Page 7

“You look…” He blinks, scanning me from boots to lips. “Incredible.”

“Say it again,” I tease. “Slower this time.”

His laugh is boyish, sounding nervous and flattered. “You. Look. Incredible.”

I lean in, pressing a palm to his chest lightly. His shirt is thin, soft, and warm under my hand. I let it linger just long enough.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, my voice lower now. “I needed a little… company.”

“Anytime.” He’s smiling, but there’s a flush on his cheeks now. Good.

We move to the classics aisle, where I pretend to browse Wuthering Heights while he pretends not to stare at my mouth. I tilt my head and bare my neck like it’s an invitation. My pulse hammers under my skin like a warning I refuse to heed.

He steps closer, and surprisingly, I don’t recoil. His hand finds my waist, hesitant and reverent, trembling just a little.

I let him.

Because it feels good to be the one doing the watching for once. To hold the leash, even if it’s imaginary. I need to feel something other than trapped, and this is my best option right now.

He’s saying something about wanting to see me again, about missing our talks at summer parties. I nod along, my eyes half-lidded, letting him lean just enough into my space.

This is a game. But it’s my game.

And today, I want to see how far I can take it before someone breaks.

Because I’m not doing this for Wesley.

Not really.

I’m partly doing it for the man I know is watching. Somewhere, behind some lens, in some shadowed room, Silas Creed is seeing this play out in real time.

And I’m testing him.

I’ve always been this way. Guys show up when I text, when I smirk, when I say just one drink . It has never been hard. But this?

This is different.

There’s a charge in my skin that didn’t exist before. An intrigue that doesn’t come from the man in front of me, but from the one I can’t see.

The one I want to watch me—see me.

And I don’t know what scares me more—how far I’ll push this, or how far he might push back.

The moment the door chimes behind us, something shifts.

It’s subtle at first. A hush. A breath held. And then I see him.

A shadow rising at the end of the aisle, backlit by the amber glow of the emergency exit sign. Silas.

He moves like he’s part of the goddamn floor plan. Like the walls made space for him. No words. No expression. Just his existence. Dense, indifferent, and absolute .

Wesley doesn’t even notice him at first, too busy trying to slide his fingers inside my underwear. But I stop breathing, and maybe that’s what gives it away.

Wesley stiffens when he notices the tall man standing behind him. “Hey, man, uh… do I know you?”

Silas’s eyes never leave mine. “Leave.”

That’s it. One word. No heat. No threat.

Just pure command .

Wesley hesitates and looks at me for backup, confirmation, anything . His hand is back on my waist now. Barely. My silence is the answer.

And it’s the cruelest one I’ve ever given.

He lets go like I burned him.

“O-okay,” he stammers, stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”

I nod. Who knows? I might actually need him some other time as well.

He leaves and doesn’t even try to be cool about it. The door chimes again, too loud in the sudden quiet.

Silas watches him go, then looks at me like I’m the only page left in a book he’s memorized.

“That was foolish,” he says.

I smirk, even though my pulse is a mess. “Why? Because he isn’t afraid of me?”

He steps closer. One long stride, then another, until he’s too close for me to breathe comfortably. His voice drops to that lethal whisper he uses when he’s barely holding the leash. “Because you used him.”

Another step.

“Because you put yourself at risk by being with someone unidentified.”

And then…

“Because you wanted me to see it.”

Fuck.

I swallow hard, and the air between us crackles like broken glass. My back hits the bookshelf behind me, but I don’t look away. Not even when he’s a breath away.

“I don’t belong to you,” I whisper.

His eyes darken. “That’s what you think.”

Something in me folds. Not breaks. Just… folds.

Because no one’s ever said something like that to me and made it sound like both a threat and a promise.

I push off the shelf and close the tiny gap between us with reckless defiance. “You think showing up like some shadow-drenched knight makes you my handler? That you get to scare off anyone who looks at me the wrong way?”

His voice stays low, deadly calm when he answers, “I don’t care if they look. I care if they touch.”

My heart skips a beat, and I hate that it does. “I didn’t ask for protection,” I snap.

“You didn’t have to.”

I laugh, sharp and mean. “God, your ego is astronomical.”

He leans in, just enough that I feel the heat of him and the control he’s barely holding onto. “And yours is suicidal.”

We stare at each other, heat simmering between us.

“This is my life, Mr. Creed. My fucking choices. You think I’m some princess in a tower waiting for you to chain me up and call it safety?”

He doesn’t blink. “I think you’re reckless. And you like being watched more than you want to admit.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that I taste blood. “Fuck you,” I hiss.

His eyes drop to my mouth, then flick back up. “Not yet.”

I don’t say a word the entire ride home. That “ Not yet” of his shut me up really well. He doesn’t bother filling the silence either.

The leather seat beneath me is freezing, but my skin is prickling from something that isn’t the air conditioning. He’s right there in front of me, radiating stillness like a weapon. I feel caged, but at the same time, I hate that I feel seen and goddamn alive for the first time in forever.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I see Zara’s message.

Why’d you leave all of a sudden? Everything okay…?

Shit. I totally forgot about her. I quickly make a lame excuse and hit send.

When we get to the gate, I hit the unlock button and get out without waiting for the driver to circle the car. My boots crunch against the grit. I need to walk this off. To move and breathe .

But I feel him. Watching. Like heat pressed between my shoulder blades.

I walk past the hedge, past the gate, and down the empty street. The night has settled in, quiet, sharp, and unforgiving. I hate how winter swallows the day so quickly. It was morning a minute ago, and now the world’s gone dark, like someone flipped a switch.

When I turn the corner, he’s there. Leaning against a lamppost like he’s been carved from the night itself. Hands in pockets. Still and silent.

“You scared my friend off,” I say, folding my arms.

His mouth twitches. “Good.”

“You had no right.”

“You gave it to me,” he says. “The moment you walked into that bookstore.”

I step forward with my fists clenched. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to, who touches me, who makes me laugh, who I spend my time with…”

He tilts his head. “Then don’t make it so easy to intervene.”

I want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or scream until I unravel. “You’re not my shadow, Creed.”

“No,” he agrees. “I’m your reckoning.”

I roll my eyes and turn away. Who talks like that? My heart is hammering, and my throat is tight.

And for the first time since I left New York, since the last time I felt anything that wasn’t rage or fear or numb routine, I don’t feel angry.

Instead, I feel alive . And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.