Z A D E

She likes my flower.

I watch from the shadows, eyes fixed on the screen, taking in every flicker of emotion that crosses her face. The way her fingers brush over the petals, hesitant yet lingering. The way her lips part ever so slightly, her breath unsteady as she stares at the rose on her nightstand.

She’s thinking about me.

She doesn’t know it yet—not fully—but I’ve already slipped under her skin. I see it in the way her brows knit together, confusion warring with something deeper. She tells herself it’s unease, that it’s fear clawing up her spine.

But I know better.

She’s intrigued.

A slow, dark smirk curves my lips as I lean back in my chair, my fingers tapping lazily against the desk. The monitor in front of me captures every delicate movement, every subtle reaction. Her friend is gone now, leaving Adeline alone in the quiet of her apartment. And I see it—the way she exhales, the tension in her shoulders loosening as she falls into the silence.

That’s when her real emotions surface.

She picks up the rose again, bringing it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Her lashes flutter for just a second. A moment of indulgence. She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing.

That’s it, little writer. Breathe me in. Let me sink into your thoughts, into your veins.

She sets the flower down with a shaky exhale, rubbing her arms as if warding off a chill. But she doesn’t throw it away. No, she keeps it right beside her, on the nightstand, close enough to reach for.

Possessiveness coils tight in my chest.

She’s already mine.

She just doesn’t understand it yet.

My fingers curl around the edge of the desk, gripping it hard enough to turn my knuckles white. Watching her like this, knowing she’s completely oblivious to my presence, does something to me. It feeds the hunger, sharpens the need.

Adeline Reilly. Sweet. Naïve. A little too stubborn for her own good. But she won’t fight me when the time comes.

She won’t want to.

I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, exhaling slowly as I let my eyes roam over her through the screen. She moves to her bookshelf, running a hand along the spines of her novels. Her haven. Her world of fiction. She’s spent years writing about men like me, conjuring up fantasies of darkness and desire.

She doesn’t realize she’s about to live it.

She lingers in front of the window for a moment, gazing out at the city. A small frown tugs at her lips. Is she thinking about me? About the roses? About the fact that someone—her shadow, her ghost—walked into her home, left a piece of himself behind, and vanished without a trace?

I hope so.

I need her to think about me. To crave the answers she won’t find. To let me haunt her every waking thought.

And soon…

I’ll be more than just a thought.

I’ll be a presence she can’t escape.

A reality she won’t want to.

---

I should be focused.

The room pulses with low voices, a symphony of greed and ambition wrapped in the stench of expensive cigars and aged whiskey. The air is thick, suffocating, laced with the kind of tension that only men who think they have power can create.

They talk in careful, measured tones, each syllable chosen with precision. They think their words matter. That they can sway me.

Fools.

I swirl the liquor in my glass, watching the way the amber liquid clings to the sides, sluggish and dark. A slow, creeping thing. Like the thoughts in my head.

Like me.

I should be listening. Should be calculating my next move. But my patience is a frayed wire, sparking with irritation. My mind is somewhere else.

On her.

On what she’s doing.

On how easy it would be to press a button and watch her in real-time.

My fingers twitch toward my pocket, itching to pull out my phone, to see her—to see what my little writer is doing in the silence of her apartment. Is she staring at the rose again? Touching the petals with hesitant fingers, wondering who left it for her?

Does she feel me?

Does she sense the shift in the air, the weight of my presence pressing against her even from miles away?

I force myself to wait.

Across from me, Santiago Vasquez watches me closely, mistaking my distraction for contemplation. A critical mistake. He leans forward, the dim light casting jagged shadows over his sharp features. His Rolex gleams under the chandelier’s glow, a subtle flex of wealth and power. He thinks it matters.

It doesn’t.

“We both know the Russians are making a move,” he says, his voice slick with false camaraderie. “If we strike first, we can—”

I exhale slowly through my nose, cutting him off before he can finish. My gaze slides to him, cold and detached. “I don’t need your advice, Vasquez.”

His fingers twitch, then curl into a fist. He forces a chuckle, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him.

Men like Vasquez survive because they know when to step back. When to bite their tongues. But there’s always a moment—a single, fatal mistake—when they forget who truly holds the leash.

