Stalking His Muse

STALKING HIS MUSE A Dark Stalker Novella K. A. PRYDE AMBER FAYE Stalking His Muse A Dark Stalker Novella * * * K. A. Pryde & Amber Faye © 2023 K. A. Pryde & Amber Faye Created with Vellum CONTENTS More by these authors Author’s Note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Epilogue MORE BY THESE AUTHORS Twin Pines Obsessions Watched Tracked Torrent Bay Series Broken Pretty Things Broken Black Heart Game of Obsession What Lies Beneath NEVER MISS AN UPDATE! Sign up for Amber and K’s newsletter here: https://sendfox.com/amberfaye AUTHOR’S NOTE This book is dark and steamy so read on at your own peril! TW for stalking and murder. CHAPTER ONE Ava I moved to the city with the dream of becoming an artist, but it seems to be rejecting me. Months have passed since I arrived in Manhattan, chasing my dream. I imagined a life full of creative expression, surrounded by like-minded individuals who would inspire and challenge me. But the reality has been far from my expectations. It's as if the city's rejecting me is an immune system response, attacking the foreign invader that I represent. Like a virus that has infiltrated a healthy body, I don't belong here, and the city is doing everything it can to expel me. I've attended countless art shows and events, but no one seems interested in my work. I've tried to connect with fellow artists, but they are all too busy or too aloof to notice me. Even my attempts to explore the city and find new inspiration have been met with disappointment. The crowds, the noise, the never-ending rush—they only make me feel more isolated and lost. In this vast metropolis, I am just a tiny speck, a nobody among millions. It's hard not to feel discouraged, to wonder if I made a mistake by coming here. But then I remember why I left my old life behind—the suffocating routine, the mundane existence, the feeling that I was wasting my potential. I may never fit in completely, but that's okay. Maybe I was never meant to. Like a virus that can't be completely eradicated, I will always be a part of this city, a tiny but persistent presence that leaves its mark. It’s funny how life works. It’s not like I’ve been alone forever. Back home I had friends. One in particular, my ride or die best friend. Lisa died in a car accident in high school, and I think I haven’t been quite the same ever since. I haven’t found a friendship like that ever since, either. Someone who would do anything for me. Someone I’d do anything for in return. I make the final stroke on my canvas and set down my paintbrush. Another in the series I'm calling "Lost." It's a series of self portraits in oil, of me in varying states of undress. I’m searching for something inside myself and I don’t know what it is—no wonder I can’t find it. I just want someone to see me for me. See my art for what it really is. I just want to be understood, and in a way I think that's what art is. Drawing, painting, writing. Stripping yourself raw in the hopes of reaching out to find other people who understand you. I step back and admire my latest creation. The painting depicts me standing tall, naked from the waist up, with my arms crossed in front of my chest. My face is a mask of defiance, my eyes burning with a fierce determination. I titled it "Unbreakable;" a reminder to myself that no matter how much rejection and loneliness I face, I am still strong. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over me. In a way, creating these self-portraits has been therapeutic. Each one captures a different facet of my personality, a different mood or emotion that I've been struggling with. By putting myself out there, naked and vulnerable, I'm forcing myself to confront my own fears and insecurities. Of course, there are those who would dismiss my art as nothing more than a desperate cry for attention. They would see my nudity as an invitation for objectification, my vulnerability as a weakness to exploit. But I know better. To me, my art is a reflection of my innermost self, a way to communicate with the world on my own terms. My phone starts to ring, jolting me out of my loop of negative thought. I can’t stare at my own work without picking it apart and beginning to feel hopeless. I answer my phone with a dismissive, “Yeah?” and I’m pleasantly surprised by the voice on the other end. My cousin Ellen lives just outside of the city, and she’s been promising to take me out drinking ever since I moved into this teeny tiny studio apartment, months ago. Her voice is cheery and upbeat, and talking to her, however briefly, brings my mood up so much that I almost don’t hate my newly finished piece as much as I did a moment ago. “So what about it?” she asks after going off on a long tangent that became an anecdote that reminded her of a joke she heard. I’m still laughing when she asks, and I’m confused. “About what?” “I’m taking you to an art show tonight. Did I forget to say that part out loud?” She has the kind of bark laughter that you can’t help but join in with. Maybe if I show up to an event with the camouflage of my cousin, who seems to effortlessly fit in wherever she goes, I won’t feel so exposed. The more I think about it, the more excited I get. I agree to go and set the phone down feeling giddy. To finish a big piece like this, and