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𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑗𝑜𝑏. 𝐴 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠, 𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠. 𝐻𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝐼’𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑔𝑢𝑦, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦.
𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝐵𝑖𝑟𝑑, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑑𝑜. 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼’𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢?
𝑊𝑒’𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑒.
𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝐼’𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢.
𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑊𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟. 𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑑𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑛𝑜𝑛-𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑠𝑚 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑙, 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦, 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑒, 𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.
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“Hello?” I call out.
No answer. Which, why would they talk and make themselves known?
If someone’s even here.
No, someone is definitely here. With their arrival, they’ve changed the air. Electrified it with their presence, and my house was warning me the entire time.
Since I despise morning wake-ups by the sun, I invested in blackout curtains, and now, having them shut means not even the moonlight shines in, giving me zero light. I’m blind in the darkness, requiring me to switch on a light.
This could be to my benefit since he won’t see me reaching for my lamp.
I inch to the right, stretching my arm out for the hanging string, hoping I don’t swing it to hit against the lamp post. When my fingers make purchase and tug on the chain, I huff in relief.
Nothing happens. No light basks the room.
What the fuck?
I tug again, this time rougher.
“Little Bird, that was cute.”
Oh my God.
My body dies, freezes, stops working—all of the above. It’s the only explanation for the voice in my room. I’m dead, and it’s all in my head. But then warm breath coasts along my bare neck, reminding me that I’m in panties and a tank, no bra, and completely exposed to whoever this creep is.
None of this is in my head. There’s someone actually here. I straighten from my attempt to switch on the lamp, feeling the smooth chill of leather, I think, brushing my arms.
“The lamp. I unplugged it.”
“Wh-what do you want?” I’m thankful he’s—the voice is way too deep to be a female’s—behind me and can’t see the blatant fear from my expression. The way my eyes shut tightly and re-open, praying he’ll be gone by the time they open. Or the way my throat moves painfully over the large lump lodged in there. Or even how my hands curl at my sides.
“What do I want?” Amusement coats his words.
“That’s what I asked.” I bite my tongue, hoping he doesn’t take my comment as rude. My appreciation for crime shows and documentaries suddenly becomes extremely useful.
Lesson one: Never piss off the bad guy. It doesn’t end well.
“I’m here for you, of course.” His breath ghosts over the back of my neck, followed by his touch. His finger strokes the skin there, lifting my hair out of its way, and coming around to my neck bone. I twist my head, aiming to look at him, but he steps behind me once again.
He’s not wearing a face covering, or else he’d wouldn’t be scared to stand in front of me, knowing my eyes will eventually be able to see through the darkness, allowing me the ability to pick apart his features. I scroll through anyone I know, specifically recalling any male staff I’ve heard at Alex’s house, but no one’s voice sounds like this one. It reminds me of that chocolate syrup for ice cream, the one that hardens nearly instantly. Rough and hard but velvety and smooth beneath the surface.
“After all, I never introduced myself.”
“You wrote the message,” I deduce, the words coming out strained. Who else would happen to write me a creepy note and then also enter my room in the middle of the night? I’d have to have really shitty luck for that to have been two different people.
“I did.” He chuckles, and it’s pleasant. Not like a serial killer’s laugh. I want to allow it to ease me, but logic has me continuing to play with the edges of my shirt as anxiety works its way through my body.
“Are you here to hurt me?”
Oh, God. No please. I roll my lips together, forcing air through my quivering body. “On?”
“On how well you behave, Little Bird.”
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Read The First Chapter HERE!
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M.L. Philpitt is Canadian-born and raised, and enjoys representing Canada within her novels. As a Ravenclaw, she loves education, having undergraduate degrees in English Literature and Sociology, a certificate in Autism and Behavioural Sciences, and a MA in Counselling Psychology.
She writes in various romance new adult genres including paranormal, fantasy, dark romance, and contemporary. She has lots of crazy trapped in her head for readers to enjoy.
When M.L. Philpitt isn’t making up stories, she’s devouring those imagined by other authors. Her love of reading began when she was a young child and only grew with age. She enjoys many genres, as reflected in her writing preferences.
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