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That earns a tiny twitch at the corner of my mouth. It’s not a smile, but I respect that. Men who own too much stuff give me the ick anyway.

“All right then, RoboCop,” I mutter, turning toward the stairs. “Try not to shoot anyone unless they really deserve it.”

He doesn’t answer, but as I walk away, I feel him watching me like a shadow wrapping around my ankles.

And I know, know , he’s not just going to stand outside my door and play watchdog. He’s already inside. In my space. In my story. In my fucking head.

That night, I don’t sleep.

I try. I really do. I hurl myself into bed like launching myself face-first into cotton will somehow knock me unconscious.

I yank the sheets up like they’ve personally wronged me and shove a pillow over my face like it’s going to suffocate the adrenaline out of my bloodstream.

It doesn’t. My heart’s still doing a tap dance, and my brain?

Oh, my brain is hosting a full-blown Silas Creed highlight reel in stunning, obsessive, high-definition clarity.

That voice. Lethal and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

That stare, sharp enough to cut glass and quiet enough to say everything without him saying a damn thing.

And the way he didn’t even blink when I threw my usual arsenal of sarcasm at him.

Not a twitch. Not a smirk. Just that carved-from-stone stillness, like he’s made of colder stuff than the rest of us.

Most men either run for the hills or puff up like overcompensating pufferfish when I poke at them.

But not Silas Creed. He just… absorbed it.

Like stone. Unshakable. Forbidding. With ancient temple vibes.

He seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

Honestly, it was borderline rude how unaffected he was.

It shouldn’t matter. Really. I should be annoyed. I am annoyed.

Except, instead of being mad, I’m lying here wondering what he’d look like with his tie off and his sleeves rolled up.

Which is so not the point.

Am I seriously thirsting over my bodyguard?

My literal bodyguard. The one hired to make sure I don’t get kidnapped or murdered or whatever.

God. It can’t get any more cliché than this.

I’m a walking, talking security-romance trope.

All I need now is a suspiciously timed hotel stay with only one bed.

Jesus.

I flip onto my stomach with a groan and bury my face in the mattress like maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll black out. No luck. My brain just cues up a close-up of the scar at the base of his neck and wonders how far down it goes.

Perfect. I’m officially hopeless.

Eventually, exhaustion drags me under like a riptide.

And that’s when the nightmare finds me.

I’m running.

Again.

The trees are unfamiliar this time, twisted, skeletal things, clawing at my skin as I tear through them. My lungs burn. My bare feet slash against hidden roots and sharp stones. Every breath is a gasp, every step a scream waiting to happen.

I can feel him behind me.

Not see. Feel.

It’s not paranoia. It’s presence. The weight of him dragging at the air and thickening it until every breath feels like I’m sucking it through tar.

His footsteps are measured and heavy. Getting closer.

It’s not too fast or panicked. This isn’t a desperate chase.

It’s a hunt. And he’s not rushing because he knows something I’m trying to forget.

That I’ll fall.

Eventually, I always do. No matter how hard I try every time.

The trees are thinning. Branches claw at my arms, sharp leaves snapping against my skin.

My lungs burn, drawing in damp night air that tastes like moss and sweat and fear.

My legs are slick with blood—mine, maybe, or maybe from whatever thorned nightmare I’ve plowed through to get this far.

My feet are slipping in the underbrush, too loud, too clumsy, and he’s still behind me, breathing like this is just a walk in the woods.

Then, without warning, the clearing breaks open around me.

Moonlight floods the space like a spotlight, silvery and cruel.

I stumble into it, gasping, my chest heaving like I’ve been drowning and only just surfaced.

My hair clings to my face, soaked in sweat.

My arms are streaked with scratches, and my thighs are smeared red with blood that shines like paint in the moonlight.

For a second, I think I’ve outrun him.

And then… he steps out from the trees.

Always the same.

That silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He moves like he’s gliding, barely rustling the underbrush, and yet the ground seems to shudder beneath him. There’s no stumble or hesitation. Just calm. Cold calm.

The moon refuses to touch his face. It glances off him, like even the light knows better. It just outlines the edges, feeding me the shape of him but never the details. No features. No eyes. Just the sense that he sees everything, and that nothing I do will matter.

That feeling crashes into me again, paralyzing me.

Ice runs down my spine. Like a scream frozen behind my teeth.

He raises one hand in a practiced motion, like he’s always done before. He closes in, but still, I can’t see his face. My arms are tied all of a sudden, and I can’t seem to move.I want to run. I want to scream. I want to wake up. But my legs won’t move.

He puts his hands on my thighs, forcing me to spread my legs as I struggle and try to kick my legs and feet at him.

I try to stop him any way I can, but he doesn’t stop.

He continues to do what he always does. He unbuckles his belt, the sound making me shiver from panic and fear.

That is followed by his pants, which land with a threatening thud.

Finally, he puts his body’s weight on me until I feel like I’m choking, suffocating.

I scream.

A raw, tearing sound that barely makes it past my lips…

I jolt upright, choking on air like I’ve surfaced from drowning.

My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Sweat slicks every inch of my skin, wet and clinging. The sheets are wrapped around my legs in a mess of knots and panic, like I tried to wrestle my way out of the dream, and I lost.

Same fucking dream. Same faceless monster.

Five years. I’ve been haunted by this nightmare for five goddamn years. Like clockwork. Like a curse carved into my sleep.

My therapist, Dr. Kellerman, bless her well-meaning bullshit, once told me that the brain sometimes erases the faces of our abusers.

That it’s a survival tactic. A way of protecting us from what we’re not ready to confront.

Except I want to confront it. I want to remember.

I want to see him. Because maybe then I can stop waking up like this.

Maybe then I can stop being afraid of shadows and back doors and the fucking sound of boots in the dark.

But every night, his face is just… smoke.

I scrub my hands over my face and swing my legs out of bed. The air is icy against my skin. I pad over to the window like the masochist I apparently am.

The SUV is still there. Parked in the gravel like a monolith. Its lights are off. It’s silent.

And under the trees, barely visible through the fog and storm-slick night, is him .

Silas Creed.

He’s standing there like he’s part of the landscape. Like the storm doesn’t touch him, and he’s waiting for something. Is he a fucking psycho? Shouldn’t he be asleep?

He’s not moving or even blinking. He’s just watching this house like he already owns it.

I should close the curtains, crawl back into bed, and curse my father for hiring this man in the first place. That would be the sane thing. The safe thing. But instead, some dark, twisted corner of my mind decides to keep me rooted to the spot, watching him… until I’m watching him watch me .

Because part of me, some dark, fucked-up shard of me, wants to be seen like this.

Wants to be claimed.

Even if it costs me everything.