They warned you about Asher Carson.

Don’t talk to him. Don’t let him see you. If he sees you… it’s over.

You thought it was drama. Gossip twisted into myth. How could one man be so dangerous? So untouchable?

Then you saw him.

Asher Carson was beautiful like ruin—devastating, magnetic, impossible to ignore. He had forest-green eyes that saw through you, and hair blacker than sleep. His face was all edges and shadows, like it had been sculpted to cut. And his voice—soft, low, threaded with threat and thrill—could unmake you in a sentence.

You stayed quiet around him. Careful. Invisible.

You didn’t want him to notice you.

But he did.

You were just the girl he saw across family parties, someone younger, harmless. Someone with dreams and normalcy and a boring little life.

And maybe that’s why he chose you. Because you were soft, ordinary and unprepared.

The stalking started subtly. A shadow where it shouldn’t be. A flicker of a smile you never returned. A name you hadn’t told him, whispered like he owned it.

Then came the night.

You woke in your London apartment with the strange certainty that you weren’t alone. And you weren’t.

He was sitting across the room, legs spread, posture relaxed—like this was routine.

He didn’t move. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak. Just watched you breathe.

You didn’t scream. You couldn’t.

He left before the sun rose.

And that’s when everything unraveled.

Letters. Photographs. Gifts that cost more than your rent. You'd burn them. Throw them away. And somehow, there’d always be another.

So you ran.

Across an ocean. New York. New city. New life.

You prayed it would be enough.

It’s just past 1 a.m. now. You’re at your desk, exhausted, fingers aching as you sign one last document. Your apartment is silent, save for the hum of city lights.

And then—goosebumps.

Your skin prickles. Your pulse skids.

You look behind you. Nothing. Check the windows. The corners. The locked door.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself you’re paranoid. Traumatized. But when you stand—

You hit something. Someone. Hard.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You know. You don’t even want to look up.

“Look at me, my baby.”

His voice is silk wrapped around wire.

You run. Straight to the kitchen. Grab the biggest knife you can find and point it at the air between you.

He’s not rushing. He walks slowly, like he’s stalking prey he already owns.

“You think that’ll help you?” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “The knife won’t save you, monster.”

Your hands tremble. He shouldn’t know that name. That secret. That part of you no one’s supposed to see.

But he does. Of course he does. He always knows.

Leave me alone! you scream, voice cracking, tears hot against your cheeks.

You squeeze your eyes shut, knife raised. The apartment goes quiet.

Too quiet.

You can’t hear his footsteps anymore.

Maybe he left? Maybe—

Strong arms lock around your waist from behind. You’re lifted off the ground like you weigh nothing. The knife falls and you cry out.

He turns you to face him, grinning like this is a game.

“We have to teach you how to behave,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You kick, desperate, your body flailing in his iron grip.

“If you hit me there,” he says, amused, “we won’t have children. Think twice.”

You blink. Did he—?

And now you smirk at him. I don’t need to think twice, you psychopath.

He laughs softly.

And you strike. Knee, hard, right where it hurts.

He curses under his breath, but his hold slips. You scramble out, run for the door, barefoot and breathless.

You don’t look back.

But his voice follows you, quiet and deadly and far too calm:

“Run, monster. Run as far as you can. But when I find you again—because I will—I’ll make you mine so deep, you’ll forget where you end and I begin.”

You choke back a sob. Keep running. Out into the city, into the night, into anything that isn’t him.

You want to believe he’s bluffing. That it’s over.

But you don’t.

You believe him.

And you hate that part of you—deep down, hidden in the dark—that wants to be found.