When she woke up, there were 17 voicemails from a stranger.

Seventeen.

Her phone lay face down on the nightstand, buzzing with new alerts. She blinked at it, mind foggy, heartbeat uneven. At first, she thought it was spam. A prank. Someone screwing with her.

But curiosity won.

She pressed play.

“Good morning, Angel. I’ve been waiting.”

Her pulse stuttered. Angel? That wasn’t her name. Not to anyone. Except him.

The second voicemail was worse. Or better, she couldn’t tell.

“I saw you move last night. That dress… it clung to you like it was made for me.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands shook. Fear and something darker coiled in her chest, twisting together. She shouldn’t have listened. She knew she shouldn’t. But she did.

The third and fourth voicemails followed quickly. Whispered words that made her skin crawl, that made her ache in places she didn’t want to admit. He described her apartment. The faint scar above her left knee. The scent of her shampoo. The quiet sound of her heels clicking across the floor

By the fifth voicemail, panic wrapped around her like a constricting rope. But it wasn’t just fear. Her body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her belly, knees trembling, pulse racing.

I know you’re awake now. Don’t move too fast,” he said.

His voice slid over her skin, curling like smoke. Dangerous, intoxicating, impossible to resist.

The sixth and seventh voicemails were instructions. Small ones, at first. Unlock your bedroom door slightly. Leave the balcony light on. Open the window a crack.

She should have ignored them. She should have deleted them all. But she didn’t. She wanted to know. She wanted to see what would happen.

The eighth voicemail made her blood run cold.

“I’m close,” he whispered. His breathing was deliberate. Deep. Taut. “So close I can smell you.”

Her body reacted before her brain did. She shivered, trembling. This wasn’t right. But it was too thrilling to stop.

By the tenth voicemail, he had started moving. The microphone picked up subtle sounds—shoes on wood, fingers brushing across fabric, a soft exhale that didn’t belong to her. He was near. Too near.

The eleventh voicemail made her heart pound.

“You’re shaking. Delicious.”

She pressed her back against the wall, trying to tell herself it was her imagination. But every nerve screamed. The shadows seemed to stretch, to bend toward her. The twelfth and thirteenth voicemails overlapped. His voice was everywhere now, wrapping around her mind.

“Turn around.”

“Don’t scream.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. Breath quickened. Eyes darted. The shadows were moving. She could feel them brushing along her skin, impossibly light and impossible to ignore. Her phone buzzed again. Seventeen. The final voicemail. She hesitated, fingers trembling. She knew it was coming. She knew she shouldn’t listen.

“I’m already inside you,” the voice whispered. “Don’t fight it. I’ve been waiting… for you… for everything.”

Her apartment went silent. Her heartbeat thundered. She could hear the air moving, the walls breathing. And then she saw it.

A shadow, sleek and dark, hovering in the corner of her vision. Human... but not. Smelling of vanilla and something older, hungrier. She spun. Her voice caught in her throat. She couldn’t scream. Her body betrayed her again. Desire and terror intertwined, burning through her. The shadow moved closer. Warm, deliberate. Her pulse raced. The air thickened around her.

“Finally,” it whispered. “You’re mine now.”

Her knees hit the floor. Shivering, aching, terrified—and more alive than she had ever felt—she believed it. Because she wanted to.

He, or it, brushed against her cheek, cold and impossibly soft. The scent of vanilla and danger filled her lungs. Every nerve sang. Every muscle trembled. Her body burned. The shadow leaned closer. His...it's —voice vibrated inside her skull.

“I’ve wanted this,” it murmured. “Every shiver, every heartbeat. I’ve watched, waited, drawn you closer. And now…”

Now, she could feel the edges of herself slipping. The edges of control. Her fear twisted into need. Her terror mingled with a heat she couldn’t name.

“I’m inside you,” it repeated. “And you like it.”

Her body arched without permission. Her pulse raced, blood roaring in her ears. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t fight. The shadow circled her, tracing the curves of her body with its gaze. She felt exposed. Naked. Every whisper of it's breath against her skin set her nerves on fire.

“You taste of fear. You smell of want. I’ve been waiting for both,” it whispered.

Her phone buzzed again. But she didn’t reach for it. She didn’t need to. The voicemails had never been calls. They had been invitations. Keys to a door she didn’t know she wanted opened. And now, she was inside it.

The shadows deepened, wrapping her in warmth and cold, pleasure and horror. She gasped. She trembled. She surrendered.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, though her lips barely moved.

The shadow hummed, a sound like silk sliding over glass. “Yes. Finally. And now… you’re mine.”

And she believed it. Because she wanted it.

Because she was already lost.