The Stalker Next Door: 23. Training

Mara woke to the smell of coffee.

For a moment she thought she was home. The window light was soft, the sheets warm. Her muscles ached like she’d run a marathon, her skin still stung where the belt had struck, but there was no leather strap on her wrist anymore.

She sat up slowly. On the chair across from the bed sat a neatly folded pile of clothes — a plain grey dress, soft cotton underwear. Next to it, a tray of food: oatmeal, toast, water.

And a note, written in blocky handwriting:

Eat. Shower. Dress. Sit on the floor by the window. Wait.

Her stomach turned. Not just at the order, but at the fact that she wanted to obey it. Her body was starved and aching; the food looked like salvation. She hated herself for the flicker of relief.

She forced herself to stand, her legs trembling. She glanced at the door. Locked. She wasn’t surprised.

She showered. Not because he told her to, she told herself, but because she felt dirty. Because s