They are mine a twisted.., p.7
They Are Mine: A Twisted Stalker Reverse Harem Romance, page 7
It’s personal.
And they are worth it.
My workday moves quickly.
I’m very good at what I do.
Everyone here loves me.
Loves my cupcakes. Loves the little notes I leave.
No one questions if I head out early.
No one asks why I need the extra time.
They trust me.
They always do.
I don’t have to rush.
He is generally at the gym in the late afternoon.
He probably works, like me. Cuts out around three. Predictable.
But what does a man like that do?
What kind of job builds a body like his?
I bet he’s a bouncer.
Or maybe night-shift security.
That would explain why he’s at the gym before five.
Before most of us with day jobs.
Security is better.
I wouldn’t want him in a bar all the time, surrounded by drunk women, being hit on constantly.
I run my fingers down the cover of the notebook.
I’ll find out.
I park outside the gym.
Not too close. Not close enough to be noticed.
Today isn’t about him seeing me.
Not yet.
Today is about me seeing him.
Really seeing him.
I have a feeling he’s going to be just what I need to compliment Noah.
They’re going to be friends and both totally mine.
The parking lot is quiet at the gym.
I sit back in my car, keeping my head low, phone in hand, looking just distracted enough.
But my notebook tells a different story.
My pen drags lazily over the page, looping around numbers, sketching little hearts in the margins. His plate number. I’ll run it at work tomorrow. Get his name, his address, his driving record.
Not that it matters. I already know everything important.
He’s disciplined. Methodical. A creature of habit.
He doesn’t linger inside like the other gym rats, standing around in their sweat-drenched shirts, flexing for attention.
He works. Focused. Intense. Powerful.
And then? He vanishes.
Until now.
The doors push open.
And fuck.
He’s big.
Bigger than he looked under the gym’s fluorescent lights. Bigger in real clothes. Bigger in the evening shadows, muscles still tight, still pumped from his workout.
And he knows it.
That thick chest, stretching the fabric of his shirt. Broad shoulders, rolling slightly as he moves, like his body is still burning from the weights. Thick, powerful thighs, flexing beneath heavy-duty cargo pants, functional, not stylish.
Looks like a security uniform.
Of course.
I knew he wasn’t just some guy wasting hours in the gym for vanity. He’s a weapon, honed, maintained.
And God, I want to test him.
My nails bite into my notebook. My breath comes just a little deeper, a little warmer.
What would that body feel like above me?
Would he pin me down? Hold me steady, like he holds the weight against his chest, like he knows exactly how much pressure I can handle before I break?
My thighs press together.
Focus.
I swallow, my pulse ticking higher as he strides toward his truck, black, lifted, reinforced bumper. A vehicle meant to take damage. Meant to last.
Just like him.
He’s not in a hurry, but he’s not wasting time either.
Efficient. Predictable. Easy to track.
His phone is in his hand, but he doesn’t text. Just glances at the screen, unlocks the truck, and slides in.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Engine on. Headlights cutting through the dimming light.
Time to go.
I give him three seconds.
Then, I pull out behind him.
And just like that? The hunt begins.
He takes a right and I follow.
Not too close. Not obvious.
Two cars between us, hands loose on the wheel, heart steady.
He’s not paying attention. His posture is relaxed. No tension in his shoulders. No glances in the mirror. No hesitation at stoplights.
He doesn’t feel me yet.
But he will.
Oh, he will.
Twenty minutes later, his speed drops.
I shift back, letting the distance widen, keeping myself just one more set of headlights in the crowd. Watching. Waiting.
Then his blinker flashes and he takes a slow turn into a gated lot.
I ease past, letting my gaze flick toward the sign at the parking space.
The glow of his headlights catches the words, illuminating them for a perfect, fleeting second.
And my lips part.
Oh.
Oh, I fucking knew it.
I called it.
Campus security.
Not a nightclub. Not some dimly lit dive bar where he’d have to peel drunk girls off of him, wading through sweat and spilled liquor every night.
No.
A college.
Where he watches… brainy bitches come and go.
I can’t decide if that’s better.
I mean, sure, it’s quieter. Controlled. Safe.
But college girls?
They’re so young. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, soft.
And a man like him? They would swoon.
They probably giggle behind their coffee cups, whisper to their friends, steal glances while he patrols.
They probably think they have a chance with him.
That’s almost funny.
Because they don’t love him.
They don’t even know him.
They just lust after him.
And I don’t lust.
I love. I claim.
My fingers flex against the wheel, slow and even.
Focus.
This isn’t coincidence. This is a sign.
I knew he was the type to work security. I knew he had the discipline. The control. The power.
And now?
Now I know where to find him.
Where to put myself in his path. Where to start making him notice me.
