Page 8 of Monstrosity

She has no idea that tomorrow night, everything changes.

But I know.

And I'm going to make sure Bembe Reyes learns exactly why I’m not the kind of man who should be fucked with.

Some mistakes you only make once.

Threatening what's mine is the kind of mistake that gets you and everyone you love erased from existence.

I settle into the chair across from the couch and watch Dasha sleep, memorizing every detail of her peaceful face.

In a few hours, she'll wake up to coffee and chaos, to little girl laughter and the normal rhythms of a life she's chosen to share with us.

She deserves that normal life.

She deserves safety and happiness and a man who brings her flowers instead of bloody clothes.

But she's mine now, whether she knows it or not.

And I'll burn the whole fucking world down before I let history repeat itself.

CHAPTER ONE

Dasha

The morning light filters through Rio's kitchen windows like honey, casting everything in that soft golden glow that makes even the most ordinary moments feel sacred.

I've been up for twenty minutes already, moving quietly through his space like I belong here—which, after two years of this routine, I suppose I do.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the silence with its familiar rhythm.

I knowexactlyhow Rio likes his coffee: black, two sugars, in the blue ceramic mug Florencia made him in art class last year.

It's chipped along the rim and slightly lopsided, but he refuses to drink from anything else when he's home.

I'm wearing one of his old Raiders of Valhalla t-shirts—the soft black cotton that smells like his cologne and something uniquely him—over a pair of sleep shorts.

My hair's twisted into a messy bun secured with whatever elastic I could find in his junk drawer, and I haven't bothered with makeup.

This is as real as I get, and somehow, in this kitchen that's become more familiar than my own apartment, that feels okay.

Normal, even.

The eggs sizzle in the pan as I flip them carefully, making sure the yolks stay intact.

Florencia likes hers runny so she can dip her toast, while Cali prefers hers scrambled with cheese.

Five-year-olds have very specific opinions about breakfast, and after two years of being a regular with their morning routines, I know every preference, every quirk, every way to make these little girls smile.

Footsteps on the hardwood signal Rio's approach before I see him.

My body responds before my brain catches up—that familiar flutter in my stomach, the way my pulse quickens just from knowing he's near.

It's pathetic, really, how affected I am by this man who sees me as nothing more than his daughters' babysitter and his friend.

When I turn to grab plates from the cabinet, he's standing in the doorway.

My breath catches.