Page 8

The dead of night isn’t quiet. Not when you’re the only living ghost inside a fortress designed to look like home.

I sit alone in the surveillance hub beneath the Vane estate, my eyes locked on the glow of monitors that paint my face in artificial light. The digital blueprint of the property stretches across three screens like a pulse—each flicker, each motion, a heartbeat I control.

Most men would call this an obsession. But most men aren’t like me.

One screen shows Lyra’s bedroom, her private kingdom of velvet and shadows. She’s pacing. Again. Her movements are sharp and restless. Her lips are moving, but there’s no audio. She’s muttering something, maybe a poem . Who am I kidding? She’s probably muttering curses. At me.

She’s wearing that expression again. The one that says fuck you and come closer all at once.

Finally, after a few minutes, she stops pacing, and the camera captures her undressing.

It’s slow. Almost seductive.

Every motion is like a blade drawn, unsheathed with theatrical malice.

She tosses her clothes to the floor like declarations of war, one by one, a silent rebellion against decency or restraint. And when she’s down to her underwear, when the last slip of modesty becomes something holy, I look away.

Because even if she knows the camera is there, even if she’s doing this for me, because of me, I don’t want to see her like that. Not when she doesn’t know if I’m really looking.

She wants to punish me with beauty. But tonight, I won’t let her turn herself into a weapon.

But fuck me, it’s working.

When I look back at the camera, she’s in a crimson lace. What is this woman up to now? That kind of lace is meant for soft gasps and dirty thoughts and bruises hidden under collarbones.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the desk with my jaw locked, back straight, and eyes unblinking.

I don’t allow myself to feel. But I am burning from the inside.

This girl has no idea what it’s like to want and not take. To crave and cage the craving. To watch every fucking detail soundlessly while pretending you’re not already halfway feral.

She just sits on her bed scrolling on her phone for the longest time. I almost get bored, but then, the front gate buzzes.

I check the motion alert, external cam, and driveway. Pizza delivery. Ordered under an alias she’s used online before: “Ellie May.” Cute. Obvious. Sloppy.

I switch to her bedroom cam.

She’s still in the crimson lace and wearing some lip gloss now. Her perked-up nipples are visible even from here. Her hair’s down and wild, a halo of madness framing that smug, dangerous face. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Hell, she probably practiced it.

“She’s testing how far the leash stretches,” I mutter, already standing.

She walks through the hallway in no damn hurry, the nightgown clinging to her hips and riding up with every step. She pauses by the mirror, of course she does, and adjusts her hair like she’s stepping out onto a runway instead of answering a fucking pizza delivery.

I move fast, cutting through the surveillance hub and into the main corridor. My boots are silent against the floor, but my pulse is thunder. I hit the intercom as I go, my voice tight.

“Step away from the house.”

The driver jumps. I see him through the front-facing hall camera now on my phone. The poor guy’s barely nineteen, with his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes wide as he tries not to look at Lyra’s body. The kid doesn’t know where to rest his gaze, but every direction is dangerous.

Can’t even blame him.

She’s leaning against the doorframe like it’s a stripper pole. The strap has slipped off one shoulder, and her cleavage is a full damn invitation. Her smile is all teeth and fire.

“You’re not the usual guy,” she says, coy as hell, like she’s not lighting matches inside a powder keg.

“Uh—n-no, ma’am. First night on the route,” the kid stammers, clutching the pizza like it might shield him.

I emerge at the end of the corridor. Her figure is small from this distance, but I don’t need to be close to feel the fury rising in my chest.

This isn’t about pizza. It’s about me. And the fact that it’s working.

My voice comes out harsher than I intend when I say, “We have your license plate. Leave. Now.”

The driver nearly drops the pizza as he backs away.

The look on Lyra’s face—rage, satisfaction, and heat—when she hears me is everything.

And I’m fucking livid, which means she’s winning.

My eyes find the boy like targeting lasers. I’m in a black shirt and tactical pants. Nothing soft.

He stumbles back, putting the pizza on the steps and muttering something that sounds like a prayer before bolting. He doesn’t even try to close the door behind him.

But Lyra?

She steps forward, bends down with the kind of elegance that only comes from knowing people are always watching, and picks up the pizza box like it’s a trophy she’s been waiting to claim. There’s nothing rushed about it. Every movement is smooth and practiced, like she’s performing for an audience.

Then, she turns.

And I swear, she looks me dead in the eye as she flips the box open right there on the damn doorstep.

The lid lifts like an invitation, steam unfurling between us in slow, lazy curls, carrying the scent of melted cheese and something almost sinful.

Her gaze doesn’t waver, not once, as she slips her hand inside.

She moves like she’s reaching into something far more intimate than cardboard and mozzarella. Her fingers linger, caressing the edge of a slice like it might moan if she touches it wrong. Then, she lifts it out, slow and heavy, strings of cheese stretching like they don’t want to let go.

The slice drips in her hand, a mix of grease, heat, and defiance.

She bites her lips as she raises the slice to her mouth, which parts with that same unhurried confidence. It’s not hunger. It’s something darker. Bolder. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

Her teeth sink in, and she chews, slow and thoughtful, like she’s savoring more than just the food.

Then, she licks a streak of sauce from her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue—casual but devastating. Fuck, I’m going to be replaying this scene in my head for days.

“ Mmm, ” she murmurs, her eyes still locked on mine, her voice low and dangerous. “ Totally worth the wait. ”

I don’t know if she’s talking about the pizza or the look on my face.

