Page 5 of Hunted to the Altar (Caputo Crime Family #3)

CHAPTER THREE

S amuel

The streetlights cast fractured halos against the slick pavement, their glow dim and flickering in the damp evening air. I stood watching from the shadows, waiting for a glimpse of her.

After my last visit—when I stood over her while she slept and marked her space with my presence—she was a lot more paranoid.

It was laughable to watch her try to change her routines. She picked up her panties for the most part and placed them in her drawers or laundry bin. Unless she was in a rush, she put away her dishes.

But that wasn’t going to stop me.

It brought me a small sense of pleasure to watch her scramble around her home every night. She locked the doors and windows, peeking out of the curtains. But I knew she couldn’t see me .

If I wanted her to, I would step right into the light and show her I was here. Watching. Waiting. Tonight, she looked beautiful. I could see her curls as she tossed them up in some kind of silky looking cap on her head.

I'd linger in her space close enough to breathe the same air, as well as knowing what her pillowcases were made of, all while leaving traces of my presence she'd never see but I knew were there.

The next day, Nina had just returned from the library. I followed her around like a damn puppy, my thoughts consumed by her.

She hurried, her head bowed against the breeze that whipped through the city. Every step she took pulled her further away from the darkness of my world and closer to safety.

She was an obsession I couldn’t shake.

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I wasn’t Silas. I’d spent my college years disgusted by all the awful things he’d done to Eden, who was his next door neighbor he stalked and defiled. Now, she was his wife, and he was still up to the same old antics. But now, here I was doing much of the same.

A sicko like him.

I guess I couldn’t understand what I’d never gone through. The world was full of weak men and overburdened women. I didn’t see that until I met Nina.

But she was supposed to be a mission. From the moment I first saw her photograph, months before she went missing, I was hooked. Even though she was but a file on Don Caputo’s desk.

A loose end.

I knew it was her. She couldn’t hide from me.

Her dark curls were wild beneath a baseball cap.

The curve of her jaw, the faint, graceful movements of her hands as she clutched her bag to her side—everything about her burned itself into my memory, a brand I couldn’t escape.

Her skin, a warm, rich tone that reflected her heritage, shimmered faintly in the dim light, and those pale, storm-blue-gray eyes darted around the street like a hunted animal.

She felt me. I could see it in the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath quickened when she thought no one was watching.

She knew someone was there. Maybe not me specifically, but her instincts were sharp.

That’s what surviving did to a person—it honed them into something raw, something more alive. My little bunny was no exception.

She didn’t know how close I was. How easily I could reach out and take her. And yet, I held back.

My little bunny turned another corner, her silhouette framed briefly in the light of a passing car.

I tracked her like a wolf on a hunt. She was almost home now, her small apartment building looming just ahead.

I’d been there, of course. I’d moved through her apartment like a phantom, taking in the scent of her shampoo, the way her books rested by the bed, the worn blanket that bore the shape of her body.

It was a quiet invasion, one carved from need, not forgiveness—and certainly not permission. But I didn’t care. Forgiveness wasn’t something I sought. Control was. And Nina, whether she realized it or not, was mine.

She slipped through the front door of her building, the heavy metal frame clanging shut behind her. I lingered outside, watching the window of her apartment until the light flickered on.

I waited an hour, letting the building settle into silence.

When I finally moved, it was with the practiced ease of a thief.

The lock on the back entrance gave way after a few seconds, and I slipped inside, my footsteps noiseless on the worn stairs.

Walking that path to her place that had worn itself into my memory.

Standing outside her apartment, I allowed myself a moment to savor the anticipation. My fingers brushed over the lock, and with a deft twist of my tools, the mechanism clicked open. I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me.

Her scent hit me first—soothing lavender mixed with the warmth of her skin.

It wrapped around me, intoxicating and familiar.

I moved through the space like a ghost, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the closed curtains.

By the door, her shoes were neatly lined up, and her bag was slung over the back of a chair.

Everything about her apartment spoke of someone trying to change.

She was finally putting order to the chaos of their life.

It just took me breaking in to motivate her to live cleaner, which was laughable because I enjoyed finding her panties on the floor. What better way to slip them into my pocket as a souvenir of my visit?

The living room was sparse but carefully arranged, a reflection of her effort to create stability.

A throw blanket was draped over the arm of the couch, its texture worn but comforting.

