Page 67 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)
Twenty-Seven
THE WATCHER
F rom the shadowed confines of his sleek black car, the Watcher’s eyes narrowed as he took in the chaos at Carlos’ dilapidated warehouse.
His gaze fixed on Matt, who emerged from the grim building, his usually sharp suit rumpled and stained, a stark contrast to the polished billionaire image he portrayed.
His hair stuck out at odd angles, and stubble darkened his jawline, giving him a rugged edge that should have looked ridiculous but somehow made him even hotter.
There he was, the Matt Caine , so effortlessly embodying the role of the distressed yet undeniably attractive hero.
The worry etched into Matt’s features tightened the Watcher’s stomach further.
It irritated him how those stormy gray eyes—eyes he would do anything for—were now filled with concern for that little shit, Andy Donovan.
“Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as Matt cradled that little shit against him like some precious treasure. He wished it were him getting that kind of attention instead. The sight twisted something deep inside, a mixture of envy and bitterness.
He could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in the air, feel the palpable tension as Matt handed Andy over to the medic.
The Watcher imagined himself in Andy’s place—broken and bloodied, yes, but also the singular focus of Matt’s intense gaze.
To be cherished and fretted over by someone like Matt…
it was a bitter pill to swallow that it wasn’t him who inspired such fervor.
His gaze flickered back to Andy as the medic’s vehicle pulled away, red lights piercing the twilight.
“Die,” he muttered under his breath, a dark whisper lost to the din around him.
This whole scenario should have been Andy’s final act; Carlos was nothing if not an eager puppet to the Watcher’s machinations.
But there it was again—that damn resilience.
Like a cat with nine lives, Andy clung to existence with infuriating tenacity.
It brought back that fateful day when the Watcher had planted seeds in Sean’s mind, knowing full well the volatility of the drug deal.
It should have been a simple culling, but no—Matt had to play savior.
Now here he was again, saving Andy from death’s door like some sort of modern-day knight. The Watcher’s hands clenched on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white with rage.
Enough was enough. His carefully laid plans lay in ruins—twice now by this interloper’s persistence and Matt’s heroics. The Watcher felt something dark and violent uncoil within him, a promise that next time, there would be no more interference.
With one last look at Matt’s retreating form—his own personal Achilles’ heel—the Watcher started his car and pulled away from the scene, consumed by thoughts as dark as the leather interior of his luxury sedan.
The Watcher returned to his clandestine sanctuary, a hotel room that could easily rival the splendor of the Maxwell’s.
It had taken him years to secure this perfect vantage point—a strategic location with a clear view into Matt’s sleek office across the way.
He settled into his personal lair, the cost of which barely dented his substantial means.
The room was designed with precision, every piece of furniture and décor chosen to mirror the Watcher’s refined tastes.
But among the expensive trappings, one item stood out—a high-powered telescope, its lens trained on the window that revealed Matt’s world.
A window that had borne witness to Matt’s passion, to Andy’s surrender.
He approached the telescope now, his fingers brushing against the cool metal.
Peering through it was an exercise in futility; he knew Matt wouldn’t be there, not with Andy laid up in a hospital bed.
A spark of malice flared within him as he whispered into the emptiness, “Die already.” His voice was soft but laced with venom.
With a turn from the telescope, the Watcher flopped onto the sofa, its plush cushions swallowing him whole.
He couldn’t shake the image that seared into his mind—the memory of only yesterday when he had witnessed through this very lens Matt and Andy entwined in a carnal dance against that very window.
It had been raw and primal—Matt’s body moving with a hunger that matched the Watcher’s hidden desires.
And there was Andy, a mere stand-in for the fantasy that played on a loop in the Watcher’s head.
With each thrust Matt delivered, the Watcher imagined himself as the recipient of such fierce attention.
His mind drifted back to yesterday’s spectacle: Matt’s powerful form pinning Andy against that window, muscles taut and movements relentless. The Watcher’s breath quickened at the memory. Every thrust, every raw groan of pleasure—etched into his mind like a dark fantasy.
Closing his eyes, he let himself be transported back to that moment. Only this time, it was him pinned against the glass, feeling Matt’s hands grip his hips with bruising intensity. The heat between them was palpable, Matt’s dominance absolute.
He could almost feel the cool surface of the glass against his skin, contrasting with Matt’s scorching touch.
Each rough motion sent waves of pleasure coursing through him as he imagined Matt whispering filthy promises in his ear.
It wasn’t Andy who earned those marks and moans—it was him, the Watcher, who truly belonged in Matt’s arms.
The room faded away as the Watcher leaned back into the cushions and let his dark fantasies swirl around him like smoke—each one more vivid than the last as he replaced Andy with himself over and over again.