“You were going to see him.” The words land behind me, calm and certain. I turn sharply.
“I wasn’t?—”
But it falters, because I don’t know that anymore. Because he says it like he’s already seen it happen.
“I saw you thinking about it.”
My chest tightens. I was never going to go to the prison, to confront him for sending the messages. He’s correct the thought did cross my mind, but just as quickly I’d shoved it away. I have a restraining order against him, which would be in violation if I did go, and replying would only have lured me into his web—just the way he intended.
And I didn’t bother blocking him, because I knew the messages would just start popping up from another account. He’s not the sharpest, but he’s resourceful as hell when he’s obsessed with something.
“That’s not?—”
His hand presses at my waist. Grounding. Stopping. Re-centering me without asking.
And my body responds again, fluttering at his touch. Electricity zips low in my body. Even now. Even with everything in front of me. I hate it.
An icy cold chill settles deep in my gut, realization dawning on me that the messages have stopped and what that mightmean. They were increasing in speed and intensity and threat level—and for the past few days, nothing.
“Soren, what did you do?” The question comes out quieter. Because I’m not asking if—I’m asking how far.
“I handled it.” Simple. Flat.
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“He won’t contact you again.” There’s something final about the way he says it. No hesitation or room for interpretation.
Something cold slides down my spine. My gaze flicks back to the screens, to the proof of something far bigger than I understood a second ago. This isn’t just interference. This is control. “Is he… dead?”
“He’s… incapacitated. No longer has access to a cell phone. Neither does his contact on the outside who was helping to get the messages to you when needed.”
“Contact on the outside?”
He nods. “Yeah, some girl. One of those mega-fans who falls in love with ‘bad boys’ in prison and will do anything they ask. Sending commissary all the time, believing his lies. He told her and at least six other women that he’d marry them when he got out. They all fell for it. Sending messages was just the latest thing to prove her love.”
I swallow. “Is she—is she alive?”
“For now,” he shrugs. “It really depends what she chooses to do from now on. If she tries to fuck with you again, game over.” He pauses. “I think she’s pretty clear on that, though.”
My chest rises too fast. This is pure insanity. Soren was out there—what—hurting everyone who hurt me, without me even knowing? He just wasn’t going to mention it?
I should leave. The thought hits clean and sharp. I should walk out. Put distance between me and this, before I get pulled any deeper.
This man is dangerous.
Then his hand shifts slightly at my waist, and my body reacts again. Quieter now. Deeper.
My breath slows. The panic dulls just enough.
And that’s worse than anything else in this room. Because I can see it clearly now. He isn’t normal. He isn’t safe. He has reach. Control. Access to things he shouldn’t.
As if proving my point, he places a long object on the desk in front of me without ceremony. A small roll of something—linen, maybe, or conservation paper, the kind used to protect things worth preserving. Tied with a thin piece of twine.
I look at it. Then at him. "What is this?"
"Something that arrived this morning." He's already moving past it, refilling his own cup. Like it's nothing. Like he's already bored of it.
I pick it up. It's lighter than I expect. I pull the twine loose and unroll it slowly, and then I go very still.