"However far it takes. Just keep him breathing."
I'm already moving. Up the stairs. Out to the car. "Alena's," I say the second I'm in the back seat.
The driver—Konstantin, good man, doesn't ask questions—pulls out immediately.
Fucking streets are full of traffic but I am closer by the second.
I pull up the feed again. They're eating now. Indian food on her dining table. Candles. The whole romantic setup. Oliver keeps leaning in. Kissing her neck. Her shoulder. His hand sliding up her thigh.
My hands shake on the phone. "Faster," I tell Konstantin. He accelerates.
The feed continues. Oliver's mouth on hers. Her hand moving to his lap. Touching him. I taste blood. Bitten through my cheek without realizing.
• • •
We pull up three houses down.
I grab my phone. Swipe to the camera controls. Deactivate them one by one. All Cameras: OFF. No record of what happens next.
I get out. Move through the shadows between houses. Her backyard is dark—no motion lights, no cameras I didn't install. The back door lock is simple. I pick it in twelve seconds.
Inside.
The house is quiet except for their voices from the dining room. "You know what would be fun?" Her voice. Breathy. Trying too hard. "You maybe tying my eyes?"
Fuck.
I move through the kitchen. Silent. Years of practice making my footsteps disappear. I reach the doorway. Peer around the corner.
She's on the table. Blindfolded. Naked from the waist up. Oliver between her legs, face buried in her pussy. She's faking the moans. I can tell. The pitch is wrong. The rhythm forced.
But he doesn't notice. Too busy congratulating himself.
Then he stands. Belt. Zipper. His hands spread her thighs wider.
I move. Three steps. Silent as death.
My hand clamps over his mouth from behind. Other arm around his throat—sleeper hold, cutting off blood to the brain. Not air. That takes too long.
He struggles. Tries to scream against my palm. I squeeze harder. Lift. His feet leave the ground as I drag him backward, one arm still locked around his throat, other handmuffling any sound. Ten seconds. His body goes limp in my grip.
I don't let go. Keep dragging. Into the kitchen. The pantry. I drop him. Zip-tie his wrists behind his back—fast, practiced, three seconds. Stuff a kitchen towel in his mouth. Duct tape over it. He'll wake up in five minutes, maybe less.
Good. Let him wake up. Let him hear.
I close the pantry door. Lock it from the outside with the latch.
Total time: forty seconds.
Walk back to the dining room.
She's still there. Blindfolded. Legs spread. Waiting for him. For another man's cock. My woman. Mine. And she was going to let him fuck her.
The betrayal hits like a knife to the gut. Two years. Two years I've been protecting her, watching her, keeping her safe. Two years of becoming a monster so she could sleep soundly in her bed. And this is what she does the second I'm not looking. Spreads her legs for the first pretty face that smiles at her.
Rage burns through me. Hot. Vicious. Possessive.
My cock is already hard. Has been since I saw Oliver's hands on her. Since I realized what she was trying to do—fuck him to forget me. Not happening. Never fucking happening.
