. No matter how bad my sight was, there was no missing the anger that slowly spread over his features, changing him from a sex god to a fearsome warrior. Deep inside, there was a part of me that cringed at this, believing that I would be the target of this wrath. The more logical part of me—the one that was thankfully louder—knew the words on that paper were what pissed him off so much.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “It had been pushed under the door. I thought Lane must have done it. You know, walked in, heard us at it, and walked out again.”

  “Sonofabitch.” It was one word as it left his mouth. “Where's your phone?”

  “Upstairs, I think.” I'd lost track of where anything was the moment we'd stepped inside and he'd pulled me into his arms last night.

  “Mine, too. Stay here. I'm going to grab them and I'll be right back.”

  Mark was gone before I could agree, and I spent the brief time alone to pull myself together and examine the damage around the considerable lump tucked beneath the strands of my hair. I winced as I pressed it experimentally.

  Mark rushed down the stairs, pausing at my slight grumble.

  “Where are the towels?”

  “Why?”

  “Ice.”

  I pointed to the drawer by the oven, and he needed no more direction than that. I watched him move around the kitchen, nodding at his apologetic smile as the refrigerators ice machine filled the space with its usual grinding sounds, making my back teeth smash together, while the pain in my head soared. Without having to say a word, Mark found everything else he needed before heading back to
me.

  When I had ice on my lump, and a couple of headache meds washed down with water, he settled in front of me again, handing me my phone. “Call Lane, tell her not to come back here for a while. If she doesn't have anywhere else to stay, she's more than welcome at my place with you.”

  “Mark, I appreciate—”

  “If you're about to fill me with the I can't impose speech, save it.”

  I couldn't think clearly enough to argue with him. My head was throbbing, my body ached from the combination of sex and the fall, and my heart ached with the continued grip of fear holding it captive.

  “He's not going to touch you again.”

  I let my eyes slide closed as white spots flared in my vision.

  “I should take you to the hospital.”

  “Not necessary,” I mumbled, only to sigh and lean into his hand as he ran his palm along my jaw lightly.

  “Zara.”

  “I'm fine. It's just a bump.”

  “That could be a concussion.”

  I'd lived through worse but didn't say as much. “Just give me more ibuprofen in a couple of hours. I'll be fine.”

  “You're stubborn,” he growled, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “But you should know that I am, too.”

  I heard him typing something on his phone, the gentle click of his short nails on the screen a dead giveaway even with my eyes closed. I was too exhausted and sore to ask him what he was doing.

  “I'm going to carry you upstairs, and you're going to tell me what I need to pack for you. Then we're heading to my place for a few days. I know a couple of security guys that will keep an eye out for us until we find this asshole. You'll be safe there.”

  I didn't have the energy to argue with him. Mark worked quickly, gathering all my things, calling the club for a car, and explaining what had happened to one of the Hayward brothers. I half-listened as I sat curled up on the bed, listening to Lane cuss about Elijah, and threatening to castrate him on several different occasions. She didn't seem to have a problem with Mark taking control, and like the big sister she was, told me to listen to him and stay safe. That she trusted Mark with me only seemed to concrete my confidence in the man.