Z A D E

She has no idea I’m here.

No idea that as she sleeps, I stand in the shadows, watching.

The closet door is slightly ajar, giving me the perfect view of her. The soft glow of the moon filters through the sheer curtains, bathing her in silver light. She’s curled up on her side, the delicate straps of her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth, bare skin.

I clench my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to reach out and touch.

She looks so peaceful. So fucking innocent.

She has no clue that a monster lingers in the darkness of her own room, hiding in plain sight.

I wait.

I wait for her breathing to slow, for that final twitch of her fingers before she sinks deeper into unconsciousness. I know the moment she’s fully gone—the steady rise and fall of her chest, the complete relaxation of her limbs.

That’s when I move.

Silent as a ghost, I step out of the closet, my boots making no sound against the floor. My gaze locks onto her, drinking in every inch of her exposed skin, the way her fingers clutch the edge of her pillow as if seeking comfort.

She wouldn’t find comfort if she knew I was here.

I could take her now.

Pin her down beneath me. Rip that pathetic excuse of a nightgown from her body, leaving nothing but her bare skin against my clothes. I could spread her legs, force her thighs apart, and ruin her until she’s gasping for air, until she knows—until she feels—that she belongs to me.

I could make her cry. Make her beg.

And she would.

At first, she’d fight me. She’d try to push me away, scream into the night, but I’d devour every sound, swallow every protest, until her body betrayed her—until her back arched, her fingers digging into my shoulders instead of pushing me away.

Until she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

Fuck.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair, forcing myself to focus. Not yet.

She isn’t ready for me.

Yet.

Instead, I reach into my coat, pulling out the single, blood-red rose. My fingers brush against the soft petals, and for a moment, I imagine how much softer her skin would feel beneath me.

I move closer, crouching beside her bed, close enough to hear the faint sounds of her breath. If I leaned in just a little more, I could feel the warmth radiating off her.

I place the rose on the empty side of her bed—the side that should be mine.

One day soon, I’ll be lying right there.

One day soon, she’ll wake up beneath me instead of alone.

But for now, I let her sleep.

My fingers hesitate, hovering just above the blanket that shields her from me. Slowly, deliberately, I grasp the edge and pull it down an inch, just enough to expose more of her bare shoulder, the curve of her collarbone. My breath hitches as my gaze lingers, burning the image into my mind.

So fucking perfect.

She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent. My body stills, muscles tensing as I watch for any sign of wakefulness. But she settles again, lost in whatever dream she’s having.

I want to know what she dreams about.

Does she dream of the twisted men she writes about? The ones who take, who own, who claim what isn’t theirs?

Would she be terrified if she knew one lurked in her room, watching her sleep?

Or would she welcome me, even in the dark corners of her mind?

My fingers twitch with the need to touch her, to feel the softness of her lips beneath my thumb. A small indulgence—I tell myself it’s harmless—as I reach out and let the pad of my finger trail over her bottom lip.

Warm. Soft.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.

But I can’t stop.

Her lips part slightly at the contact, and my gut tightens, a deep, primal hunger clawing at my insides. My little innocent writer.

She has no idea.

No idea that her life isn’t her own anymore. No idea that every breath she takes, every move she makes, is now under my watchful gaze.

I let my hand drift lower, hovering just above her throat, feeling the warmth of her skin radiate against my palm. I could wrap my fingers around her neck, feel the delicate pulse beneath my grip, mark her with bruises she’d never be able to hide.

But not yet.

This is just the beginning.

With a smirk, I pull away, standing to my full height. She shifts again, rolling slightly onto her back, her nightgown riding up just enough to tease me with a glimpse of the smooth skin of her thigh.

Fucking hell.

I force myself to turn away, stepping back into the shadows where I belong. With one last glance at her peaceful, oblivious face, I slip out of her room, moving as silently as I came.

She’ll wake up to the rose.

She’ll wonder who left it.

She’ll feel the lingering sensation of something—of someone—watching.

And that’s exactly what I want.

She’s already mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

The underground club is buzzing with life—laughter, drunken slurs, the distant pulse of music vibrating through the walls. Smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive cologne and sin.

