A sharp exhale. My body tightens, then slackens, satisfaction thick in my veins.
A rough exhale tears out of me. My body relaxes, but the satisfaction hits only for a second before something else twists in its place.
I left her like that.
Panting. Shaking. Alone.
I shouldn’t give a damn. I shouldn’t care how she ended the night, whether she caught her breath, or collapsed onto the floor, or crawled out into the hallway on weak knees.
But I care enough to be irritated by the fact that I care.
I reach for a napkin on my desk and wipe my hand clean, movements slow and controlled, but my jaw ticks, the muscle tightening as the footage loops again—that moment her body caved in my hands like she was made for it. For me.
I should delete it.
I don’t.
I move my attention to the second monitor—the one I shouldn’t have on her at all.
Her apartment feed glows softly in the dark. Domestic. Ordinary. Almost painfully wholesome. She’s in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove while Ella runs circles around her. She laughs—the kind of laugh that hits you somewhere stupid and soft. She leans down to kiss the top of her sister’s head before shooing her away from the oven.
She has no idea I’m watching.
Or that I’ve been watching.
For days now, I’ve memorized the tiny pieces of her life. The way she rubs her temple when she’s frustrated. The way her lips purse when she reads something she doesn’t agree with. The way she collapses onto her couch like she’s melting at the end of every long day.
I told myself it was necessary. Strategic. Smart.
Then I installed the bedroom cameras.
Not so smart anymore.
On the feed, she’s stretched on her bed, book in hand, while hair falls over one shoulder in a messy, unconscious curl. The lamp casts this soft halo across her skin, and the room feels smaller because of it—like the world narrows down to this one quiet moment.
My stomach tightens again, low and unwelcome.
She shifts, absently dragging her fingers across her collarbone, and a sharp breath punches out of me before I can stop it. She doesn’t know what she does to a room. She doesn’t know how her absence hits harder than most people’s presence.
This isn’t control. This is something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something I should crush before it crushes me.
I slam the bourbon back in one pull, the burn doing nothing to quiet the storm inside me. My hand moves to the monitor, hovering over the pause button, but I can’t bring myself to press it. Instead, I watch as she sets the book aside and lets her head fall back against the pillow. Her eyes flutter shut, her breathing slow and even.
The simplicity of it twists in my chest. She looks peaceful, blissfully unaware of the storm she’s caught in—unaware of the fire she’s stoked in me.
I hate it. I hate that she’s gotten under my skin, that she’s turning my focus into something messy and uncontrolled. I’m supposed to want her for the drug, for the money it will generate, and for the leverage she represents. But it’s not just about that anymore. It’s about the way her lips parted at the party, the way she holds Ella close when she thinks no one’s watching, and the way her laughter echoes through that tiny apartment like it’s made of gold.
It’s about her.
And that is the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter 12
The Ghost of His Touch
Violet
The world feels wrong this morning—too bright, too sharp, and too loud even in complete silence. Sunlight slices through the blinds like it has something to prove, and the air in the apartment feels heavier than it should. My skin still vibrates faintly, like there’s a current under it I can’t turn off.
