Chapter 44: FORTY-FOUR

J A D E

I got home at nine, my body aching with a fatigue that went deeper than just a long day at work. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, my footsteps heavy, my heart sinking with every step.

I stopped in front of my door, my key poised in the lock. I was home. I was safe. Or so I thought.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window, casting long, eerie shadows across the room.

He wasn’t here.

I let out a sigh of relief. He had kept to his words.

There was a new, stronger lock on my door, a heavy, imposing piece of metal that looked like it could withstand a battering ram. He had done it. He had actually done it. A part of me was grateful, a small, traitorous part of me that was still scared and wanted to be protected. But the other part of me, the proud, stubborn part, was angry. But I had let him do it so he could leave me alone.

I dropped my bag on the table, walking into the kitchen to make myself some noodles. But shock didn’t even begin to describe what I felt as I turned to my counter. The entire kitchen was sparkling clean. The floor was mopped. He had scrubbed my counters. He had washed the sink.

The living room was spotless. The couch cushions were fluffed. The books were stacked neatly in a corner. He had even washed my dishes, which were left in the sink. A single white rose lay in the middle of my small coffee table, a note tucked beneath it.

My heart hammered in my chest. I was alone, but the apartment felt more full of him than ever before. He had cleaned my home. He had left me a rose.

I walked over to the coffee table, my movements slow, deliberate. I picked up the note, my fingers trembling. The handwriting was a strong, confident scrawl, a familiar script that sent a shiver down my spine.

Jade,

I hope you had a good day at work. I wanted to leave before you got back, to respect your wishes, but I couldn't bring myself to leave without saying a proper goodbye. I changed the lock. The key is on the hook by the door. I also cleaned up a bit. I know how you like things to be neat. I did some grocery shopping, you lost some weight and you literally have no food in your fridge.

I know you're angry, and you have every right to be. I know I hurt you, and I will spend the rest of my life regretting it. But please, be safe. Watch out for Saffra. She is dangerous. More than you can imagine. If you see anything, or feel anything out of the ordinary, call me. Please. I will come. No matter what. No questions asked.

I love you. I always have. I always will.

Markov

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging. I crumpled the note in my hand, my chest aching with a pain so sharp it felt like a physical blow. Why was he doing this? Why was he being so kind? It would be so much easier to hate him if he was a monster. If he was cruel and unfeeling.

But he wasn't. He was a complicated, messed up, beautiful man who loved me in the only way he knew how. But could he truly love me when he had killed so many?

I threw the note in the trash, along with the rose. I couldn't keep it. I couldn't have this reminder of him, this symbol of his unwanted affection.

But I did check the fridge. It was stocked. Fresh vegetables, fruits, milk, eggs, bread, drinks to last months. My favorite brand of coffee. He had noticed. He remembered.

I slammed the fridge door shut, the anger and frustration and a tiny, unwelcome flicker of gratitude warring inside me. I was a mess of contradictions, just like him.

I made my noodles and ate them in silence, the food tasting like ash in my mouth. I was exhausted, but sleep was a distant, elusive possibility. Every creak of the building, every siren in the distance, sent a fresh wave of panic through me. The woman's words from the diner echoed in my mind. "You'd make a perfect pet."

After cleaning my plate, I decided to check my phone, a habit I'd been dreading. A text from an unknown number. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. I had a sinking feeling I knew who it was from.

I opened the message. A single image. A picture of me, walking out of the diner at the end of my shift. It was taken from across the street. The perspective was high, as if from a window. But that wasn't the worst part.

The message had text. Pretty little thing. I told you I was watching.

A cold dread washed over me, so intense I thought I might pass out. I dropped the phone, my breath catching in my throat. Did I gain a new stalker, or was this all a game orchestrated by Markov to get me back?

I squeezed my eyes shut, my mind reeling. No. This wasn't Markov's style. His brand of control was direct, forceful. This was different. This was insidious. Psychological. This was a game of cat and mouse, and I was the mouse.

The woman from the diner. It had to be her.

I was trapped. If I called Markov, I was giving him exactly what he wanted. I would be admitting I needed him, that he was right. He would swoop in, all protective and possessive, and I would lose whatever small sliver of independence I had left.

But if I didn't call him... I was alone. I was a mouse, waiting for the cat to pounce.

I paced the small apartment, my bare feet silent on the clean floor he had scrubbed. But what if this was something I shouldn’t worry about? What if it was just some secret admirer trying to get my attention?

I scoffed at my own thoughts. "Admirers don't stalk you and threaten to turn you into a pet." I whispered to myself.

The minutes stretched into an hour. Two. The silence in the apartment was no longer peaceful; it was menacing. Every shadow seemed to move, every noise seemed like a threat. I was losing my mind. I walked to the window and carefully peeked through the blinds, my heart pounding. The street was quiet, bathed in the orange glow of the city lamps. Nothing seemed out of place. But I knew she was out there. Watching. Waiting.

My resolve crumbled. I was scared. I was so, so scared. I needed help.

But I couldn't call Markov. I wouldn't.

This is exactly what he wanted. He wanted me to run back to him with my tail between my legs. I was smarter than that. I needed to handle this my own way. If I really think this woman is dangerous, I'd go to the police. I had the text, I had the memory of her at the diner. That should be enough to get them to do something, right? Right?

Then a more terrifying thought struck me. What if the police can't do anything? What if they laugh me off? What if this woman has some kind of influence, some kind of power that makes her untouchable?

What if this was something beyond the scope of a simple police report? What if Markov's warning was true? What if this was something... supernatural?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the ridiculous thought.

I was being torn apart from the inside, a war raging in my mind between the rational woman I wanted to be and the terrified animal I was becoming.

I took a deep breath, deciding that I wouldn’t whatever this is get to me. I would spend a quiet night in, watch a movie, and go to bed. I would go about my life as if nothing was wrong. If they were watching, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.

I went to the living room, grabbing the remote to turn on the TV. But I froze. On the screen was a news broadcast. The headline at the bottom of the screen read: WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT ANIMAL ATTACK. A cold dread washed over me. I turned up the volume.

"...police are baffled by the bizarre nature of the attack," the news anchor was saying, her face a mask of professional gravity. "The victim, twenty six year old Chloe Benson, was found in her apartment this evening. The cause of death appears to be massive blood loss, but there were no signs of forced entry, and the only wounds on her body are a series of strange, deep scratches on her chest, as if from a wild animal. However, no animal was found in the building, and neighbors reported no strange noises."

My blood ran cold. My eyes widened with a sudden, horrifying realization. It was the woman from earlier today who scared me. Chloe Benson. So that’s her name?

My mind raced, trying to connect the dots. Was this a coincidence? A brutal, random act of violence in a city full of them? Or was it a message? A warning from Saffra? "You'd make a perfect pet." Her words echoed in my mind, a chilling premonition of a fate worse than death. A slow, torturous end.

And now, she was dead.