Page 2 of Monsters Wear Crowns (Crowned Monsters Duet #1)

The city had no idea I existed. Not really.

From my penthouse, I could see it all. The endless waves of yellow cabs, the soft blur of lights streaking across the skyline, the sharp silhouettes of buildings rising up against the darkening sky.

From here, I was safe from the chaos of New York City, a sprawling network of people who lived and worked as if they mattered, but ultimately, it was just noise.

My apartment was everything I’d ever wanted.

A clean, modern oasis high above the frenzied energy below.

White marble floors glinted beneath the soft glow of pendant lighting, and the walls were lined with sleek, contemporary art pieces–colorful splashes of paint that felt sharp against the neutrality of the space.

The furniture was minimalist, designed for comfort, but carefully curated to reflect power.

Everything was in its place, nothing out of order.

My best friend, Laura, always told me that it didn’t have enough warmth.

But a certain coldness was all I’d ever really known.

I sank into the plush grey couch, running a hand through my long black hair as I kicked off my red heels.

The tension from the day melted away as I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet wrap around me.

Every day was a wild struggle, filled with the complexities of a woman overseeing a tech empire.

The glass in my hand was cool, the amber liquid inside catching the light as I swirled it lazily.

I sipped, allowing the warmth of the whiskey to slide down my throat, burning away any remnants of stress.

Everything here–everything I’d built–was perfect.

I was in control. I had become who my father trained me to be.

For now, anyway.

I sometimes felt my facade cracking under the solitude.

I filled my nights with friends and men.

But none of them ever satisfied my hunger.

I was no delicate flower. I was a volatile fire, impossible to tame.

The only thing that ever got close to fulfilling that aching inside me was my dirty books.

I had about fifty of them on the bookshelf in my bedroom.

Just as my muscles finally relaxed, the doorbell rang. The sharp chime cut through the quiet, yanking me out of my haze. My fingers tightened around my glass, my pulse leaping in protest. No one came here uninvited. I was on the top floor.

I didn’t move at first, staring at the door as if I could will it to be an illusion. A mistake. A neighbor pressing the wrong buzzer. Then it rang again. Louder. Sharper. A cold ripple spread across my skin.

I set my glass down carefully, stood, and pulled the silk of my robe tighter around me. The warmth of the whiskey still clung to me, but something else settled deep in my stomach now. A slow, creeping nausea.

I moved toward the door, each step measured. My mind raced through possibilities–solicitor? Someone lost? But no. That didn’t make sense. I pressed my eye to the peephole. For a split second, there was nothing but an empty hallway. Then, he stepped into view.

Tall. Broad. Wrapped in black.

A hood obscured his face, casting deep shadows over his features. But I felt his stare. Felt the weight of it pressing through the door, through the thick walls of my apartment, as if it could reach inside and grip me by the throat. God, he was tall. He must have been around 6’5”.

My breath stuttered.

He didn’t shift like someone waiting for a response.

He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his phone, or glance around nervously.

He was still . Watchful. Waiting. His head tilted, a deliberate and horrifying action that revealed his mouth.

He was smirking, a faint dimple appearing on his right cheek under the warm light in the hallway.

My fingers curled into my palm. I should have stepped back and called security. But I couldn’t move.

Then, slowly, he lifted a hand.

Not to knock. Not to reach for the handle.

He dragged two fingers down the surface of the door. A whisper-soft stroke of skin against wood. A touch that sent something sharp curling through my stomach.

A message.

A single breath escaped me, too loud in the quiet. Then, just as silently as he’d come, he turned. Stepped back into the shadows.

And was gone.

I stood frozen, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I didn’t call security. I didn’t fling the door open. Instead, I moved on autopilot, grabbing my phone from the counter and clutching it tight. If he rang the bell again, I’d call.

But he didn’t.

The only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond my windows. I exhaled sharply and forced myself to move, sinking back onto the couch and curling my legs beneath me. The whiskey burned as I swallowed the rest of it in one gulp.

It was nothing .

It had to be nothing.

