Alpha Maddox Is My Stalker

Chapter 4

Iliana’s POV:

I woke up…or more like snapped out of sleep with a loud gasp. As soon as I woke up, events of the last night flooded my mind.

Stalker…break in…knife…blood…wound…Little Muse…

“No!” I jerked up in a sitting position and frantically took in my surroundings. The night had blended into dawn, and soft rays of sun peeked in through the curtains.

Taking a deep breath, I was grazing my hand through my hair when my whole body went still as the realization that I was actually in my bed suddenly dawned on me.

The last thing I remembered was I fainted in the kitchen. Then how come I woke up in bed? And that too tucked under the comforter?

Did he…? No, he wouldn’t. After invading my privacy and scaring the s**t out of me to the point I f*****g fainted, there was no way he would carry me to my bed and tuck under the sheets.

Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths and composed myself. Slowly moving out of bed, I scanned my room. Everything seemed to be in its place.

Standing in the center of my room, I stared at the door, afraid of what danger might be lurking on the other side. My phone was still in the kitchen. I needed to call the police right away and report about last night.

With that thought in my mind, I started moving toward the door. I’d call the police. I turned the doorknob. They’d come and assess the situation.

I slid the door open. Previously, they argued about the lack of evidence. But now there was plenty of that.

I walked toward the kitchen. They’d take blood samples and…

What the hell? My footsteps halted upon entering the kitchen.

To my utter shock, it was pristine clean like last night didn’t even happen.

I was frozen in the doorway with my stomach twisting in a tight knot. Did it really happen? Were they right? Was I really being paranoid?

Snapping out of the trance, I rushed inside the kitchen and scanned the floor. Not even a drop of blood. I whipped my head around and spotted the knife, clean and in its place in the knife holder.

Grabbing my phone from the counter, I marched back to my room. Fingers tapping on the screen, I was about to call the police when their words flashed in my mind, ‘lack of evidence,’ ‘paranoid,’ ‘no suspicious activity,’ ‘no action can be taken.’

My chest heaved up and down with heavy pants.

Were they right all along? Was I really getting paranoid? Was I…

I stopped midway questioning my own sanity when I suddenly caught my reflection in the mirror. A breath got stuck in my throat. There it was. Loud and clear. Evidence that last night really happened. Relief washed over me. I wasn’t going crazy.

Because blood, his blood, was splattered on my shirt. He cleaned the kitchen spotless, washed the knife, put it back in its place, but what he seemed to have forgotten my shirt.

My fingers tapped feverishly on the screen. Even if he had cleaned the blood stains, forensic team could still detect them by luminol testing or whatever high-tech stuff they use in crime shows.

I was just about to hit dial when a sharp door rattled the front door. I jumped and almost dropped the phone. Before I could spiral down a full-blown panic mode, I heard a familiar voice from the other side, “Open up before I break it down.”

It belonged to my best friend, Thea Thompson.

Jogging toward the door, I threw it open and pointed at my shirt, “Tell me you are seeing what I’m seeing.”

She folded her hands in front of her chest and huffed out, “Good Morning to you too, Iliana Carlos.”

Stepping inside, she assessed me with a watchful gaze before frowning slightly, “Is that…?”

I nodded violently, “Yep. Blood.”

Her eyebrow twitched higher, “I was about to say ketchup.”

That took me by surprise. But of course, she was unaware of the seriousness of the matter. So, taking a deep breath, I grabbed her wrist and walked toward the couch.

Settling down, I told her all that had happened.

For the next ten minutes, she listened attentively and nodded at the right points. I was glad that I was making some sense to her.

Once I was done with the disturbing events of the last night, I waited patiently for her reaction.

Thea blinked several times before finally opening her mouth, “Did he really call you Little Muse? Oh God, why does that sound so hot?”

My jaw dropped open, and I glared at her in disbelief, “Is that all you have to say after my entire 10 minutes' worth of speech?”

Her lips stretched into a wide grin, “But that part is totally worth discussing, isn’t it?”

My eyes widened frantically, “Not at all. The part worth discussing is where I mentioned how a stalker broke into my apartment last night.”

“Okay, okay,” Thea held her hands up in a mock surrender, “Creepy psycho stalker breaking in your apartment…a very important detail indeed,” but of course, her seriousness lasted only three seconds and then she was back to grinning maniacally, “But the part where that mysterious masked man exuding dark, sexy vibes called you Little Muse? That’s straight outta dark romance novel, girlie.”

I let out a heavy groan, “Thea! This isn’t one of your spicy romance books. This is my real life. And just FYI, this is how women like me end up on true crime podcasts.”

Her eyebrow stretched higher, “Are you sure about that? Because, according to what I heard, YOU were the one who stabbed him with a knife.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, “Yes, there’s that too. I stabbed him. Multiple times,” I stopped, thought back to the last night and corrected myself, “Or more like he made me do that.”

She tried really hard to suppress the smile, but it showed nevertheless, “And then he picked you in his arms, carried you to your bed, tucked you under the comforter, and whispered good night to you? Wow, sounds super caring.”

I shot up from the couch, “And we must not forget the part where that psycho, demonic monster cleaned the kitchen to get rid of evidence.”

Thea leaned her back against the couch, “Well, if he was that demonic, then he wouldn’t have hesitated ripping that shirt off you, don’t you think so? I mean, why would he be leaving evidence behind?”

A bright tint slithered up my neck at the images of his hands all over me. Before I could drown deeper, I shook my head and chased those forbidden thoughts away.

Noticing my reaction, Thea's eyes lit up and she perked up for a juicy detail, “Wait…did he touch you last night?”

My body heated up as if little flames inside me had been ignited to life. A shiver ran down my spine as I thought back to the moment when he brushed the back of his hand against my cheek.

It was feather soft, and yet something about that touch set my whole body on fire.

For some unknown reason, I wanted to keep that detail to myself, so I simply shook my head in denial.

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Thea finally showed a speck of seriousness, “Iliana, are you sure he wasn’t some vampire, or cursed, or something like that? I mean, how could a human survive that many wounds?”

Letting out a frustrating groan, I buried my face in my hands, “I don’t know. I literally stabbed him. In his chest. And yet he never even hissed in pain. He just stood there, bleeding and enjoying every wound I inflicted on him.”

She let out a low whistle, “That sounds messed up. Hot, but messed up,” she added as an afterthought.

I shot her a dry look, opened my mouth to say something, but then clamped it shut and only shook my head at her.

Grabbing my phone, I called the police.