“Deal.”
I hang up, as I slide my phone into my pocket, it pings again. An email notification. Cainen’s software package, right on time. I open it, scanning the instructions. Simple enough—a program that will clone her phone when installed, giving me access to her texts, calls, photos, everything. All I need is five minutes alone with her phone.
I settle in to wait, watching as Lila moves through the house. She keeps checking the windows, the doors. The security cameras are still down, thanks to the jammer. Eventually, she returns to the library, barricades the door again, and turns off all the lights, except a dim one on a table closest to her chair. But I know she’s not sleeping. Not yet. The fear is too fresh.
Hours pass. The temperature drops to its nightly low for mid-June. I should leave, come back later, but I can’tmake myself go. Not until I know she’s safe. Not until I can fix what I’ve done.
Around four in the morning, the dim light in the library finally goes dark. I wait another thirty minutes, watching for any movement, any sign she’s still awake. Nothing.
I retrieve the key from under the mat again, turning it slowly in the lock. The door opens silently, and I step inside, holding my breath. The house is quiet, dark. I move through it like a shadow, making my way to the library.
I silently pick the door lock and push gently on the door, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. The door isn’t barricaded anymore. She must have moved the chair at some point.
Lila is asleep in the lavender chair, curled up under a thick throw blanket, her red hair spilling across the pillow. Her face is finally peaceful, the worry lines smoothed away by sleep. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Her phone sits on the small table, just past where the door stops, charging. Perfect.
I move silently into the room, careful not to wake her. The installation takes less than five minutes. Cainen’s program is efficient. A small green checkmark appears on the screen, confirming the software is installed and running.
I should leave now. I’ve done what I came to do. But I can’t help standing there for a moment longer, watching her sleep. In this moment, she looks so vulnerable, so trusting. Despite the fear that drove her to barricade herself in this room earlier.
“I’m going to make you mine,” I whisper, so softly the words barely disturb the air. “I promise.”
She stirs slightly, a small frown crossing her face, and I freeze. But she doesn’t wake, just shifts under the blanket, settling deeper into sleep.
Slowly, I back away, careful not to make a sound. At the door, I pause for one last look, committing the image to memory. Lila, peaceful in sleep, surrounded by her books. The one place in this house where she feels safe.
I relock the door and pull it closed behind me with a soft click, then make my way back through the silent house. Outside, the night’s breeze is cool against my face as I remove my mask. The sky is just beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn.
As I walk back to my motorcycle hidden in the dunes, I know I’m crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Breaking laws. Violating her privacy. But I’ve seen the fear in her eyes, not just of me, but of him. Of her husband. And I can’t walk away from that. I won’t.
Tomorrow, I’ll start learning everything I can about Lila Fischer and the man who’s made her so afraid. And then I’ll figure out how to get her away from him.
For now, though, I just need to get home and sleep. I’ve done enough damage for one night.
8
Lila
Trigger Warning:Non Consent
Istare at thegrain of the wooden floor, tracing the lines and little gouges with my eyes. The house is too quiet. I can hear Eli in his office, the chair creaking under his weight, the faint thump of his desk against the wall when he slams his fist or pounds his keyboard. The walls between our rooms aren’t thick enough. I can always hear when he’s angry.
My hands tremble when I try to fold the laundry, so I give up and just stuff the shirts into the basket. I want to go back to the library, my safe room, but I have to pass his office to get there. The thought makes my stomach clench. I hover at the end of the hallway, basket pressed to my ribs, and listen.
He’s yelling, but not at me. Not yet. I recognize the words, the kind of language he uses when he’s online—“fuckin’ lag,” “bullshit RNG,” “goddamn stream snipers.” It’s comforting, in a way, to know he’s distracted. The moment I think that, the words stop, and the silence falls so hard it hurts my ears.
“Lila!” His voice slices through the house. “Get in here.”
Oh, god. He must have lost his match.
I don’t move. Maybe if I wait, he’ll just forget and do something else. But then I hear the slam of his hand on the desk, the scrape of his chair. “Now!” he shouts.
I count to five, like I always do, and then shuffle forward. The hallway carpet muffles my steps, but I know he can hear me. He’s always listening.
His door is half open, the blackout curtain drawn over the window so the room feels like a cave. It stinks in here. Sweat, old cheese, that sharp sourness that comes from leaving a wet towel to rot in the laundry. The monitors cast a blue glow over everything, turning Eli’s face into something waxy and corpse-like. He doesn’t look at me at first, just keeps clicking his mouse. Porn, it looks like. He’s got the headphones on, so I can’t hear what he’s watching, but I see the flicker of pale bodies on the screen. I don’t like it, so my eyes don’t linger.
He glances at me, then yanks the headphones off his head and lets them hang around his neck. “Get over here,” he says, voice flat, like he’s bored already.
