Chapter 1: A Stranger in My Bed
1001 Words
Damn.
Damn it.
All I wanted was to get inside my own house, peel off these sweat-soaked clothes, and face-plant into a coma on my own lumpy mattress.
Sixteen hours in economy class next to a guy who treated elbow space like a national border had turned my soul into a wrung-out dishrag.
Instead, I stood on my porch, staring at a key snapped off in the lock—like it, too, had decided life was overrated.
And Catherine wasn’t picking up.
Typical.
Voicemail clicked on.
“Hey! It’s Catherine! I’m probably… out! I did something that might surprise you a little, but you know me—I always figure things out eventually!”
A surprise. Great.
The last time she “surprised” me, I came home to a flock of garden gnomes she swore were “investments.”
My stomach sank.
The humid summer air clung to my skin like plastic wrap.
Of course the power was out. The whole street was dark.
The only light came from the stupidly bright full moon—bleaching everything into silver and shadow.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Exactly the aesthetic my mental breakdown was missing.”
Options:
One: sleep on the welcome mat and let mosquitoes file a formal claim on my blood.
Two: call Kim back and accept the guilt of dumping yet another favor on my best friend.
Also no. Not these days.
Several men had gone missing over the last few months. I’d seen one on the news who looked… uncomfortably like Kim’s type. Same earring style. Same smug jawline.
Option three: my old reliable—my “forgetful teen” back window.
Well.
That was it.
My maxi skirt was not designed for felony-adjacent activities.
It took wriggling, a silent apology to my neighbors, and one near-death encounter with a hydrangea bush, but I got in.
I tumbled onto my living room carpet.
Home.
The house was silent. Stifling. Familiar.
No AC.
I kicked off my shoes and didn’t bother with lights. I could walk this place blindfolded. All I wanted was my bed.
I stumbled into my bedroom and collapsed with a groan.
I yanked the sheet over my head and let sleep drag me under.
I was dreaming of airplane food fighting back when the world snapped.
One second I was asleep.
The next second I was airborne.
Something—strong, fast, invisible—wrenched me off the bed and slammed me into the opposite wall.
Hard.
The impact punched the air out of my lungs.
I slid down, gasping, my heartbeat trying to claw its way out of my chest.
A shadow moved in the dark.
He was just… there.
Tall. Broad. Silent in the way predators are silent.
Shirtless, chest slick with sweat—no, blood. I saw the shine now, the wet glint in moonlight.
I scrambled backward, voice coming out as a broken squeak.
“Take whatever you want! I don’t have cash! The TV’s ancient and the silverware is plastic!”
He didn’t even blink. His head tilted as if I didn’t make sense.
His eyes—glinting, sharp—swept over me.
Confused.
Like I was the wrong answer to a question he hadn’t finished asking.
Then he swayed.
A sharp hiss. His hand flew to his side.
A dark stain bloomed low on his torso.
Blood.
My brain finally caught up: He’s hurt.
My fear didn’t go away.
It just got direction.
I lunged for my purse on the floor. Fingers clawed. Found my phone.
Yes.
My thumb hit emergency—
A snarl.
A blur.
My phone flew out of my hand with a sharp smack, spinning through the air like a tiny dying comet.
Before I could breathe, his fist caught the back of my shirt and yanked me up like I weighed nothing.
I hit the mattress.
Once. Hard.
He loomed over me, blocking the moonlight.
Up close, he was… unfair.
Ridiculously handsome in a way that felt offensive in an emergency situation.
He stepped forward. Then another. Slow. Deliberate.
Caging me in.
“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t. Please.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for pain.
Nothing.
A rustle.
A soft thud.
I opened one eye.
He wasn’t looking at me.
He was staring at my bedside table.
His movements changed—slower, almost… careful.
He picked up the small wooden photo frame.
Catherine and me. Last summer. Sunburned, laughing like idiots.
His expression shifted.
Confusion drained out.
Something grim slid in.
He exhaled—long, slow—like he’d been holding a breath for hours.
He set the frame down with surprising gentleness.
Then he bent, wincing, and grabbed a shirt off the floor. Pulled it on. The fabric immediately darkened where blood soaked through.
“The house is mine,” he said, voice low and rough with pain. “I bought it. Get out.”
For a second I couldn’t speak. My brain was still trying to locate the correct reality.
“Get out?” My voice cracked into outrage. “This is my home! You can’t just buy someone’s home out from under them!”
“I have the paperwork. It’s done.”
“My sister would never—”
“Catherine Whitmore.” His eyes cut into mine. “She signed it.”
My blood went cold.
The voicemail.
I did something that might surprise you.
Oh, Catherine. What did you do?
I spotted my phone on the floor near the corner and darted for it.
“I need to call her. I need to—”
He moved.
Too fast to be human.
Barefoot, he stepped down.
Crack.
Plastic casing shattered under his heel, splintering across the floor like brittle bones.
“That,” he growled, “was too damn loud.”
I stared at the ruins of my phone.
My last tether.
Gone.
Something inside me snapped right along with it.
“You—” My voice shook. “You complete and utter asshole!”
- Writer
