STALKERS POV.
The night had a pulse. It beat with her name.
Every corridor, every staircase, every silent door in this place felt like a ribcage I had already learned to break through.
I moved through it without sound, because sound belongs to mortals.
And nothing about what I feel for her is mortal.
Her dorm door didn't even resist me tonight.
Poor thing—still thinks it can protect her.
As if anything in this world can keep me from what I hunger for.
Inside, her room was thick with that quiet warmth she leaves behind.
The faint scent of rain-soaked dark chocolate clung to the air.
A cardigan thrown carelessly on her chair.
Her notes spread open like she had tried to focus, pretending her skin hadn't been crawling with the knowledge of me.
She feels me.
Even when she acts like she doesn't.
She had gone into the bathroom.
Shower running.
Steam rising.
Water hitting tile in that steady rhythm that always slows my breathing.
I stepped closer.
Not hurried.
Not excited.
Savored.
She never locks the bathroom door when she's alone.
A tiny, foolish habit.
Or maybe she knows I come at my own choosing.
I opened it.
Steam curled around me like a living thing.
The room glowed gold where droplets clung to the mirror.
And she stood under the water, back turned, her spine a wet, delicate line I could trace in my sleep.
I didn't touch her.
Not yet.
I just watched.
Water slid down her neck.
Her shoulder.
Over the soft dip of her waist.
She sighed as if the world was heavy, unaware I was right behind her stealing every breath she exhaled.
My fingers twitched.
I wanted to touch.
I wanted to ruin.
I wanted to worship.
Tonight, I let myself do… just one thing. That same thing. Again. To see her reaction.
I leaned forward, close enough that my breath warmed the back of her shoulder.
She froze, just a fraction.
But this time it was not fear—something sweeter.
Awareness.
She didn't turn.
She didn't scream.
She didn't push the curtain aside to see the monster behind her.
She stood there and let me exist against her skin.
So I touched her.
Just one fingertip, trailing from the wet curve of her shoulder down to the sharp, perfect line of her spine.
Her inhale shattered.
My control almost did.
I bent lower and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck.
Soft.
Bare.
A whisper disguised as a sin.
She shivered.
Not from cold. I took it as sign my fingers trailed down mapping her curves like i was worshipping her then slowly, teasingly right where she needed me the most i tease grabbing her between her legs she was already dripping for me.
And my lips twitched into something dangerously close to smirk. She came undone for me.
I could have taken her whole right there.
She would have let me.
Her body betrayed that truth with every tremble.
But then the yelling of her friends from bedroom had me stoped.
So no—this won't be the moment I consume her.
She will have to wait. For me to ruin her.
And this- this is the moment I carve myself into her bones.
I stepped back before her fingers reached for me.
i licked her wetness from my fingers—something sweet. Before she could turn.
Before she could gift me that look she saves only for shadows.
I left the rose on the sink.
Black.
Velvet-soft.
Thorns sharpened just enough to draw a single drop of blood if she touched it carelessly.
And then the note.
Burned edges.
Handwriting only she would understand.
A sentence that would split her breath in half:
stay away from what is already mine.
I slipped out the window as she finally turned, curtain whispering against tile.
Her gasp echoed.
Low.
A little shaken.
A little thrilled.
I know the sound of her fear.
This wasn't it.
By the time she stepped out with a towel wrapped around her, I was already across the courtyard, watching her from the shadows as she approached the mirror to read the note again.
Her lips curled.
Not in terror.
In recognition.
She always knows when something is meant only for her.
Later—I saw them all together.
Trying so hard to fit puzzle pieces into a picture that has teeth.
They think they are hunting me.
Cute.
The girl trembled with performance so flawless even their worried eyes believed it.
She leaned in for protection she didn't need.
Lier.
we both are predators.
But only one of us is willing to bleed for the game.
I watched her.
Phone lighting up with the messages I sent.
Her jaw tightened. It took effort to hide to that smirk that hunger she had for me.
she thinks she hides it.
She doesn't.
She's unraveling.
Because I am not the only one who wants her.
She wants me too. Just as much.
Wants me in ways, she shouldn't.
Wants to protect me from someone who doesn't exist. Or maybe does. In herself
Wants to save mer from inner monster of her.
As if i needs saving.
As if i m not the blade she sharpened herself on.
they were her friends riya, kabir kids. I should've feel this but as they stepped closer to her.
She looked up at him with eyes that glittered like secrets pressed to her tongue.
He touched her wrist.
She didn't pull away.
My blood burned.
Jealousy?
No.
Something darker.
Something that has no name.
Let them play their childish investigation.
Let them trace numbers and decode threats.
Let them pretend this is about fear.
It will amuse me.
For now.
Because the moment is coming—the moment when their game cracks open and truth pours out like ink on a ruined page.
And when it does…
I will be standing right behind her.
Hand on her throat.
Mouth at her ear.
Claim carved into her skin.
Tonight was only a whisper.
Soon, she'll feel the whole sentence. Soon.