A smile curls at my lips, slow and satisfied.
Because this is inevitable.
I can already picture it.
A day, not far from now. Me with a stack of books in my arms, teetering, ready to fall, except I make sure they do.
They hit the pavement, and I gasp, small, helpless, adorable.
And he’s there.
Big, broad hands scooping them up, voice low, steady. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Or maybe…
Maybe he notices me before I speak. Maybe he watches me walk across campus, gaze dark and assessing, lingering just a second too long.
Maybe he wonders about me.
Wants to know who I am.
Or maybe, maybe I make him come to me.
A drunken frat guy, stumbling too close. A hand reaching where it shouldn’t.
And then, him.
A solid wall of muscle, stepping between us. A hand wrapping around my wrist, guiding me behind him, shielding me like I’m something delicate. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I shiver.
Yes.
Any of those.
That’s how it’ll happen.
My fingers tighten on the wheel.
He doesn’t know it yet.
But soon?
He’ll wonder how he ever lived without me.
He disappears through the gates, his truck rumbling into the lot.
I don’t follow.
Not directly.
Not yet.
Instead, I drive past, and pull into the main parking lot. Because if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to place myself in his world, I need to do it right.
I step out, adjusting my skirt, my cardigan, my soft, delicate little outfit.
The walk across campus is easy. It already feels familiar.
The glow of streetlights, the chatter of students moving between buildings, the lazy energy of a weekday evening winding down.
I slide through the doors of the administration building, my steps light, my smile practiced.
The woman at the front desk looks up, her expression pleasant but tired. Late shift. Uninspired job. She won’t remember me.
Perfect.
“Hi!” I chirp, stepping up to the counter, voice warm, inviting. Sweet. “I was hoping to get some information about registration.”
Her lips press together. She nods, already reaching for a brochure. “Of course! Are you looking to enroll for next semester?”
I tilt my head, thoughtful, considering, as if this is a new idea. “Maybe,” I hum, accepting the papers. “I’ve been thinking about taking a class or two. Just for fun. Something creative, maybe… art?”
That sounds right. Soft. Romantic. Something that suits the Juliet he’ll meet. Something Noah would like.
She slides a glossy booklet across the desk. “Most classes start next month. If you fill this out, you can submit your application online or bring it here.”
A month. I smile, suppressing the slow curl of satisfaction in my chest. A full month to prepare. To watch him. To track him. To make sure he’s worth the effort. To see what he likes.
I scan the papers, already planning.
“So,” I murmur, keeping my tone light. “How safe is campus at night?”
She blinks. “We have security that patrols regularly.”
I perk up, all innocent interest. “Really? That’s good. I’d probably be here in the evenings.”
Her nod is quick, dismissive. She’s already moving to her next task.
I tuck the papers into my bag, my mind already a mile ahead and give the woman one last sweet smile before stepping back into the night.
A month.
It’ll be more than enough time.
And when class starts?
He won’t stand a chance.
Chapter Eleven
Juliet
Noah is absolutely perfect.
He never complains when I stay out late, never asks where I’ve been, never pries when I get home with ink smudged on my fingers and someone else’s secrets tucked away in my notebook.
He listens intently as I tell him everything I’ve found out about Orion Grayson.
Orion Grayson.
The name fits. Strong. Heavy. Solid.
Like him.
I set the mac and cheese on the table, baked, golden, crispy burnt corners. Just the way Noah likes it.
“You know he likes mac too?” I hum, settling into my seat. “But he never makes it this good. Just rushed, store-bought crap because he’s always too busy, at the gym or at work.” I shake my head, sliding the serving spoon toward Noah. “You men really need to be taken care of.”
Noah watches me, his fork poised midair. There’s something behind his eyes. Something creeping closer every day.
The question.
I know he wants to ask it.
Did you study me too?
Did I track him? Take notes? Learn every little habit, every tiny flaw, before I made my move?
Of course I did. He knows that without asking.
Noah is sweet, but he’s not stupid.
I don’t like stupid men.
But he doesn’t ask.
Instead, he takes a bite, swallows, and shifts gears. “What’d you find out about his girlfriend?”
I smile.
Oh, baby.
“First of all, she’s his ex,” I correct, twirling my fork through my food. “Second, she, Tammy, was never his type. That’s why it didn’t work.” I pop the bite into my mouth, chewing, savoring. “She’s a mouthy bitch,” I add casually. “And she cheated on him. He dumped her.” I shake my head, setting my fork down with a soft clink. “Can you imagine?” I murmur, lifting my gaze to Noah’s. “Cheating on a man like that?”
Noah frowns. He doesn’t like cheaters.
That’s why I would never hurt him. That’s why I tell him everything.
(Almost everything.)
