Permainan Kakak Tercinta

ELARA POV

He’s right behind me. The man who has been stalking me for months now.

And yes, I’ve been to the station twice to make a report, today making it the third time. But apparently, when you have a stalker, the cops need "concrete evidence" to start an investigation. Which basically means they won’t lift a finger until I’m in a body bag.

My heart is hammering against my ribs as the presence behind me closes in. I walk faster, my boots clicking against the pavement.

I scan the street, and it’s empty with no single soul in sight. My teeth bite down until I taste iron. This is what I get for always taking shortcuts.

I turn the sharp corner of the alley and break into a run. The wind whips my hair across my face, blinding me, but I don’t stop. Behind me, the footsteps match my pace, heavy boots thudding against the pavement and echoing the beat of my own heart.

I risk a glance back. Fuck. He’s closing in. Oh my god!!!

I push harder, cutting through several corners of the quiet alley, thanks to being light on my feet. My breathing is coming in ragged and painful gasps when my father’s antique shop finally comes into view. My hand dives into my pocket, fumbling for the key with my stalker right on my heels.

I jam the key in, twisting it once, twice. Then three time. Frustration mounts inside of me with each second that passes by and when the lock finally clicks, a sob of relief tears out of my throat.

Shoving the door open, I rush inside and spin around to slam it shut when a boot jams between the door and the frame.

My stomach drops painfully, and I throw my weight against the wood, trying to crush him out, but he’s stronger, easily shoving the door back. I stumble back and land hard on my ass as the shadowed figure steps in.  

In terror, I grab a porcelain doll head and hurl it at his head before scrambling up. But before I can run deeper into the shop, something hard yanks my legs out from under me.

I hit the floor with a scream, pain slamming into my chest as I’m dragged back until I’m pinned beneath him. I kick, I scream, I throw punches, but he catches my wrists effortlessly and pin them above my head.

His other hand slides over the side of my face, making my skin crawl.

“Why did you report me to the police, Elara?”

My blood runs cold at the familiar voice.

“I thought we were on good terms?”

My mouth falls open as the hood slips back, and the hidden face turns out to be Mr. Frankley, my boss. The man who’s been trying to buy his way into my pants for months.

“You sick fucker,” I sneer, thrashing against his grip.

“That sassy mouth of yours always turns me on,” he says, a sick glee in his eyes as he grinds his hips against me.

Bile rises in my throat at the violation. “Get off me!” I scream, tears stinging my eyes at how powerless I am against his weight.

“Shhh.” He presses down harder. “This can go smoothly or roughly. It’s up to you to behave.”

“Fuck. Off.” I try to knee him, but he pins my legs down, pulling out a knife.

My body freezes, terror locking me in place.

He presses the cold blade against my throat. “I can slice your throat open and fuck your dead body. That okay with you?”

Every instinct scream at me to move, but the knife on my neck is digging in deep so I stay still.

“Good choice,” he smiles. “I knew you were a smart girl,” he says as his hand starts digging under my skirts. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the dirty sensation, the smell of his sweat, and the metal of the knife.

“Your—"

The sound that splits through the air is deafening in the small shop.

A hot, metallic spray hits my face, filling my nose and mouth. I choke on a scream, flailing against the sticky liquid coating my lips. For a second, I’m sure it’s mine. I’m sure I’m dying.

But the weight on top of me goes still and the body of my boss is kicked off me with a thud.

I gasp, scrambling backward like a crab until my spine hits the counter, my chest heaving.

A tall figure towers over me, not even sparing a single glance at the man he just killed. His icy-blue gaze is pinning me to the floor harder than Frankley ever could.

My eyes fall to the smoking gun held casually at his side before he slips it into his pocket.

A sharp click of his tongue cuts through the silence. "Messy," he murmurs, and with an ease that shouldn’t exist in a man who just killed another, he pulls out a handkerchief with his other hand and extends it toward me.

I just stare, trembling from the fear that’s still seeping through my bones. Everything happening feeling like one big bad dream.

“Take it.” His voice is deep and gravelly, the kind that scratches down your spine and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

My hand moves before my mind catches up, taking the handkerchief from him.

When I just sit there clutching it, and still staring at him like a fool while my body shakes, he adds, “Help yourself.”

And I do just that like I’m on autopilot, wiping the blood from my face while watching his broad shoulders move to the couch opposite me.

Moments later, I’m seated face to face with this man that just killed my boss like it’s nothing, studying his face even as the shock of what just happened wrecks through me.

He looks too beautiful for the kind of coldness in his blue eyes. Too calm for the brutality he’s just committed. And too soft for his muscular form cloaked in black suit that looks tailored only for him. His wristwatch flashes at me as those icy-blue irises continue to hold mine, unnervingly composed against the chaos tearing through my chest.

Who the hell is this man? Why is he so indifferent to the blood he just spilled right before my eyes? When did he even enter the antique shop? Was he inside the whole time?

My stomach twists at sight of Mr. Frankley’s lifeless body and I squeeze my eyes shut as bile burns its way up my throat.

Is this even real? Am I dreaming? If I pinch myself hard enough will I wake up from nightmare?

“This is real, Ms. Petrov.” The man’s deep voice cuts through the air, causing my eyes to fly open.

“I…” My throat tightens around the word, but I try again. “Who—” I swallow hard. “You killed him. Why?” My voice finally breaks free, weak and shaky.

“What should be coming out of your mouth, Ms. Petrov,” he leans back, “is gratitude.”

“But you…you just…killed a man,” I stutter as I stare at Frankley’s lifeless eyes.

“A man who’s trying to take advantage of you?” he says, his voice bored.

“But…” My voice dies under his stare. “That doesn’t mean…you can just take another man’s life.”

He tilts his head slightly, the mocking arch of his brow saying oh really? Before he tsks.

“Where’s your father, Ms. Petrov?”

My heart skips a beat. The question catches me off guard and every ounce of resolve in me fizzles out.

“My father,” I say.

Is he here to kill my father too? Just like he did Mr. Frankley?