Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
His response is instant.
You okay? You seem distracted lately.
I almost laugh. Cole Asher, billionaire tech mogul, asking if his head of security is okay. A year ago, he was the one spiraling, obsessed with a woman he thought he’d lost. Now he’s settled, happy, playing domestic bliss with Sloane. He’d recognize what I’m doing if he knew. He’d probably understand it better than anyone.
Fine, I type. Just finishing up some recon.
The lie sits heavy in my chest. But admitting this out loud would make it real in a way I’m not ready for.
Real means consequences. Real means doing something about it. Real means risking the rejection that would gut me.
I pocket my phone and check the time again. 11:23. Her light is still on. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since I got here, and I can’t feel my fingers anymore. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and stay planted.
Tonight at Bryant Park, she was different. Slower. Intentional. That candy cane performance wasn’t accidental. She unwrapped it like she had all the time in the world, like she knew exactly where I was standing, like she wanted me to watch her mouth work that peppermint into something obscene.
My teeth grind together at the memory. My cock twitches, straining against my zipper like it has any say in this situation.
I can see her perfectly. Black hair cut in blunt bangs that frame her face, the rest falling past her shoulders in waves that catch the light. Those dark eyes, always lined blacker, like she’s daring you to look closer. Lips painted deep red tonight to match the season. She’s got this edge to her, halfway between goth and glam that shouldn’t work for me but does. The way she dresses in all black like she’s perpetually attending a funeral she finds vaguely amusing. That tiny stud in her nose that catches the light when she laughs.
Gorgeous doesn’t cover it. She’s a mystery wrapped in makeup and combat boots, and I’ve spent a year trying to solve her.
If she knows I’m following her, why hasn’t she confronted me? Why hasn’t she called the cops, or told Sloane, or done any of the things a normal person would do when they realize they have a shadow?
Because she’s not normal. And neither am I.
We’re both fucked up in ways that maybe fit together. Or maybe I’m telling myself that because the alternative is admitting I’ve become the thing I used to hunt.
Before Cole, I worked private security for high-profile clients. Politicians, executives, people who made enemies without trying. Part of the job was identifying threats. Stalkers, obsessives, the ones who convinced themselves their attention was wanted. I’d seen the letters they wrote, the rationalizations they made, the way they confused surveillance with love.
I know what I look like from the outside.
The leather notebook in my inside pocket presses against my ribs. Pages filled with observations that read like confessions. Her coffee order. The knot in the silver lace of her left boot. The way she hums while she works, melodies I can never quite place. I’ve written it all down, recorded her life in neat handwriting that would horrify a therapist.
A couple walks past, arm in arm, laughing at something on one of their phones. They don’t notice me. Most people don’t. It’s a skill, making yourself invisible. I learned it in the Marines, perfected it in the years since. Blend with the shadows, move like you belong, never make eye contact unless you want to be remembered.
Tonight I’m not trying to be invisible. I’m standing under a streetlight, for fuck’s sake. But Hailey’s curtain stays closed and I stay rooted to the spot like the pathetic bastard I’ve become.
At 12:30, her light shines. She’s moved to the back of the apartment, probably the bedroom area. Winding down, or pretending to. The wind picks up, cutting through my coat like it’s made of paper. My ears burn. I don’t move.
I should go home. Get some sleep before the briefing tomorrow. But I stay another hour, watching her window, watching the shadows move behind her curtains.
At 1:47, her light goes out.
Only then do I walk back to where I parked, hands shoved in my pockets, breath clouding in the frozen air. Tomorrow she’ll go to work early, coffee in hand, tired but pretending otherwise. I’ll be there too, watching from a distance. Making sure she’s safe.
Making sure she’s mine.
A year ago, that thought would have disturbed me. Now it feels like the truth.
The drive back to Manhattan is quiet this time of night, me and the occasional cab racing down empty streets. I find a spot near my building and kill the engine but don’t get out. Sit there in the dark, hands on the wheel.
Behind my closed eyes, I see her. That black hair. That red mouth. The way she moves through crowds like water, aware of everything, afraid of nothing.