The rose wasn't on the doormat this time. It lay on her pillow, petals still damp from the night, a single drop of scarlet liquid staining the white linen beneath it. Not water. Not dew.

Her phone buzzed before she could scream. The message preview burned into her retina: "Found your spare key. Such a trusting girl. —E"

The bathroom door creaked open. Not from her side. From the inside.

He emerged with deliberate slowness, black coat already discarded, lean muscles moving beneath a fitted shirt. The scar tissue on his jaw glistened faintly in the lamplight. "Don't bother checking the window," he murmured, advancing with the lazy confidence of a predator who knows the hunt is over.

"How—" Her voice cracked.

"You left prints everywhere when you touched my roses." He stopped inches from her, gloved hand lifting to trace the line of her jaw. "Such beautiful prints. I could see exactly how you held them. How you hesitated before bringing them to your face."

His thumb brushed her lower lip, pressing until she gasped. "Now I want to see how you'll touch me." The glove came off with a deliberate snap, calloused fingers replacing leather. "No more games. No more messages. Just you. And what I'm going to do to you."

The phone buzzed again in her hand. Another message, sent while he stood before her: "Still think about screaming for help? Go ahead. I want to hear what you sound like when you're terrified... and turned on."