I traced the edge with my fingers, imagining the nights she’d spent curled beneath it, trying to fend off the ghosts of her past. A half-read book sat on the coffee table, its pages slightly dog-eared.

I picked it up, noting the creased spine, and wondered if she read to escape or to remind herself there was a world beyond the shadows.

I found her in the bedroom. She was curled on her side, the blanket pulled up to her chin.

Her face was peaceful in sleep, the tension I’d seen earlier smoothed away.

For a moment, I just watched her, my breath shallow as I took in every detail.

The soft curve of her lips. The way her lashes fanned against her cheeks.

She looked so small, so breakable, and yet I knew the strength she carried.

I stepped closer, my hand hovering over the edge of the blanket. I could touch her, just for a second. She wouldn’t wake. But I held back, my fist clenching as I forced myself to retreat .

But withdrawing wasn’t enough. I needed more—something tangible to remind me of her when I wasn’t here, watching her. My gaze swept the room, landing on her dresser. I moved toward it slowly, savoring the quiet, the intimacy of being in her space.

My fingers trailed over the objects she’d left there: a bracelet, a small bottle of perfume, a hair tie.

The bracelet gleamed faintly in the dim light, a delicate chain with a charm shaped like a star.

It was too much to take, too obvious. Instead, I slipped the hair tie into my pocket, my pulse quickening at the thought of carrying a piece of her with me.

The scent of her lingered on my fingertips as I picked up the perfume bottle, debating whether to take it, but I placed it back carefully. Not yet.

And then, my eyes landed on the drawer—the one slightly ajar where the faintest hint of lace peeked out.

My breath hitched, the hunger in me growing sharper, darker.

I slid the drawer open slowly, revealing its contents: delicate scraps of fabric, soft and intimate.

Her underwear. It was wrong—every part of me knew it—but the wrongness only made it sweeter.

I reached in, my fingers grazing the silk and lace. I hesitated only a second before slipping a pair into my pocket beside the hair tie, the weight of both anchoring my obsession. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to be for now.

Before I left, I returned to the bed. She stirred slightly, her brow furrowing as if she sensed something was wrong. I froze, watching as she settled again, her breathing evening out. My gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before I stepped closer to the bed.

I crouched beside her, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from her skin. Her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping as she shifted in her sleep. I could stay here forever, watching her, memorizing the way she looked in this moment—peaceful, unguarded, mine .

My cock hardened as I moved a few loose strands of her curly hair out her face. She drooled on her silk pillowcase. Her bonnet askew on her head. My woman was a wild sleeper. I rubbed my throbbing dick through my pants, wishing I could slide deep inside of her.

But it would probably wake my sweetheart up, and I didn’t want that. I just needed a small release. I hadn’t touched another woman since I laid eyes on Nina.

A little touching wouldn’t hurt.

I ran a light finger down her cheek, watching as she slowly inhaled. Her fragrant breath wafted over my face. I took my other hand and pulled my cock out of my pants. I imagined her crying out, asking for me to fuck my baby inside of her.

I fucked my hand faster as I slowly stood over her sleeping form. I bit my hand as my orgasm raced up my spine, and I aimed my cock at her face. My cum sprayed all over her lips. I was a great shot.

I shuddered from the force of my orgasm, surprised she didn’t stir.

I panted, my chest heaving as I stood towering over her sleeping form, blissfully unaware that I marked her as mine. And that was exactly what she was. I shoved my cock back in my pants only slightly less worked up than when I stepped foot inside of her home.

I needed to leave. Instinct warned me I was going to get caught if I didn’t head back out. Of course, the unsuspecting woman I referred to as my own rolled over.

My breath caught as I froze in place, waiting for her to settle.

She muttered something underneath her breath and licked the cum off her lips before settling again. It made my heart beat wildly in my chest until she relaxed.

I stood, basking in her scent and presence a little while longer before I had to go. Unfortunately, my phone didn’t rest, and the vibration had my woman’s brows furrowing .

I hightailed out of there with the goodies in my pocket as a souvenir.

The night enveloped me after I finally forced myself to leave, her stolen possessions pressed tightly in my fist inside my pocket.

Every part of me wanted to turn back, to keep watching, to keep taking.

My need for her wasn’t just physical—it was primal, consuming.

I wanted her woven into every corner of my life, her presence a constant, her breath the air I breathed.

Nina didn’t know it yet, but her life no longer belonged to her. It belonged to me. And I wasn’t letting go.

Never.