I scan the room, taking in details I was too frightened to notice before. The furniture is expensive but minimal. No photographs, no personal touches beyond a few military awards mounted on one wall. This doesn't feel like a home so much as a fortress. A place designed for security, not comfort.
A door off the main living area catches my attention—not the front door, but another one, partially ajar. I approach it cautiously, pushing it open with one finger.
An office. Dark wood desk, computer with multiple monitors, filing cabinets. And covering one entire wall—me.
My breath catches in my throat. Dozens of photographs. Me leaving the bookstore. Me getting coffee. Me walking in the park, reading on a bench, shopping for groceries. Close-ups of my face, my hands, my body. Notes scribbled beside some of them, details about my routines, my habits. A calendar with my work schedule marked out.
This isn't protection. This is obsession.
Fear floods my system, icy cold where there was heat before. I back away from the wall of photos, bumping into something solid. Not the wall.Him.
Woodrow's hands come to rest on my shoulders, gentle but firm. I freeze, caught like a rabbit in a snare.
"You weren't supposed to see this yet," he says, his voice rumbling against my back. Not angry. Almost…embarrassed?
I wrench away from his touch, spinning to face him. He's wearing only sweatpants, his broad chest bare, covered in scars and tattoos I was too overwhelmed to fully notice last night. He's even more imposing in the daylight, muscles shifting under tan skin as he crosses his arms.
"What the hell is this?" I gesture wildly at the wall of photos. "This isn't protection. This is stalking! You're—you're obsessed with me!"
His expression doesn't change. Calm. Controlled. "Yes."
The simple admission knocks the wind from my lungs. I expected denial, justification, not…acceptance.
"Yes?" I repeat, incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"
"What would you like me to say, Priscilla?" He steps toward me, and I step back, bumping against the desk. "That I saw you one day and couldn't look away? That something about you called to everything in me? That I knew, from that first moment, you were meant to be mine?"
Each question brings him closer, until he's looming over me, his heat and scent enveloping me again, making it hard to think straight.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
“Oh, I know you very well, little girl.” My thigh clench together at the endearment, and his eyes flick down to them as if he knows what he’s done to me. My cheeks flame. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. Despite everything, I shiver at the contact. "I know you're lonely. I know you keep people at arm's length. I know you read romance novels when no one's watching, dreaming of a connection you've never let yourself have."
My eyes widen. How could he possibly know that? Have I been that transparent? That pathetic?
"Don't look so scared, little girl." His voice drops lower, soothing, the same tone he used last night when he called himself Daddy. "I've only ever wanted to protect you. To keep you safe."
"By stalking me?" My voice catches, trapped between outrage and something else. Something I'm afraid to name.
"By watching over you." His other hand slides around my waist, drawing me closer despite my half-hearted resistance. "Those men would have taken you if I hadn't been there. Would have hurt you in ways you can't imagine."
He's right, and that's the most infuriating part. If he hadn't been following me, hadn't been obsessed with me, I might be in the hands of those kidnappers right now. The devil I know versus the devils I don't.
"This isn't normal," I say, but my body betrays me, leaning into his touch. "This isn't healthy."
"Nothing about what I feel for you is normal." His lips brush my forehead, feather-light. "From the moment I saw you, I knew I'd kill, maim, or burn the world to keep you safe. To make you mine."
The words should terrify me. Instead, they send a thrill down my spine, a pulse of heat between my legs. What kind of woman gets turned on by this? By a man so obsessed he's covered a wall with her photos? By promises of violence in her name?
Me, apparently. This new, unfamiliar version of me that emerged the moment Woodrow entered my life.
"I don't understand this," I admit, my hands coming up to rest against his chest. Not pushing him away. Just feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palms. "I don't understand you. I don't understand me, how I can be so…affected by you."
"You don't have to understand it." His lips trace a path down my temple, my cheek, hovering just above mine. "Just feel it. Trust it. Trust me."
He kisses me then, softer than last night but no less possessive. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming it as thoroughly as he claimed the rest of me. And God help me, I kiss him back. My fingers curl against his chest, nails digging into hard muscle as heat explodes through my body.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach through his sweatpants.
