Unhinged (Deranged and Obsessed #1)

Chapter 7

7

ISLA

Several days later

A lthough days had passed since I’d found the bloodied fingers, I didn’t even try to not think about it. I let it consume me during every waking moment. I couldn't help but let it take over my mind.

My new serving position had kept me busy these last few days, and so I’d thrown myself into my job. It wasn’t rocket science what I was doing, but it was mentally and physically exhausting. By the time I got home, I crashed and didn’t wake up until hours later.

This diner was just like the last one I worked at. It had the same peeling linoleum, the same greasy smell that clung to not only the walls but also to my clothing and my hair. But I was thankful I had this work to keep my mind at least a little busy.

It was something to distract me from the uneasy feeling that lingered because I knew someone was coming into my home and leaving me savage things.

The last hour of my shift dragged on, but when I clocked out, tossed my grease-stained apron on the back counter, and left, all I wanted was a scalding-hot shower, a snack, my book, and then bed.

The night air was cool, and the dim streetlights cast long shadows across the empty road and grimy alleys. I headed home, keeping to the main sidewalks and passing a couple of regulars on this block, drunkards, and a few drug addicts tucked away in the shadows.

I’d only been walking for five minutes before I felt it. That familiar presence I'd sensed days ago when I’d been followed and then confronted the stranger.

I didn’t know who he was, but I was smart enough to connect the dots and understand whoever he was…he’d been the one to leave the fingers in my room. And it was after the body part showing up that I paid a locksmith to add a chain lock to my front door.

His presence was visceral and tangible. It was a shift in the air that sent a prickle down my spine. I wasn’t going to be surprised this time.

I came prepared.

I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing over the cool handle of the small pocketknife I brought with me. Although slight, the weight of it was a comforting reminder I wouldn’t be a victim.

I kept my pace steady and even, then turned into a narrow alley but walked deeper into the darkness so I was swallowed by the shadows. I pressed myself against the rough brick wall and waited. My heart was beating fast but not with fear.

No. This was something else.

This was anticipation.

I thought I’d hear footsteps coming closer, picking up speed to catch up with me. But I heard nothing.

I waited, holding my breath, and then I saw his shadow before hearing the soft sound of his boots connecting with the pavement.

He was big but stealthy, like the true predator he was.

And then I saw him—a dark figure moving just past the alley before he turned and headed into the shadows with me .

This time, I wasn’t the prey.

I held my breath the closer he came and forced myself to be calm while I kept my back pressed tight to the brick. If he didn’t sense me yet, I knew without a doubt he would in a matter of seconds. I had to act fast.

“I want you to stop fucking following me,” I said, my voice steady, the knife small enough that I kept its presence hidden in my hand.

There was no surprise from him just this stoic, apathetic expression that poured out of him like an ink stain creeping toward me. He just stared at me, and when he stepped forward, the very dim, sickly yellow light of the streetlights filtered over his face.

I recognized him instantly. I’d seen him at the diner—my old place of employment and the new one. He was there nightly, never speaking, just watching silently.

And then a slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. “You plan on opening me up with that pocketknife?”

My heart did beat faster then, but again, it wasn’t from fear.

“I’ll give you credit. You’ve got balls confronting me in the middle of a darkened, empty alleyway,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’m impressed. ”

I gritted my teeth and held the knife up between us. “I want you to stop following me,” I repeated. “Stop fucking coming to where I work. I don’t know what you want, but I don’t fucking care.”

He took a step closer, unbothered by the threat in my voice. “Come on, Isla.”

I didn’t react to him using my name even though inside it felt as luxurious as melted butter on lobster.

“I don’t think you want that. Not really.” His eyes glinted with something wicked and amused. “Did you like the gift I left you?”

I clenched my jaw. I refused to have this weird, macabre conversation with him.

“I thought you’d appreciate my version of flowers. I wanted to give you the severed fingers of the man who touched you without permission,” he said nonchalantly, tilting his head slightly.

My stomach turned because I knew he’d been in my apartment, more than likely more than once. He’d taken the fingers of a human being who slapped my ass at the diner. Although I didn't give a shit that motherfucker was missing body parts—no doubt dead—it was creepy and disturbing that anyone would think that was an acceptable gift.

He’d been watching me, creeping into my personal space. My very life .

I clenched the knife tighter, proud that my hand wasn’t shaking. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want from me?”

He kept that smug smile on his face but said nothing. He just had this dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Roman.”

The way he said his name, it felt like it was a lewd comment, a jarring and sharp cut in my core. I refused to give him any satisfaction at acknowledging who he was.

Instead of saying a word, I moved before he could and swiped out at him, slashing the knife across his arm, cutting through the sleeve of his jacket and biting into his skin.

Although I knew it hurt him, Roman didn’t react. He looked down at the cut, his blood looking black and thick in the shadowy alley as it dripped onto the pavement. For a moment, I froze, staring at the inky trail.

But then he chuckled, low and dark, his gaze locked on mine. Slowly, deliberately, he swiped his fingers through the blood on his arm, and before I could react, he smeared it across his lips. He was on me a second later, pressing my back to the brick once more and slamming his lips on mine.

He shoved his tongue into my mouth and gripped both of my wrists in his hands, lifting them above my head and holding them painfully against the building. The knife fell from my grasp, and I felt the loss of my weapon like it was my only hope.

I gasped, recoiling as I tried to turn my head. But at the first swipe of his tongue against mine and the flavor of his blood in my mouth, something shifted and smoldered with welcomed heat. I didn't know what in the hell was happening, but I wasn’t fighting him any longer.

I was submitting to this monster.

He pulled back, and I was too stunned to do anything but stand there, shocked and dazed, watching him gather more blood on his fingers and smear it all over my cheeks, lips, and jaw.

Reality crashed into me, and I pushed him back with all my strength. Maybe he let me. Maybe I took him by surprise. Either way, I was already running in the other direction. All I could hear was my panting and my feet pounding against the pavement.

I didn’t stop to see if he followed. I was sure he would. Maybe I was too stupid because here I was heading inside my apartment and slamming the door behind me. I rested back against the door and closed my eyes, shaking my head even though I didn’t know what the fuck was going on .

I stumbled away from the door and turned to stare at it, expecting him to bust through the flimsy shield at any second. But when nothing happened, I exhaled again and moved toward the bathroom. My hand shook as I slid it across the wall and turned on the light switch.

I stared at my reflection, my eyes big and wild. I touched my face. His blood was there, smeared in gruesome streaks, staining the lower half of my face. My stomach twisted, a mix of horror and something darker I couldn’t name taking over. I should’ve scrubbed his blood off right away. I should have washed away the sick feeling of his coppery-flavored kiss from my lips.

Instead, I stood there staring at myself in the mirror, his blood partially dried on my lips, a vivid reminder of what he’d—we’d—done spiraling in my mind.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I ran my tongue over my lips, tasting the blood. It was bitter, metallic, and oh-so wrong.

But I didn’t stop until I licked myself clean.