Page 55 of A Smile Full of Lies (Secrets of Stonewood #1)

Maybe she thought I’d take pity on her. Maybe she thought I’d wait another night. But she was wrong, so fucking wrong.

Because I was done waiting.

I watched the screen for another minute, another breath, another heartbeat — and when she still didn’t move, I sent her a screenshot of her location from my burner phone and stood.

My phone hit the table with a dull thud. I turned, walked down the hall, and opened the locked desk drawer in my office.

The mask was waiting.

Slick black, smooth as sin, with those glowing neon violet lines stitching out an eerie, monstrous face with x-shaped eyes and a too-wide mouth reminiscent of her stitched-up scars.

Nox Obscura.

The name she whispered in the dark. The handle she clung to when her thighs were shaking and her breath hitched and she thought no one would ever know how badly she wanted to be hunted, cornered, caught.

I pulled the mask free and ran my leather-gloved thumb down its edge, then flicked the switch to light it up.

Tonight, she was going to learn the whole truth.

No more hiding. No more teasing her from behind a screen. No more pretending I was someone she could keep at a distance.

It was time. I slid the mask on and made my way back to the chair that faced the living room entrance.

Let her come home to me. Let her walk through that door and see what she’d really been craving this whole fucking time.

Headlights slashed across the curtains.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I just sat there in the dark, bathed in the low purple glow of the mask’s neon grin, and waited.

Three weeks.

Three fucking weeks without her. Without her voice. Without the weight of her stare pinning me in place like I was something holy. Something fragile. Something she might finally choose if I just stayed still long enough.

And now? Now, the game was over.

The engine cut off.

She didn’t get out right away. I watched the faint flicker of motion behind the windshield, her silhouette frozen in place. Probably gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Probably trying to catch her breath.

Still stalling. Still trying to control the spiral.

She never could.

The car door finally cracked open, then shut behind her with that soft, hesitant click.

Then… footsteps. The slow, careful shuffle of tired feet against the driveway. Her keys jangled. Her bag bumped against her hip. The soft whoosh of her sigh carried through the front door before she even touched the knob.

And then, she stepped inside. Quiet. Exhausted. Unaware.

Her purse hit the hall table with a soft thump, the bag of her clothes dropped to the floor. The door closed behind her. And I watched her.

Every inch of her, silhouetted against the faint glow from the streetlamp, her shoulders sagging, her head bowed. She stood in the entryway like someone who had survived a war but hadn’t realized yet that the battle wasn’t over.

Not even close.

She thought she was safe now. Thought she could finally breathe again.

She didn’t see me. Not yet. But she would.

And when she did — when her eyes adjusted and her gaze locked on the mask in the shadows, on the man she’d been dreaming about and dreading in equal measure — she’d understand.

I never left her. I never could. And I was done pretending.

She felt me before she saw me.

I watched the exact moment it happened — the subtle way her spine stiffened, the hesitation in her breath. That flicker of unease that had nothing to do with grief.

Oh, princess. You always knew.

She didn’t turn at first. Not fully. She stood just inside the door, her silhouette haloed in the low light bleeding through the curtains. Her shoulders curled in, arms folding tight across her middle like she needed to physically hold herself together.

Grief clung to her like a second skin. Not for him — but for everything he’d broken. Everything she’d lost. Everything she still didn’t understand.

She didn’t cry again. Not yet.

But her breathing faltered. And her head tipped forward, like the weight of it all was too much.

I stayed in the dark, half in shadow, watching.

I could’ve been anyone. Just a stranger in our house. Just a masked man waiting to strike. But I wasn’t. And I knew the second she felt the shift.

She didn’t understand it. Not yet. But her breath hitched.

When she finally turned — slow, cautious, bracing for whatever came next — her gaze swept the room, landed on me, and stayed. Recognition flared in her wide, startled eyes.

I watched the panic bloom. The confusion. The slow, spiraling terror of realizing something had gone very, very wrong.

Her mind scrambled for answers. Her lips parted. Her hand rose; half-defensive, half-reaching.

Me? I tilted my head, just like I did in my MaskTok thirst trap videos. Just like always.

She knew me. Not me , but him. Nox Obscura.

“I told you we had unfinished business, sweetheart. I told you we’d see each other again. I meant it.”

The mask. The movements. The distorted voice thanks to the modulator adhered to the inside of the mask. It hit her wrong. Twisted everything.

She didn’t understand why, but her bones did.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The silence stretched long and taut between us. And I let it.

I let her take it all in — the gloves, the posture, the faint glow of the mask catching in the curve of her pupils.

I raised my hand. Curled my fingers. Slow. Deliberate. A MaskTok performance tailored just for her.

The illusion fractured. Her breath caught. Her body screamed at her to run, and I smiled behind the mask, watching her unravel in real time.

Finally, finally, she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Right in front of me. Seconds away from the fall.

Let our little game finally begin, my sweet little prey.