This is reckless. Dangerous. If she wakes, if she sees me, I could lose everything.
But I can't stop myself.
***
The drive to her building takes twelve minutes. My driver knows better than to ask questions when I tell him to wait.The night doorman—one of several building employees on my substantial payroll—nods as I enter and doesn't ask for ID.
Money buys many things. Silence and access chief among them.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the physical exertion to channel some of this dangerous energy. Six flights up, and my breathing is only slightly elevated when I reach her floor.
The hallway is empty. I use the key I had made months ago—copied from the spare she gave her building supervisor, who was happy to look the other way for the right price—and let myself into her apartment.
The silence is profound. I stand in her entryway, my heart pounding, and just breathe. The air smells like her—jasmine and that sandalwood note I added to her perfume, mixing with something that's purely Eve.
I move through the living room like a ghost, careful not to disturb anything. The hardwood doesn't creak under my weight—I know exactly where to step, having studied the building's construction plans extensively.
Years of practice have taught me how to be invisible. How to move through spaces without leaving traces. It's a skill I learned young, navigating my father's house, trying to avoid his attention when he was drinking. The ability to make myself small, quiet, unnoticeable.
Now I use those same skills for a different purpose. Not to hide from violence, but to bring myself closer to the only person who's ever made me want to be seen.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar, soft light from the city filtering through her curtains. I pause outside, listening. Her breathing is deep and even. She's asleep.
I push the door open slowly, my pulse racing, and step inside.
She's curled on her side, facing away from the door, her red braid a dark spill across the white pillowcase. The sheets are tangled around her waist, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. One hand is tucked under her pillow, the other resting on the empty space beside her.
She's utterly beautiful. Utterly vulnerable.
Utterly mine.
I move closer, each step measured and silent. The scent of her is stronger here—warm skin and clean cotton and that indefinable quality that's uniquely Eve. I stop beside the bed, looking down at her, and feel something crack open in my chest.
This is what I've dreamed of for five years. Being this close. Seeing her without the distortion of cameras. Watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing in person instead of on a screen.
My hand moves of its own accord, reaching toward her. I stop myself, trembling with the effort of control. I shouldn't touch her. This is already too far, too reckless.
But I can't stop.
I brush my fingers along her shoulder, so light she can't possibly feel it. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I trace the line of her collarbone, memorizing the texture, the temperature, the reality of her under my touch.
She doesn't stir.
Emboldened, I move my fingers up to her face, tracing the curve of her cheek with infinite gentleness. Her lips are parted slightly in sleep, and I can feel her breath against my skin. Warm. Alive. Real.
My Eve. Finally real under my hands instead of just pixels and observation.
I lean down slowly, carefully, until my face is close to hers. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Close enough to catch her scent—jasmine and sleep and dreams. Close enough to kiss her, though I don't. Not yet.
"Soon," I whisper, so quietly the word is barely more than breath. "Soon you'll know who I am. Soon you'll understand that you were always meant to be mine."
She sighs in her sleep, shifting slightly, and I freeze. My hand is still touching her face, and if she opens her eyes now, she'll see me. The ghost made flesh. The stalker revealed.
Part of me wants that. Wants her to wake and see me here, to force the confrontation I've been building toward. But the more rational part—the part that's planned every detail of this seduction—knows the timing isn't right.
Not yet.
But she doesn't wake. Just settles deeper into the pillow, her breathing evening out again.
