I didn't know what burst the bubble of sleep, but I was awake now and it seemed that there would not be a return to that peaceful slumber any time soon.
He didn't make a sound, but I knew that he was there; my former stalker. I knew that he had been watching me sleep. He did not say as much, but it was obvious to me that he didn't trust me enough to have the night hours for myself, thinking that I would escape his "haven".
That was part my fault; for I didn't give him a reason to think otherwise. why would I?
I had long since lost count of how many nights we have spent with him slumped awake on that rocking chair in the corner, one eye on something in his hands, the other on my every breath. There were so many of those that sometimes it was difficult to doze off when he was not there. Those times the night time stretched as I wait for him to come, to come so that I could argue my case, my violated privacy.
This night-shift watchfulness puzzled me. was he not as human as me? did he not need his sleep as well? these stupid wonderings infuriated me, for why should I possibly care how he managed his life?
All that mattered was the audacity with which he managed mine.
But, try as I might to deny it, there were times when sleep took over while I waited for the sound of his foot falls on the carpeted hallway outside the room.
He was there, I knew it. I listened to the sounds around me-- a distant ticking of the clock outside, made louder by the impenetrable silence of the night, crickets droning outside the window. I heard no page turning, no quiet tabbing on a keyboard-- He was not doing what he used to do every night. He just watched me tonight for some reason unknown.
I took a deep breath and uncurled my body. I felt stiff on this clammy night, my breathing disturbed by the humidity. My clothes clung stickilyto my skin and my hair was damp at the fringes. It was the perfect night to spent an hour or so under a current of cold water, but I knew that a shower would have to wait. I turned my head and looked at him.
There he was as I knew he would be, fresh and at ease, unaffected by the weather, yet as hot as the sting of summer in the air, a dark masculinity that triggered the full force of my defenses, vigorous and threatening.
I hated him. I hated him and all he was with a passion that boiled in my blood.
Now, however, as the trees outside swayed to a weak breeze and the night quietness hummed around us, I met the eyes of my abductor. He looked back into mine with a ghost of a smile, and I suddenly realized that hate was gone.
Now there was a wicked tingle of excitement...
© Copyright 2016 Laila Alexander. All rights reserved.
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