Haunting Adeline (Book 1)

Chapter 10 (part 5)

~THE MANIPULATOR~

I bolt upright, a gasp lingering on the tip of my tongue. Sweat coats my skin, and my hair is plastered to my cheeks, neck, and down my back.

I can't remember what I was dreaming about. But something woke me.

Heart pounding, my sleep-riddled eyes drift over the dark room. Just enough light from the moon filters in through the balcony doors. The furniture casts shadows across the room, creating figures that

aren't really there. I don't mind the phantoms dancing across my floor, but whatever woke me has a presence. A soul.

The floorboards creak from my right, outside my bedroom door. My head snaps in the direction, and I suck in a sharp breath. The hair rises on the back of my neck, like a scared dog backed in a corner.

I hold the air in my lungs, careful not to make a sound should I hear the noise again. Stillness settles around the house. Too still. My fingers clench the duvet on my lap as my heart rate increases.

Someone is outside my room.

But how?

How the f**k did he make it past the alarm system?

Another creak followed by heavy footsteps. A methodical walk, slow and purposeful. Intentional.

I slowly slip out of bed and tiptoe backwards until my back presses against the cool stone wall, creating distance between the intruder outside my door and me.

Despite my best efforts, I release a shaky breath. My chest heaves with small, fast pants as the footsteps come closer.

I'm frozen. My back is pressed so deeply into the stone that I'm becoming a part of it, preventing me from moving. From hiding.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

Desperately, my eyes search across the expanse of the room. They land on a lone screwdriver sitting on the chest at the end of the bed. I had carelessly tossed it aside after assembling my vanity. chair, and now it sits there like a beacon of hope. Possibly the only

thing that could keep me alive tonight.

Move, Addie. Goddammit, MOVE!

My limbs unlock, and I rush to the screwdriver, gripping the tool in my slick hands. My eyes are glued to the door handle, waiting for the knob to turn. Quietly, I slink over to the door and mold myself to the wall.

I'll wait for him to come in and then attack. Hopefully I can get the screwdriver lodged in his neck before he knows what's happening. So with bated breath, I wait. The knob doesn't turn, but I can feel deep in my bones that someone is out there.

Are they waiting for me? They're out of their mind if they think I'll open that door. I suppose they must be, though, if they're

breaking into my house and lingering outside my room.

The longest minute of my life passes. It feels like it's been hours before I hear another creak. And then I hear the footsteps retreat. Further and further they fade, until eventually I no longer hear them at all.

My ears prick, and just like I suspected, I hear my front door shut. A soft click that feels like thunder in a silent house. Instantly, I rip open the door and run across the hall into the bedroom with windows that face the driveway.

Hunkering down, I peek through the curtains and wait for the person to emerge from the front porch.

It feels like an eternity passes, but I imagine it's only been seconds before I see movement. An audible cry leaves my lips when a large man saunters off the steps and walks out onto my driveway. He's wearing all black, with a deep hood settled over his head.

He's tall—very tall, but not bulky. Even beneath his clothing, I can tell his body is f*****g lethal. Lean, but packed with muscle. His hoodie clings to his body, showing off his broad shoulders, thick arms, and trimmed waist.

God, he could crush me if he wanted to. His hand looks big enough to cover the entirety of my face. Or wrap around my neck. Would he do it to cause pain or pleasure? Does my shadow want to hurt me or love me?

He stills, his back facing me. He can feel me watching him, just like I felt him outside my door.

I find myself curling deeper into the shadows, out of sight. My heart is still racing, though now for an entirely different reason. Something about him has me wanting to press my face into the

window. I want to see him. I want to see the man that's been creeping inside my house, leaving me flowers, and mutilating any. unsuspecting soul that dared to touch me. Was his hand on the knob, ready to come in? What stopped him?

As if hearing my thoughts, he c***s his head slightly. Intently, I watch him slowly turn his head to the side. And ever so slightly, he

raises his chin, the moonlight revealing his wide mouth and a sharp jaw.

I huddle deeper into the wall, feeling his eyes on me. There's no way he can see me. Yet somehow, I feel his gaze piercing me anyway. Like little, sharp knives grazing my skin before digging inside me.

And then he smiles, his mouth stretching into a wicked smirk. My breath hitches, and my lungs fill with fire.

Oh, this is funny to you, asshole?

Before I can process what to do—what I'm feeling—he turns and walks away, disappearing into the tree line. Slow and purposeful, as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

~~~~

September 18th, 1944

He came back, Ronaldo came back.

He was braised and hart when he did. Cuts marred his beautiful face. Bruises discolored his skin. I was so excited to see him, I threw myself at him. Only then, did I notice the grunt of pain. I nearly cried when I saw his kurt.

He wouldn't tell me what happened. But I think the distance got to both of us. Because we...

I lied with another man. A man that was not my husband. And I'm finding it very hard to find the regret. There's shame. I feel that. But not regret. In fact, all I want to do is do it again.