Santiago tilts his head, feigning amusement. “I’m just saying, we can work together on this.”

I glance at Kade, who stands behind me like a silent executioner. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just waits for my command.

I let my gaze drift back to Vasquez, slow and deliberate. I let him see it—the warning curling in the depths of my eyes.

“I don’t do partnerships.”

The words drop like a death sentence, final and inescapable. I set my glass down with a quiet thud, the sound lingering, stretching between us.

“If the Russians cross me, they’ll die.” My voice is calm, steady. The kind of certainty that makes men rethink their choices. “Simple as that.”

Vasquez swallows. “And if they come for your businesses?”

I smirk, slow and cruel. “Then I’ll burn theirs to the ground.”

A flicker of unease passes over his face. He hides it well, but not well enough.

Good.

The silence thickens, pressing against him, suffocating. Finally, Vasquez nods stiffly. “Understood.”

I push back my chair, the leather groaning under the movement. Kade is at my side instantly, ready to follow.

“Good talk,” I say without looking back.

Kade falls into step beside me, his voice low. “You barely let him speak.”

“He was wasting my time.”

Kade huffs a quiet laugh. “And what’s so urgent?”

I don’t answer.

But my fingers twitch toward my pocket.

Toward the live feed.

Toward her.

The moment I step into my car, I pull out my phone with shaking fingers.

I can’t fucking breathe without her.

My lungs constrict, my skin burns, my pulse pounds against my skull like a goddamn war drum. Every second I spent in that room, pretending to give a shit about Vasquez and his pathetic concerns, was pure agony. A slow, torturous death.

I need her.

I need to see her.

The screen flickers to life, and the moment she appears, the tension coiled inside me snaps.



Sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, lost in the pages of a book.

Completely unaware that she’s being consumed.

My vision tunnels, everything else fading into nothing. The world outside this car? Meaningless. The men still waiting for my orders? Insignificant.

All that matters is her.

My breathing slows, my heartbeat steadies, the gnawing hunger inside me temporarily soothed. But not for long. Never for long.

She shifts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and my fingers twitch, my whole body tightening.

I should be touching her.

I should be there, right now, in the shadows of her apartment, watching her from just a few feet away instead of through a goddamn screen.

My grip on the phone turns white-knuckled.

I could do it.

It would take minutes.

Slip through the locks like they were never there, move soundlessly across the floor until I was right behind her. So close I could smell the faint vanilla scent clinging to her skin. So close I could hear the stutter of her breath when her instincts finally register my presence.

Would she turn slowly?

Would her lips part in a quiet gasp?

Would she run?

A shudder rolls through me, dark and deep. I let my head drop back against the seat, dragging my tongue over my teeth as I stare at her through the screen.

She has no fucking clue what she does to me.

How she’s ruined me.

How I’m losing myself to this obsession, slipping further, deeper—willingly drowning in her without a single thought of saving myself.

I don't want to be saved.

I want to sink into her. Inside her.

I exhale, my breath ragged, my blood pounding, and a sick thought slithers into my mind.

I could take her.

Right now.

I could steal her away, lock her in a world where I’m the only thing she sees, the only thing she knows.

Would she fight me?

Would she scream?

Or would some dark, hidden part of her want it?

I close my eyes, pressing the cool edge of my phone against my temple, trying to silence the roaring need inside me.

Not yet.

She’s not ready.

But soon…

Soon, she’ll understand.

That this isn’t obsession.

It’s possession.

And there’s no escape from me.

Not now.

Not ever.

---

I should be working.

The city is quiet outside my penthouse, the skyline swallowed by the suffocating weight of night. Inside, the glow of my monitors casts long shadows, screens filled with encrypted messages, financial reports, and the silent hum of my empire.

But my mind isn’t here. It hasn’t been for years.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples, frustration coiling tight in my chest. I’ve gone through the motions all night—meetings, strategies, threats—but none of it holds my focus. Not when she exists. Not when she’s out there, breathing, moving, living in a world that doesn’t yet belong to me.

Not when I know she’s just beyond this screen, unaware of the monster watching her every move.

