The portable printer I have set up in the basement buzzes to life and begins spitting out pages upon pages of old emails and text messages. My stomach twists as guilt threatens to eat at my insides.
Guilt can go fuck itself. It’s the last necessary step in my plan. The school was a breeze. It’s amazing what happens when money gets involved. Now, to break her and her boyfriend up. It’s astonishing how much power humans give technology. It’ll be but a few text messages to bring her happy relationship crashing down.
And then she’ll be mine to take once more. Mine to touch, to hold, to—
“Hey.” Tristan appears at the top of the stairs. His hand clings to the wooden beam above and he leans on it, adopting a weird ass lazy-looking position. “So, this is it, huh? You ready?”
“Yes.” She’ll be left without no one and nothing soon—nothing but me. My doll will need a new shelf to sit on and I’ve been polishing mine for her. “Where is he?”
“In place,” Tristan responds immediately. “As soon as you make the delivery, he’s good to go.”
“Perfect.”
The purrs of the printer finally stop and I lift the stack, scanning the top one. It’s these simple papers that will crumble Elena.
“She’ll ask about all this at some point, Ryker. She’s not who she was in high school. She’ll only amuse you for so long, considering how it’s her entire life being ruined.”
He thinks I’m not aware? I’m the one who knows how Elena Sparks works—how she ticks. Hell, I’m the one to make her tick. I’m aware of how she thinks, what she likes, and what will break her. Tristan may have been around for the past four years, but it changes nothing. A century could pass and I’d still know her as well as I know myself.
Steeling my patience, my teeth press hard together, my tone still sharp. “I’m aware.” And I’m prepared. Answers need to come out at some point. My doll will soon know who is to blame here.
“If you’re sure.”
My chin juts as annoyance weaves its way into my mind and banishes all forms of manners from me. “What’s it matter to you anyway? Have you been watching your mark? You have better things to do than worry about mine.”
Tristan straightens and crosses his arms. “Prickly fucker,” he grumbles, though not as quiet as I’m sure he’s aiming for. Louder, he answers, “She doesn’t seem to do much. I’m not sure what she knows, but I’m continuing to work out a plan.”
“Good.” I give a sharp nod. “Focus on that.”
I stuff the pages into a manila envelope and stride away, leaving him behind in the room of all our secrets and plans.
Excitement thrums through me, quickening my steps up the wooden stairs and out the door.
Ready or not, here I come, Dolly.
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