I know it’s crazy, but my stalker somehow makes me feel desired.
He’s a murderer. Obviously unhinged.
But the way he played my body?
His ability to make me feel truly seen, unlike anyone before?
I want more.
It’s been almost a week sincethatvisit.
Since then, he hasn’t woken me up again. Yet, I’m aware of his continued presence. I always wake up to a clean flat. He keeps my fridge stocked up when supplies are low. He continues to give me books to read, even therapy books I haven’t gotten around to yet. He might be hinting that I should seek help, orperhaps he’s just aware of my love for it; I’m uncertain.
I didn’t reply to his text, and he hasn’t texted again. I miss chatting with him a little.
Exiting my office, I instantly make eye contact with Eli.
The intensity of his stare is so powerful that it sends shivers racing up and down my spine, leaving me breathless and unsettled.
With the nonchalant confidence of a strikingly handsome man who is completely comfortable in his own skin, he smoothly and deliberately rises from his seat and saunters across the room.
“Doctor Morgan.” He dips his head with his usual greeting as he follows me to take a seat on the sofa.
“Eli,” I return, cooly. I need to remain professional with him. Detached. I shouldn't have indulged in lunch with him the other day. And I shouldn't be giving into my traitorous fantasies when I'm alone.
He's a patient. That's all.
“I was hoping that you would be willing to engage in a more thorough conversation about your father, as I believe that doing so could be instrumental in helping us understand the root causes of your behavioural patterns.”
Although his jaw muscles visibly tighten, a clear sign of his inner tension, he still nods his head in agreement. “Alright, let's discuss him.”
“You have stated that he disinherited you. Have you communicated with him since your seventeenth birthday?”
“No.”
"Are you interested in doing so?"”
“Impossible, he's dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I avert my eyes. “How did he die?”
Eli waves his hand. "Don't be. He was a dick.” Something passes over his eyes—an emotion I can’t name. “Died in his sleep five years ago.”
Then he grins at me.
“What makes you think my father caused my obsession?" he asks, his eyes narrowed in study, a slight frown furrowing his brow.
"It's not my role to offer definitive answers; this discussion isabout exploring possibilities."
“But if you were to hazard a guess, what would you say?” he prods.
“That would be unprofessional of me.”
“I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
He throws his arm over the couch, and it kind of reminds me of my stalker with how he's sitting.
With a frustrated sigh, I shake my head at him.