Maybe both, but I don’t say a word. Because my tongue is currently buried under the stress of my restraint, and my fists are clenched so tight that I could crush bone.

She grins at me and starts walking back inside, her hips swaying like she’s carrying a goddamn metronome between her thighs.

And I follow her like a puppy. A murderous, obsessed, half-hard puppy who knows damn well he’s being led straight into the fire yet follows anyway.

XXX

Back in the surveillance room, the stillness feels heavier, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

I peel off my shirt, because watching her eat pizza like that is a sweaty kind of rage, and drop into the chair like it’s a command post and not a front-row seat to madness. I’ve barely sat down before I start typing.

Subject: Lyra Vane

Update: 10:58 p.m.

Mood: Elevated aggression, heightened sexual tension

Voice: Low, mocking, stimulated

Eye contact: Direct, challenging

The screen glows against my face like confession light in a digital church. I switch back through the footage, my fingers flying over the keys with soldier-grade precision.

I slow down the playback. There. Right there. Frame by frame.

Her body was turned just slightly toward the camera. The way her smile curled, not at the delivery guy, not at the pizza, but at me . She knew I was watching. She always knows.

I freeze the screen and zoom in.

Her lips were parted, a smear of gloss catching the porch light. And her eyes? Focused, locked in, and daring me to react. That’s the moment. The exact goddamn moment.

She’s not afraid of me anymore. She’s feeding me. I don’t even know if it’s a warning or a prayer.

Probably both.

I type one more line beneath her file photo, which is a still from the first day she got back to Willowridge. The one with sunglasses, a black coat, and her middle finger half-raised at a tabloid photographer.

The monitors glow. One camera outside, one in the hallway, and three trained on her bedroom from different angles.

I lean back and rub a hand down my face. The desk is littered with hard drives, backup cables, half-drunk coffee, and a protein bar I’ve been meaning to eat since Tuesday.

She knows I’m watching. She wants me to.

I glance down at the file folder open beside me.

It’s not a digital profile. This one’s old-school—a manila envelope scanned into my private server the night I took the job.

Evander Vane’s legacy comes with paper trails, background checks, psychiatric evaluations, and security clearances.

There are notes scribbled in red pen like the man was planning for war, not protection.

Most of it is boring as hell. Predictable. But one name derails my train of thought like a car crash.

Serena Vane.

I don’t move for a full minute. I just stare at the name as it pulses on the screen like a dormant bomb.

Estranged aunt, mother’s side, and not in the public family tree. Not in Evander’s polished, manicured briefings. But she’s here. In my file.

And I know her. Knew her.

I shut the file fast, my fingers a little tighter than they need to be. I’m not going there. Not tonight. Not when the smell of Lyra’s perfume is still clinging to my lungs like secondhand smoke.

I pivot back to the monitors. The room is dim now, bathed in the cool glow of screens. I lower the overheads until I’m cocooned in low light, a man hunched over a fortress of secrets. The bedroom feed wavers, and night vision kicks in.

And there she is. Lyra fucking Vane.

She plops onto the bed like it’s a throne, a pizza slice in hand like a middle finger aimed at my control. The TV flares to life, and the volume is unnecessarily loud. I can’t see the screen from this angle, but I don’t need to. It’s background noise. A distraction. Or maybe a prop.

She lounges back with one leg bent at the knee, the other kicking gently to the rhythm of her own chaos. She bites into the pizza with a kind of decadent flair, like she’s auditioning for the role of forbidden indulgence.

Then she sets it down, grabs her phone, and angles it just so. I know that look. I know that particular tilt of the chin and the way her lips part slightly like she’s caught mid-laugh or just before a kiss. It’s rehearsed. Perfected.

Snap.

My phone pings before I can even blink. An Instagram notification.

Lyra Vane just added to their story.

Of course she did. I open it.

There she is. Sultry, smug, slice in hand, and hair a mess of post-rebellion waves. The caption reads: Midnight snacks taste better when they’re earned.

I click through to her profile.

256,000 followers. That number used to be lower. Used to be manageable.

Now, it’s a temple of excess. Private jet selfies. Champagne on rooftops. Close-ups of diamond rings she doesn’t wear twice. Cars she doesn’t drive. Dinners she doesn’t eat. Every image curated to say: I’m wild, rich, and untouchable.

And yet, she keeps tagging locations, leaving breadcrumbs, and dropping hints.

I scroll through her feed like a man reading a manual on how to self-destruct. Every pose is a dare, every caption a carefully wrapped fuck-you in designer fonts.

She’s not just living out loud. She’s inviting someone to listen. And I already know who she wants to answer.

Then, on camera, she stands and walks to the mirror. Not to admire herself but to perform .

She tilts her head and runs her fingers through her hair. Licking her lips, she smirks.

Every move is choreographed. Every look is a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.

For a second, I think she’s going to wink. But she doesn’t. Disappointing .

Instead, she kills the light, climbs into bed, and slips into the shadows with the grace of someone who knows exactly where every lens is buried and exactly who’s on the other side.

And I’m still here. Frozen. My eyes are dry from too much staring, but sleep isn’t even a thought. The ritual’s alive, pulsing, and unfinished. Lyra moves like she’s center stage, and I stay glued to the front row.

Somewhere between us, the boundary is starting to twist into something else, something charged and dangerous.

But as it is, I gave up on wanting it back a long time ago.