But as I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, the weight of his presence still lingered in the pit of my stomach. I had spent years convincing myself I was in control. Untouchable.

Tonight, I wasn’t so sure.

** *

Since the night he showed up uninvited at my door, I’d been seeing him fucking everywhere . At first, I told myself it was my imagination. A trick of the light, a shadow where no one stood. But then it happened again. And again.

The first time was two days later. I’d been restless and unfocused, my mind still tangled up in the stranger with the unknown eyes and the wicked mouth. I needed air. Clarity.

The balcony of my penthouse offered a perfect view of the city–a glittering, restless sprawl of lights and life.

The warm summer breeze brushed against my skin, carrying the scent of jasmine and the rich, savory aroma of the restaurants below.

It should’ve been peaceful, but my mind wouldn’t settle.

I wasn’t the kind of woman who got distracted easily, as my work demanded focus, and I’d always been damn good at delivering. But lately, my thoughts kept slipping. Kept drifting back to him .

Being powerful had its advantages. I knew how to wield a knife and a gun just as well as a venomous remark. I didn’t scare easily. But I’d never had a fucking stalker before…and the feeling it stirred in me was anything but fear.

If I were being stupidly honest, I found it fascinating. My favorite books had men like him. Dark, obsessive figures who crept through the shadows in pursuit of a beautiful woman. And now it seemed I had my own stranger.

I didn’t even know what he looked like under that hood, and maybe that made it worse. Or better. The anonymity only sharpened the thrill. I sighed, brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, and let my gaze wander down to the street below.

And then I froze.

Holy fuck.

He was there .

Far below, on the opposite side of the street, leaned against a lamppost like he belonged there.

A black hoodie drawn low over his face, his posture easy and casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he watched me.

Even from that distance, I could feel his heavy gaze.

My stomach dipped, my pulse kicking hard against my throat.

I told myself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be, right?

But the next night, I saw him again. Closer this time. Standing on the edge of the park across from Sinclair Solutions. Just out of the streetlights’ reach, his face was in shadow, but I knew. I knew it was him.

And then he was there when I left work, at the end of the street. The glint of his watch caught the light, and he stood completely still like a panther watching his prey.

He never approached or spoke.

By the fifth sighting, my nerves were frayed and raw. I stopped sleeping well. Every creak and shift in my apartment made me sit up, my heart hammering. I kept the curtains drawn, but I felt him out there–always just beyond my vision.

I hadn’t told my best friend. Not yet. Maybe because I knew what she’d say–that I should call security, the police, someone. But there was no proof, no evidence beyond my own paranoia. And a part of me…a very dark, very risky part…didn’t want him to stop.

Every time I saw him, my heart stuttered, and my skin burned.

I was losing my fucking mind.

That night, I stood at my bedroom window, my glass of wine forgotten on the table behind me. The city pulsed with the activity of some sort of celebration below. But none of it mattered. None of it existed.

Because my eyes found him.

He was there. Closer than ever. Standing directly across from my building on the top floor of the darkened office tower beside my penthouse. A shadow framed against the glass, watching me.

My pulse stuttered. That building was closed.

How the hell had he gotten inside? Every instinct in my body should have told me to pull the curtains shut, to call security and demand answers.

But I didn’t move. Instead, a sick thrill curled through me, dark and warm.

I reached for the hem of my pink silk robe, fingers trembling as I slowly undid the tie.

What the fuck was I doing?

Even from this distance, I saw the way his head tilted. The tension that ran through his body. The quiet, unrelenting hunger in the way he stared. It reflected an ember inside me that just flared to life. My breath slowed as I zeroed in on him.

But he didn’t move.

I let the robe slip off one shoulder, exposing smooth, bare skin to the night.

A taunt. A dare. My body felt hot, my mind screaming at me to stop, to think, but I ignored it.

I let the silk slide lower. A sane woman would have ended this game before it started.

But I wasn’t a sane fucking woman. I was drawn to danger and its slow, suffocating heat.

And this man, this faceless stranger, was the most dangerous and fascinating thing I’d ever encountered.