I step inside a private lounge, where the real business happens. Plush leather seats. A marble table between us. And across from me—Daniel Grayson, a man who has too much money and not enough fucking sense.

He’s dressed like he owns the world—tailored suit, gold cufflinks, a smirk that makes me want to carve it off his face.

“Mr. Meadows,” he says smoothly, swirling his whiskey. “Let’s talk business.”

I don’t respond. I just watch him, silent, waiting.

He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking. The terms we originally discussed? I’m going to need to adjust them.”

A pause.

My fingers tap once against the table. Slow. Controlled.

Adjust them?

“I’ll be taking seventy percent,” Grayson continues, as if he didn’t just sign his own death warrant. “You still get your cut, of course. But let’s be honest—your resources mean nothing without someone with my influence in the corporate world.”

I smile. A lazy, almost amused thing.

Then, without warning, I lunge.

My hand wraps around his throat, slamming his head back against the seat. His whiskey spills onto the table, the glass crashing to the floor.

“Seventy percent?” My voice is low, calm. Deceptively so. “Tell me, Grayson… are you fucking stupid, or did you just wake up and decide to die today?”

He gasps, clawing at my grip. His men start to move, but the sound of a gun clicking stops them cold.

One of mine—Kade—leans against the wall, his gun pointed lazily at Grayson’s bodyguards.

“Sit down,” Kade drawls. “Unless you’re ready to watch your boss choke to death.”

Grayson’s face is turning red. His pulse beats wildly beneath my fingers.

“P-Please,” he stammers. “I-I just thought—”

“That’s your first mistake,” I murmur. I release him suddenly, and he coughs violently, clutching his throat. “I don’t do business with men who overestimate their worth.”

He wheezes, shaking, but I see it—the slight twitch of his hand toward his jacket. A weapon.

Wrong fucking move.

Before he can even touch it, I pull my own gun, pressing it beneath his chin.

“You just don’t learn, do you?” My voice is softer now, almost affectionate. “This was a simple deal. You work under me. You get paid well. You breathe. But you let greed cloud your judgment.”

“N-No, I—”

Bang.

The silencer muffles the gunshot, but the moment it happens, everything stops. His body slumps against the seat, his eyes wide with shock, blood trickling down his throat.

I stand, adjusting my cuffs. “Clean this up.”

Kade smirks. “With pleasure.”

As I walk out of the club, stepping into the cool night air, my mind drifts back to her.

To Adeline.

So sweet. So innocent.

And so fucking oblivious to the monster who’s already decided she belongs to him.

The night air is crisp against my skin as I step out of the underground club, adjusting my cuffs with slow precision. The scent of blood lingers faintly in my nostrils, mixing with the distant hum of the city’s filth and sin.

Grayson was a fucking fool.

A reminder that power is meant to be taken, not negotiated.

Kade follows a few steps behind, lighting a cigarette as he falls into stride with me. “That was messy,” he mutters, taking a long drag. “But damn, was it satisfying.”

I don’t respond. My mind is elsewhere—on her.

On Adeline.

Her name tastes foreign in my mouth, yet it clings to my thoughts like an addiction I can’t shake. The memory of her in that fragile nightgown, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her lips beneath my touch…

She has no idea how close she is to being consumed.

Kade exhales a plume of smoke. “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”

I shoot him a warning glance, but he only smirks. The bastard has always been too observant for his own good.

“Careful, Zade,” he says, flicking the cigarette into the gutter. “Obsession has a way of making even the strongest men weak.”

I scoff. “You think I’m weak?”

“No.” His smirk fades, replaced by something more calculating. “But I think she might be your weakness.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t have weaknesses.

Not anymore.

Not since I carved my way through this world with blood and violence, ensuring no one could ever hold power over me again.

And yet…

She exists in a space no one else does. A dangerous, uncharted territory that even I can’t fully understand.

Not yet.

I slide into the backseat of my blacked-out SUV, the leather cool beneath my fingertips as I pull out my phone. The security app flickers to life, a live feed of her apartment illuminating the screen.

Adeline is still asleep. Unaware. Safe—for now.

I lean back, watching her through the grainy footage. She stirs slightly, as if sensing something. As if feeling me.

A smirk tugs at my lips.

She’s already mine.

It’s only a matter of time before she realizes it.

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