It shouldn’t make me feel this way—this sharp, electric pull that sits too close to pleasure—but it does.
She needs protecting.
And I’m the only one who can keep her safe.
I lean forward, gripping the steering wheel. My reflection stares back from the windshield, eyes hollow, my jaw tight.
This isn’t enough. Watching from a distance doesn’t keep her safe.
She needs toseethat I can protect her.
Needs tofeelit.
My gaze drifts to the mask resting on the passenger seat. Smooth. White. Familiar.
The simplest way to teach a lesson is through fear.
She’ll run. I’ll save her. She’ll understand.
Before I can second-guess it, I’m out of the truck. The air tastes like rain and copper. The vines whisper in the wind, their shadows twisting across the ground.
I pull the mask over my face. The world narrows. Controlled. Focused.
When I reach the porch, the boards creak softly beneath my boots. A light flickers in the hallway, and I catch her silhouette in the window. She’s upstairs.
I turn the knob and step inside.
The smell of her hits me first—warm honey and soap.
Her faint footsteps creak on the board above me. The low hum of the TV drifts down the stairs.
I move closer. The sound of my breathing fills the mask, echoing in my ears.
A board groans under my weight.
She freezes.
Her shadow stills against the light at the top of the stairs.
Then she calls out, her voice trembling: “Who’s there?”
I don’t answer.
She takes a step forward.
Then another.
Our eyes meet through the slits of the mask. Panic sparks in hers.
Then she whirls and bolts down the hallway.
I follow, just far enough behind to let the fear take root. I know this estate—and her.
She’s going for the back entrance through the kitchen, out the mudroom door.
She does exactly as I predict.
The door flies open and she stumbles into the night, barefoot, golden hair streaming behind her, the flashlight swinging wildly through the vines.
