He set the terms and as terrifying as they are…
I think I’m ready to play.
Chapter 13
Bastien Montclaire
A full week.
Seven days without watching her.
No feeds. No updates. No stolen glimpses of Laurette Devereux moving through her life.
Not because I lost interest. Far from it.
Obsession is never impulsive. It’s deliberate, controlled, every withheld urge sharpened. I would be nothing but a voyeur with a hard-on and no endgame if I gave in and watched her every time the need hit.
Laurette deserves more than that.
She needs room to breathe. Time to let the echo of my voice sink into her skin. To roll the hunger over in her mind and wonder what comes next.
She asked for obsession. Now she has to decide if she’s brave enough to want it. For real.
This morning, I made my next move.
The burner phone I sent to her arrived with a notecard—just instructions and an invitation to keep playing.
It takes only one word, Laurette. Say yes and I own every part of you. Say no and I disappear.
You’ll find my contact saved in the phone. The time has come to make your choice.
Simple. Direct. Her move now.
I must’ve refreshed the tracking on the phone every five minutes this morning. It hit the DA’s office at 10:42 a.m. Status delivered.
Good. Now comes the hard part—waiting for her reply.
I don’t pace or check my phone. I train, shower, clean my weapons.
But I don’t obsess. Not yet. Obsession can only come if she chooses it too. This only becomes a game if she’s willing to play.
The hours drag, heavier with each one. No word from Laurette. No text. No call.
Just silence.
She’s making me wait.
Maybe she needs time to understand what she’s stepping into.
Or no answerisher answer.
I stand over the stove, pan-searing a New York strip to rare. Seasoned with nothing but salt, pepper, and garlic. No sauce to hide the flavor.
I eat slowly, every second dragging, stretched taut with tension.
I can still feel her in my arms—back pressed to my chest, hips locked with mine. The ghost of her skin lingers where my mouth brushed her ear and the curve of her neck.
Our moment on the dance floor wasn’t a fantasy. It was proof. Her body saidyes.
