Stalker, Mine - An Extreme Dark Stalker Romance

Part 1 - The Will Reading - Scene 3 - Tuesday

Originally written and posted on 6/15/2024

Please Note: This first draft is subject to change upon official publication, including the addition of never-before-read scenes. If you enjoyed this chapter, please show your support by liking and following me for more smutty dark romance featuring all the controversial elements readers love—or love to hate.

Chapter: Tuesday – Part 3 – 6/15/24

He stood before the decaying greenhouse, his eyes closed to the world and listened. The wind rustled through the trees on his left, stirring his dark brown hair in the late morning sun. To his right, seagulls hovered high over the cliff, with open ocean stretching out for miles beyond.

When he opened his eyes, she was there, just as he remembered her from years ago. Her girlish frame, unchanged by time. Skin pale as bone. Hair red as embers. Eyes swirling with storm clouds. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, darkening on her limbs and shoulders from hours under the summer sun.

She was innocence, a child not yet broken down by the world's weight. She was also dead. Forever seven years old, condemned to relive the same day like Sisyphus and his boulder.

The manor didn't care. It took what it could, and sometimes, on days like this, he wished to burn it all down, cast the rumble into the ocean, and let them rest. But he couldn't. No one could.

She smiled up at him, that familiar twinkle in her eye, the tiny gap between her front teeth visible. Then, as always, a distant door slammed, and she jerked away, looking at something only she could see.

"He's coming!" she screamed, running toward the tree line, but she never made it. Her tiny body was yanked back, lifted into the air, and thrown to the ground. Her yellow dress moved as if alive, hiking up her body. She cried for her mother, but no one came.

He turned away, unable to watch, but knowing the sounds all too well. The grunts. The cries. It ended with thirty-five stabs, each one counted.

When he looked back, she was gone, not a blade of grass out of place. She would return when the house compelled her to show him its cruelty.

He opened the French double doors and entered the greenhouse, moving through the withered plants to the very back. Amidst the muted browns and greys, a hint of red caught his eye–a single rosebush with dozens of buds. He watered it, turned the pot slightly to the left, and grabbed his spray bottle. A fine mist bloomed in the air before settling on the rosebush.

From his back pocket, he slipped a card and set it against the pot.

A name in black ink: India