Night waits for me now.
It knows I'm coming.
It parts around my body like a loyal animal, shadows bending themselves into doorways just so I can slip through without sound.
They want to hunt me?
Cute.
Even adorable in a pathetic, trembling sort of way.
They read clues like children reading fairy tales, thinking the wolf leaves breadcrumbs instead of bite marks.
But their little investigation…
Their theories…
Their urgency…
It scratches something raw inside me.
Not fear.
I do not fear the prey.
It's irritation.
A slow, acidic heat that coils under my ribs each time they look at her with suspicion, as if she is fragile.
As if she needs them.
As if she doesn't already belong to me.
They gather together again tonight.
Lights on.
Phones out.
Voices lowered.
Discussing me.
Tracking me.
Chasing a ghost that sleeps in their shadows.
They don't realize I've already stood behind them three times.
Watched the pulse leap in their throats when a message arrived.
Watched her eyes flicker, not with fear… but with awareness.
She knows exactly who she belongs to.
She just enjoys pretending otherwise.
The meeting drags.
They compare handwriting.
SIM cards.
Time stamps.
Signal towers.
My laugh almost escapes me.
Almost.
When the last light goes dark and the final door clicks shut, the campus exhales into silence.
A silence I own.
I wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
Long enough for their self-righteous adrenaline to thin into sleepiness.
Then I move.
Her dorm building looks delicate under moonlight, all soft edges and frail outlines.
Another lie.
She lives in nothing fragile.
Her room is the easiest place in the world to enter.
The lock is a joke.
A toy.
A decoration.
I step inside and the world exhales her scent.
Warm.
Soft.
Sharp-edged beneath the sweetness.
She's asleep, curled slightly inward, breathing steady.
Pretending to be untouched by the danger tracing her footsteps.
But I know better.
She sleeps too still.
Too aware.
Her lashes twitch when I step closer.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I stand beside her bed and let my eyes drink her.
Her hair spills over the pillow like ink.
Her lips are parted, a whisper of breath catching in the space between inhale and surrender.
Her pulse beats against her neck, steady but too fast for deep sleep.
She feels me here.
She always does.
I reach out—slow, controlled, the movement of a man who has spent years learning when to restrain and when to ruin.
My fingers hover above her pulse.
Close enough to taste the heat.
Close enough to feel the faint flutter like a secret begging to be confessed.
I don't touch.
Not yet.
I let her feel the absence.
Her breath catches.
Good.
Then, with deliberate calm, I slide my hand to her throat.
Not tight.
Not cruel.
Just enough pressure to remind her who she's pretending she does not see.
Her pulse jumps.
Her body tenses.
Then softens.
She doesn't wake.
Or maybe she does.
Maybe she's awake under her skin, pretending the same way she pretends to fear the roses, the notes, the footsteps behind her.
I lower myself until my lips are a breath away from her ear.
"Stop pretending," I whisper, voice a blade dipped in silk.
"Stop hunting me."
My thumb strokes her throat, a slow, claiming drag.
"You already know," I murmur against her skin, "you're not the prey here. And neither am I."
Her breath trembles.
Her fingers curl slightly, just enough to betray that she hears every word.
I smirk then crash my lips on hers. Not soft. Never soft. Bruising. Claiming. it was her punishment.
Punishment for pretending. For letting another man touch whats mine.
I bite her lip hard enough to bleed.
I could drag her under.
I could ruin the distance she keeps like a fragile boundary.
Instead, I let go.
Just to watch how she reacts.
Her body gives the faintest shiver.
Reflexive.
Instinctive.
A confession she will never speak aloud.
I place the rose on her bed beside her hand.
Black.
Thorns kissed with a single bead of my blood from earlier.
A reminder: I am everywhere she bleeds too.
Next: the note.
Burned edges curling like a smile.
Placement perfect—between her pillow and cheek, where she'll feel it before she sees it.
mine.
Nothing else.
Some truths don't need embellishment.
As I turn, the small camera in the corner blinks.
A soft red glow.
Her little secret.
The one she thinks I haven't noticed.
She records herself sleeping now—
to feel watched
even when she pretends she isn't.
I let the corner of my mouth tilt.
She has always liked being observed.
Even before she knew she wasn't alone.
I step closer to the camera.
Its red light flickers.
Maybe out of fear.
Maybe out of excitement.
I lower my head and whisper directly into its gaze:
"Good night."
A farewell meant for her, not the lens.
Then I slip out the window again, the night pulling me into its ribs like I belong there.
Because I do.
Tomorrow they will gather again.
They will whisper about clues, theories, suspects.
They will play detectives in a game already stacked against them.
And she…
She will touch her throat where my fingers rested.
Her lips where i left my mark tonight for the first time.
She will cradle the rose.
She will read the note.
She will feel me.
Everywhere.
The hunt continues.
But I am not what's being hunted.
I am the one waiting in the dark,
hands steady,
breath calm,
claim already spoken.
And soon…
she'll speak it back.