Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew

Avery ate the eggs.

She hated herself for it, but not because they were good. She ate because her body was a machine, and this was fuel. After the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours, she was running on empty. She carefully inspected a piece of bacon, then a forkful of egg, looking for any discoloration, any sign of tampering. Finding none, she ate methodically, angrily, stabbing the fork into the plate. This was a tactical retreat, not a surrender.

She looked at the empty chair where Brandon had sat. The indentation of his body was still visible on the velvet cushion.

Her mind drifted, pulled back by the gravity of a memory she tried to suppress.

Ten years ago.

The rain was torrential, turning the boarding school grounds into a mud pit. A sixteen-year-old Avery was running behind the gymnasium, looking for a place to hide from her step-siblings.

She found Brandon instead.

He was fourteen. Small for his age, scrawny, with hair that was too long. He was on the ground, curled into a ball, being kicked by three senior boys.

They were hurting him bad. Blood was mixing with the mud.

Avery didn't run for a teacher. She didn't scream.

She saw a field hockey stick lying in the grass. It was heavy, solid wood.

She picked it up.

She walked up behind the ringleader-a boy named Trent-and swung the stick with everything she had. It connected with the back of his knees with a sickening crack.

Trent screamed and went down. The other boys turned, seeing a girl with wild eyes holding a weapon. They scrambled, terrified by the sheer ferocity in her face.

Avery dropped the stick. Her hands were shaking.

Brandon looked up. His face was a mask of bruises. One eye was swollen shut.

He didn't say thank you.

He crawled over to her. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were coated in his own blood. He smeared it across her palm.

"You saved me," he rasped, his voice broken.

"Now I belong to you."

Avery tried to pull her hand away. "You're bleeding. Go to the nurse."

Brandon just stared at her, unblinking. Imprinting.

Avery shuddered, snapping back to the present. That was the day the "Mad Dog" was born. He had grown six inches that summer and came back a nightmare. But he never touched her. He only watched.

Her phone buzzed.

Text from Unknown: Did you eat?

Text from Unknown: Was it good?

Text from Unknown: I'm watching you.

Avery blocked the number.

She stood up and walked to her laptop. She needed to focus. She had business to do. She typed "Clarke Shepard" into the search bar.

The doorbell rang.

Avery walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A delivery man.

She opened the door. He handed her a small box.

Inside was a brand new iPhone.

There was a note taped to the screen.

Don't block me.

Avery stared at the phone. He was rich, resourceful, and completely insane.