I pick up the rose, turning it over in my hands and studying it like it might reveal its secrets. The petals are starting to wilt now, curling at the edges, but it's still beautiful.
I should throw it away. I should throw all of it away—the book, the bracelet, the earrings, the rose. I should purge all of these gifts that feel more like warnings, should erase every trace of whoever is doing this.
But I can't.
And sitting there, in the wee hours of the morning, a small part of myself is exhausted enough to allow myself to admit why.
Some part of me, some dark, twisted part that I don't want to acknowledge, likes the attention—likes being wanted this badly, being pursued this intensely. The thrill of fear mixed with something that feels dangerously close to desire.
Following an impulse I don’t want to examine too closely, I put the rose in a bud vase with water, setting it on my nightstand where I can see it from my bed. Then I climb under the covers, exhausted.
But I don't sleep. I lie there in the darkness, listening to every sound, waiting for something to happen.
Nothing does.
But I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that this isn't over. Whoever is doing this, whoever is watching me, they're not done yet.
And the worst part is that I'm not sure I want them to be.
8
ILYA
Iknow what I'm doing is wrong.
I know it the way I know the weight of a gun in my hand, the way I know the exact pressure required to break a man's fingers one by one. This knowledge sits in my chest like a stone as I stand outside Mara's building watching the last of the lunch crowd thin out on the street.
She left for work three hours ago. I watched her go, watched the way she paused at the corner to adjust her bag, the way she tilted her face toward the sun for just a moment before crossing the street. She looked paler than usual, and I can’t help but worry that’s my fault. That my obsession is wearing her down even as it invigorates me, like a vampire draining her without ever taking a drop of blood.
I thought the gifts would thrill her, flatter her. But they seem to be making her nervous. She didn’t take the flowers home. She hasn’t worn the jewelry. I haven’t seen her reading the book.
I've been watching her for two weeks now, learning her patterns, the architecture of her days. I know she takes her coffee black except for rare occasions. I know she runs every morning at six, except on Sundays when she sleeps until eight. I know theroute she takes to work, the grocery store she prefers, the small bookshop she visits at least once a week. I know she paints or draws almost every night.
I know everything about her except what I want most to know: what she thinks about when she's alone. What she dreams about. Whether she ever thinks of me.
And that drives me to my next step.
The building's security is laughable. There’s no doorman, and I'm inside within minutes, my lockpicks making quick work of the street-level door. Kazimir handled disabling the cameras from a distance, wordlessly following my orders without asking why the hell we’re invading an apartment building. I wonder if there will be questions from him, at some point. Surely this can’t go on much longer without him pressing the issue. It’s patently obvious that I’m not doing business here—at least, none that isn’t personal.
Her apartment is on a high floor. I've memorized the number the way I've memorized everything else about her. I stand outside her door for a long moment, my hand on the knob, and I give myself one last chance to turn back. To walk away. This is a boundary, a line I can’t uncross. I could end this and go back to Boston, back to the life that I’ve killed and conquered and bled to achieve.
The locks yield to my picks easily. The door swings open, and I step inside, closing it softly behind me.
Her apartment smells like her. That's the first thing that hits me—the scent of her perfume, jasmine and amber, mixed with the smell of coffee and old books. I stand in the entryway and breathe it in, my heart hammering with that now-familiar sensation of anticipation, the thrill that’s quickly becoming addictive.
The space is small but decorated in a very personal way, entirely unlike my own penthouses. The floors are gleaminghardwood, the walls painted a soft white and hung with art from various periods. Her couch is a soft blue-grey with softer-looking throw blankets and pillows tossed over and on it, and I see a faux marble-and-glass coffee table stacked with books and art magazines. Plants on the windowsill. Everything is neat but lived-in, comfortable in a way my own sterile penthouse has never been.
I move through the space slowly, touching nothing at first, just looking. There's a mug in the sink with a lipstick stain on the rim—the same shade she was wearing this morning. A sweater draped over the back of a chair. A pair of shoes kicked off by the door, one lying on its side.
Small details of her life.
I've killed men. I've broken bones and stripped pieces of flesh and done things that would make most people sick. I've built an empire on violence and fear, and I've never felt guilty about any of it. But standing here in Mara's apartment, surrounded by the intimate details of her life and intruding on her space, I feel something close to shame.
Close to it, but not quite there, because the shame isn't strong enough to make me leave.
Her easel has the painting she’s working on set on it: a gorgeous landscape of blurred pale greens and creams and pinks, delicate animals running through a fairytale field, gold leaf highlights woven through it. Next to the easel, there’s a different painting: this one a storm at sea, the water and sky dark, the ship a black slash against the purple of the clouds, the smallest bit of light trying to break through the storm.
Her work is beautiful. I stare at it for longer than I should, wanting to touch the paintings and knowing I shouldn’t. It feels almost as if I’d be touching her, the way I want to so badly.
