My Pulse

Chapter 3: Quinn Keane

My eyes flew open. "Holy fucking shit," I whisper to myself, jolted by the vivid image of green eyes staring at me with an intensity that twists my insides. I blink, grounding myself in the reality of my room. It was just a bad dream—a nightmare.

But deep down, I wonder: was it something I wanted to come true? The thought passes quickly, and I shut it down even faster. That couldn't be. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling, trying to regain my composure.

Closing my eyes does no good—his eyes are all I see.

That snake.

Ugh. I throw the covers off and head to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, I bite my lip, frustration and confusion clouding my thoughts. So, I've finally met my stalker, and it's... exhilarating. A complete rush, even though it terrifies me. Who is he? What does he want? And why the hell did he call me a princess? That's the most infuriating part of it all. I'm no damn princess.

Who does he think he is to insinuate that? He doesn't know me, and he never will.

"Good girls obey, sweetheart," he had said, and what did I do?

I crumbled. Instantly.

I look down at my reflection in disgust. Oh, fuck him. This isn't the end of that fight. The knot growing in my stomach tells me it's only the beginning.

That dream, though—it was undeniably hot. Even now, awake, I feel a wave of leftover energy, lingering and electric. My stalker is stupidly, ridiculously hot.

The thought alone reignites tingles that I desperately want to suppress. If someone had told me years ago that I'd feel this way about someone so dangerous, I would've laughed.

But here I am. I've always been a smart, strong woman—independent and capable, never one to play the damsel in distress. There's no knight in shining armor in my story. I've always saved myself.

Except my self-preservation crumbles to pieces at his feet with two simple words: "Good girl."

His voice still echoes in my head. Those piercing emerald eyes, that playful, almost mocking smile—they have me in a chokehold. Then there's the memory of him calling me a princess. If he weren't so goddamned sexy, I would've run him over for that comment.

Every part of me feels the danger radiating from him, but my traitorous body responds anyway. Even now, my core tightens at the thought of him. I'm not a virgin, but being near him feels like uncharted territory. His dominance makes me feel like prey, like an innocent little rabbit.

Typical danger whore, I think to myself bitterly. Shaking my head, I try to shove these darker, unfamiliar urges back into the shadows of my mind. It's not wrong to want to be cared for or praised, but what scares me is how much I want it—need it—from him.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? Addicted to danger? No. I'm just bored. That has to be it. My life has gone off the rails, and I need to steer it back onto safer ground. Staying away from him is the only answer.

He warned me to be smart. I need to listen.

That man is trouble. He wants something from me, and even if my body disagrees, my mind knows better. I can't let him corner me again.

Last night's dream proves one thing: the darker part of my subconscious is waking up, and it's dangerous. Too dangerous.

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The day passes uneventfully as I visit my parents and spend time catching up with my mom, helping her with watercolor painting. She's as scattered and endearing as ever, her artistic chaos a comforting distraction. But no matter how hard I try, thoughts of him intrude.