Page 3 of After the Chase

Now I'm his husband and the thing he watches most carefully of all.

The Venetian suite is all marble and gold, centuries of wealth soaked into every surface and a stunning view in front of me, but I barely notice it. I'm too aware of Noah standing behind me, his presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure. I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck and I know he is not looking like anyone else would, butseeing. In the way a scientist sees a specimen and a collector sees a rare acquisition.

The way a hunter sees prey it's already caught.

"You're thinking," he says, and it's not a question, it never is with him.

I smile at my reflection in the window overlooking the Grand Canal. "Always."

"About?"

About how you've killed for me at least three times that I know of. About how I should be horrified but I'm not. About how every time you touch me, I feel like I'm being claimed at a cellular level. But most of all, about how the concierge greeted us earlier.

"How beautiful it is here," I say instead, giving him partial truths. I learned early that Noah can detect lies with frightening accuracy, but partial truths slip through like silk between his fingers.

His hand settles on the back of my neck and I still at the firm grip. To anyone else, it might look tender, but I know better. His thumb finds my pulse point and presses down, not hard, justthere. It’s like he’s monitoring my heartbeat and checking vital signs.

"You're lying," he murmurs against my ear, his breath causing me to shiver. "You're thinking about the concierge."

My heart stutters, and I know he feels it. Of course he noticed and I’m fucking dumb for thinking he can’t detect partial truths, the asshole notices everything. The concierge had smiled at me when we checked in, his eyes lingering on my mouth as he described the rooftop restaurant and mentioned he would be our server while we are here. I hadn't thought anything of it because nobody else interests me.

But Noah had.

"I wasn't..." I start, but his grip tightens fractionally.

"Don't."

I exhale and let my head fall back against his shoulder as I surrender. It's always surrender with us now, and the fucked-up thing is how much I crave it. How much Ineedit. I remember his therapy sessions, noting his inability to form genuine emotional connections, his cold calculation in every interaction. I wroteclinical notes about his attachment style:possessive satisfaction rather than affective warmth.

Now I'm the object of that possession, and fuck I need more, always need more.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I mean it in ways that have nothing to do with the concierge.

Noah's other hand comes around my waist, pulling me back against him. In the window's reflection, I study his face, beautiful and empty, like a Renaissance angel carved from ice. No warmth in those dark eyes or softness. Just absolute, unwavering focus on me.

"You don't need to apologize for what other people do," he says in that particular tone I've learned to recognize. Detached. The voice he uses when he's making decisions about problems that need to be solved. "You only need to remember who you belong to."

"I remember." I turn in his arms, meeting those empty eyes directly. "I never forget."

Something flickers across his face. I think it’s gratification, but I’m not sure. It’s the kind of look a collector gets when admiring a particularly rare piece. That was another expression of his I used to highlight in my notes. But now I just feel it wash over me like a drug.

"We should go to dinner," Noah says, his thumb tracing my lower lip with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs. "The rooftop restaurant, you wanted to see the view."

My pulse quickens. "Noah…"

"I insist." His smile is slight, barely there. "The concierge recommended it so highly."

The rooftop restaurant is everything it promised, candlelit tables, the Venice skyline spread out like scattered diamonds, the type of romantic atmosphere that belongs in movies or on TikTok by those influencers who pretend their relationships are all romantic and happy. We're seated at a corner table with a perfect view, and I try to focus on the menu while hyperaware of Noah's stillness across from me.

He doesn't fidget. Doesn't shift or drum his fingers or display any of the small, unconscious movements that mark normal human restlessness. He simplyexists,a shadow full of complexity, his attention fixed on me with microscopic intensity.

This is how it's been since we started traveling. France, Prague, now Venice. Noah's gaze has somehow sharpened, his possessiveness crystallizing into something even more absolute. Noah is purely himself and that does not fit into every day society, but it has become my new normal.

Noah is a creature of singular, terrifying devotion.

"The risotto looks good," I offer, desperate to fill the silence.

"Order whatever you want,” he says, and his eyes haven't left my face as I swallow hard. "You barely ate on the train."