I should leave. Should retreat before I lose what little control I have left. But I can't resist one more touch.
I slide my hand down from her face to her neck, feeling her pulse beneath my fingers. Strong and steady. The rhythm of her life beating against my palm. I could wrap my hand around that delicate throat right now. Could control her breathing, her existence, with just a little pressure.
The thought sends a dark thrill through me, but it's immediately followed by something else. Protectiveness so fierce it's almost violent. No one will ever hurt this throat. This pulse. This woman.
Not while I'm alive to prevent it.
I trace my fingers lower, over her shoulder, down her arm, learning the landscape of her body. The slight curve of muscle. The soft skin of her inner elbow. The delicate bones of her wrist.
She's wearing that thin tank top, and I can see the outline of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. My hand hovers over her, trembling with the desire to touch, to claim, to mark her as mine in some tangible way.
Her nipple strains against her tank top, and I brush my fingertip over it, making it instantly harden. Her breathing falters for just a second. I do it again, this time a little longer. One stroke, two strokes. She moans in her sleep.
My cock is hard against my pants, and I want all of her. I could take her like this, and she wouldn't be able to do anything.
But I don't. That would wake her, and I'm not ready for that revelation yet. Not here, not like this. When she finally sees me, it needs to be on my terms. In a place where I control every variable.
Instead, I settle for memorizing every detail. The way her hair falls across the pillow. The slight part of her lips. The vulnerable curve of her neck. The soft weight of her breasts beneath thin cotton. The gentle slope of her waist, where the sheet has fallen away.
I'm hard, painfully so, my body responding to her proximity in ways I've kept rigorously controlled for years. Theurge to slide into that bed beside her, to pull her against me and feel her warmth, is almost overwhelming.
But I don't. Because that's not how this works. I'm not some common criminal breaking into and assaulting a sleeping woman. I'm claiming what's already mine, piece by careful piece, until she understands the truth. Until she submits to me entirely, body and soul.
She belongs to me. Has belonged to me since the moment I first saw her at Alex's house—a girl with fire in her hair and walls around her heart. I've watched those walls grow taller over the years, watched her build an empire from grief and determination.
And now I'm going to dismantle those walls brick by brick, until she has nowhere left to hide. Until she understands that the only safety in this world is in my arms.
"Sleep well, my Eve," I whisper, allowing myself one last touch—my fingers trailing through her hair, silk and warmth and the substance of my obsession. "Dream of me. Soon enough, you'll wake to find I'm real."
I force myself to step back, to leave the bedroom before I do something that will ruin everything. The walk to her door feels like moving through water, every step a battle against the urge to return to her side.
In the living room, I pause. I could leave another message. Move something else. Plant another seed of awareness. But no—the rose was enough for tonight. Let her process that before I escalate again.
I let myself out as silently as I entered, locking the door behind me. In the hallway, I lean against the wall for a moment, my heart racing, my hands still tingling from the feeling of her breast.
That was reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.
And I want to do it again.
Chapter 3 - Eve
The next morning, still thinking of that weird dream I had of a man standing over my bed, I stop at the boutique to pick up the gown I ordered for tomorrow's masked ball. The invitation arrived last week—heavy card stock with elegant script inviting me to an annual charity gala, organized by something called the Elysian Club. I’d never heard of this organization, and normally I'd skip these events, but something about the invitation intrigued me. Plus, it's important to be seen, to maintain connections even when my business is crumbling.
The bell chimes as I enter, and Mrs. Hampton greets me with her usual warm smile. For a moment, I let myself relax into the normalcy of it.
"Miss Sinclair! Your gown is ready."
As she rings me up, I notice Mr. Sterling, my building's superintendent, waiting near the counter. He's got that perpetually annoyed expression he always wears, and my stomach tightens. I already know this conversation won't go well.
"Mr. Sterling," I say, keeping my voice pleasant despite the anxiety churning in my gut. "I've been meaning to mention—the security light in the second-floor hallway has been out for three days now."
He barely glances at me. "I'll get to it when I get to it, Miss Sinclair. I've got twelve units to manage."
"I know, but it's really dark at night. I've nearly tripped a couple of times." I keep my voice friendly, not wanting to start a confrontation. I hate confrontation—it makes my stomach churn and reminds me too much of my parents fighting after Alex died.The yelling. The blame. The way our house became a mausoleum of grief and anger.
"You've got locks on your door, don't you?" He picks up his dry cleaning. "I'll add it to the list."
He's already walking away before I can respond, and I feel that familiar flush of frustration and helplessness. Why can't I ever stand up for myself in moments like this? Why do I always back down?
