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For days after you'd received the package in the mail, you felt like you were walking on eggshells. You were terrified, unable to sleep or eat, waiting for him to arrive. You were on the brink, feeling like you were losing your mind. After everything that you'd been through, and all the years that had passed, you had been convinced that you were finally safe.
You had never been more wrong
There was a part of you that had always wondered what he would do if, not if, when, he finally found you. He'd told you that he wouldn't hurt you, and you knew you shouldn't trust his word, but for some reason, you couldn't shake the feeling that he had been telling the truth. He'd had the opportunity to kill you after he'd fucked you and you'd blacked out, but he hadn't taken it.
You were embarrassed to admit that you'd had dreams about your encounter, waking in the middle of the night, soaking wet and aching for him. It was sick and twisted, but you'd never felt that way before, you'd never been so thoroughly fucked and satisfied, and it left you wanting more.
But he was a killer, a murderer, and you were sure that he wasn't human. You'd spent many nights with your legs spread wide, your own fingers buried deep inside of you, working yourself towards an orgasm just as intense as the one he'd given to you, the results paling in comparison.
Six days after you'd received the mysterious package, you called off work again, your hands shaking as you pressed the phone to your ear, your health deteriorating from lack of rest and energy. You'd hung up and slumped to the kitchen, intent on making tea and taking a bath before you forced yourself to try and get some sleep.
You stopped dead in the kitchen doorway, your eyes falling on a package left on the counter, the red wrapping reminding you of the blood spilled down the front of the librarian's dress. You closed your eyes and saw her lifeless ones staring back at you once again as you let out a shuddering breath. When you opened them the box was still there, begging you to find out what he'd given you this time. You moved slowly, reaching out for it, fingers wrapping around it and lifting it off the countertop. You opened the paper cautiously, tearing it away and slipping the lid off the top of the box within.
The same neat handwriting adorned the note on top of the paperback book inside it, the black ink still fresh.
"A moment has not gone by that I haven't thought of your lips on mine, your heaving chest, the taste of you on my fingers. I've been craving you for so long, and I have wished for nothing more than to have you again. I know you've thought of me too, Princess, those late nights you've spent writhing on your bed full of desire, pretending your fingers were mine. You won't have to wait much longer."
Below that was a quote from Frankenstein, again.
"I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace."
Your breath caught in your throat, the truth of his words making you feel ashamed. You'd been so terrified of him when you'd discovered what he'd done, sick and disgusted. But you'd secretly kept some of the last words he'd spoken to you, a promise to see you again, close to your heart.