I shouldn’t do it. Not again. I should let her be, give myself space to breathe. But the second my fingers reach for the keyboard, I already know I’m past that point. I pull up the feed, my body tensing with the anticipation that lingers in my veins like a fucking sickness.

And then, I see her.

Bathroom.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

Adeline stands in front of the mirror, her body bathed in soft, artificial light, casting a golden sheen over her skin. She’s biting her lip, hesitant, her fingers ghosting over the hem of her shirt.

My breathing slows.

She peels it off.

The fabric drags over her stomach, inch by inch, revealing bare, smooth skin beneath. Her breasts shift with the motion, the swell of them more perfect than I ever imagined. I exhale through my nose, gripping the edge of my desk as she unhooks her bra, letting it slide down her arms.

Fuck.

I can’t move. Can’t blink.

She doesn’t know she has an audience. Doesn’t know the kind of fire she’s playing with.

Her hands smooth down her stomach, and she shivers as her fingers dip beneath the waistband of her shorts. She hesitates for just a moment before pushing them down, letting them fall at her feet. The last scrap of fabric follows, and suddenly, she’s bare.

My chest rises and falls in sharp, measured breaths.

She steps into the shower, twisting the knob until water cascades down her spine. Steam billows around her, turning her into something ethereal, something unreal.

But it’s when she reaches for the jet spray that my grip on control starts to slip.

She tests the pressure, fingers adjusting the settings until she’s satisfied. And then—

A soft gasp leaves her lips as the stream of water hits her clit.

My jaw clenches.

Her legs tremble as she leans against the wall, one hand gripping the slick tile while the other moves to her breast, teasing, rolling her nipple between her fingers. Her lips part, her breath shaky, her hips subtly tilting to chase the sensation.

She’s fucking beautiful.

Heat pulses through my veins, my fingers twitching against my thigh. I should stop watching. I should look away.

But I don’t.

I lean in closer, my pulse a steady, aching thrum in my ears.

She moves the jet spray in slow, lazy circles, teasing herself, drawing out her own pleasure. Her breaths turn into soft moans, barely audible over the rush of water. I imagine them in my ear. Imagine her writhing beneath me, making those same sounds as I drag my mouth down her body, tasting, devouring.

She tilts her head back, eyes fluttering shut, completely lost in it.

She has no idea.

No idea how deep I’ve sunk. How far I’ve already fallen.

And when she finally breaks, when her body tightens and her lips part in a silent cry, I know—

I won’t survive this obsession.

I don’t want to.

Fuck. She shouldn’t be doing this.

Not by herself.

Not without me.

The thought sinks its claws into my mind, poisoning my restraint, feeding the hunger that’s been festering for too long. I should be the one making her fall apart. My hands, my mouth, my cock—she should never have to seek pleasure anywhere but beneath me.

My grip tightens around the armrests of my chair, tension coiling in my muscles like a predator ready to strike. I should be satisfied, should take pleasure in watching her like this, lost in the illusion that she’s alone.

But I’m not.

It’s not enough.

I push away from the desk, standing abruptly. My body is thrumming with restless energy, a fire burning through my veins, demanding action. My jaw ticks, my fists clenching at my sides.

I need to touch her.

To mark her.

To ruin her for anyone else, including herself.

My gaze drags back to the screen, to where she’s slumped against the shower wall, chest rising and falling, lips parted in the aftermath of her pleasure.

That should have been me.

A growl rumbles low in my throat, my nails digging into my palms as I fight the impulse to leave. To get in my car, drive to her apartment, and finish what she started.

The logical part of my mind warns me against it. Reminds me that it’s not time yet. That she doesn’t know me—doesn’t fear me—doesn’t understand that she’s already mine.

But patience has never been my strong suit.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone. My fingers hover over the screen, debating.

I could break her reality in a second.

One call. One message. One whisper in the dark.

I could let her know I’ve been watching. That she belongs to me in ways she hasn’t even begun to understand.

But that would be too easy.

She doesn’t get to know yet.

Not until it’s too late.

A slow, dark smirk curls at my lips as I lower the phone.

She’s already falling into my web.

She just doesn’t realize I’ve been pulling the strings all along.

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