Noah doesn’t know I stole her phone.
Or that I used it to text Orion, just to collect data.
Does she miss him? She messaged a friend, saying, Fuck, yes. He fucks like a beast. I think about him every damn night.
I bet she does.
But that doesn’t matter.
Because she cheated on him. And now? He’s mine.
I adore every little thing about Orion. It’s not just his body, which is perfect.
He’s never late to work. Never misses a day at the gym. Keeps his house tidy. Doesn’t snore.
He’s too sweet to tell his ex to fuck off, but he says it in subtle ways.
I sip my drink, watching Noah over the rim of my glass.
He clears his throat. “Did you get your class schedule?”
“Yep,” I perk up. “I start next week.”
He smiles, but I don’t think he realizes how much I love him for that.
For not pushing.
For not questioning.
For trusting me completely.
I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over his wrist.
“I can’t wait until we’re painting together,” I say, voice soft, full of real excitement. “I’ll teach you everything I learn.”
Noah’s smile melts my damn heart.
God, I love him.
I already turned one of the spare rooms into an art space.
Light streaming through the windows. Supplies stacked neatly on the shelves. Blank canvases, waiting.
We’re going to make something beautiful.
We’re going to have messy, breathtaking, unforgettable body-paint sex.
All three of us.
Me, Noah… and Orion.
I don’t waste the next week.
Because details matter.
Every little habit, every preference, every piece of information, I need it all.
I find out, Orion has a sweet tooth.
You wouldn’t expect it, not from a man built like a fucking war god, but it makes sense. With a body like that, his metabolism must burn through anything he eats.
Noah is a health-food type, but me and Orion?
We’ll feed each other sweets.
I can picture it.
The two of us in my kitchen. Flour dusting the counter, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth, my fingers sliding through the batter.
Feeding him.
Letting him feed me.
I shiver.
Soon.
But first?
The Tammy problem.
She won’t let him go.
I knew she was pathetic, but now it’s almost embarrassing.
She’s pushing him. Hard.
Texting. Calling. Showing up at his house. Begging.
At times, I think he might break.
Not because he wants her. But because she’s relentless.
Almost blackmailing him.
And that? That doesn’t sit right with me.
That and…
She kept something important to him.
His military tags.
Who the fuck does that?
No. No, no, no.
That will not do.
Because Orion is strong. A man like him shouldn’t have to deal with some desperate, manipulative ex playing keep-away with something sacred.
That’s so wrong.
So fixable.
And I fix things for the people I care about.
Her place is a shitty little apartment, the kind with thin walls and neighbors who don’t give a fuck about what happens next door.
It’s the kind of place you can break into if you know what you’re doing.
And I do.
So I do.
Tammy’s lock is a joke. One cheap piece of metal standing between me and what belongs to Orion.
I let myself in, quiet as a whisper, careful with my steps.
The air inside smells like cheap perfume and even cheaper vodka.
There are clothes on the floor. Dishes in the sink. A mess of shoes and makeup and general disarray.
God.
She’s exactly what I expected. Sloppy. Thoughtless.
Not like me.
I respect the things I own.
And Orion?
He’s mine.
I make my way through the apartment, my fingers skimming surfaces, my mind sharp and focused.
His tags. That’s all I need.
It doesn’t take long.
Tammy isn’t exactly a criminal mastermind.
They’re in the top drawer of her nightstand, tangled in a mess of old receipts and half-melted chapstick.
Pathetic.
I pluck them free, running my fingers over the worn metal, the smooth weight of them in my palm.
These don’t belong here.
I imagine Orion’s throat, the way they should be resting against his skin, the way they should be hanging where they belong.
I fix things.
And this?
This is fixed.
But I’m not quite done.
I glance toward the bathroom.
Then, slowly, I smile.
She needs a reminder.
A warning.
Something she won’t forget.
The bathroom is just as bad as the rest of the apartment.
Makeup scattered across the counter. A cheap, curling iron tossed in the sink. A tube of lipstick sits on the edge.
Bright. Obnoxious.
Red.
Because of course she wears something like that.
Too harsh. Too bold.
Orion deserves someone softer.
Someone who will contrast his hard edges, not clash against them.
I pluck the lipstick from the counter, twist it up, watching the waxy tip rise.
Then, I press it to the mirror and write: LEAVE HIM ALONE.
I drag the letters slowly.
Then, for good measure, I dot the i in ‘him’ with a heart.
Because I can.
Because it’s mine now.
Orion. His loyalty. His peace. His fucking tags.
All of it.
Mine.
I cap the lipstick, place it neatly back on the counter, and admire my work.
A part of me wonders if she’ll cry when she sees it.
A part of me hopes she does.
Because Orion is done with her.
She just needs to understand.
