Page 1 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Lila

My mother looks at me from across the counter. Everything about her is hard. Her stare, her voice, the way she digs manicured fingers into the cool marble. “You want to go alone? To the cabin?” The words fall into the room like dropped pins, and I nod, arms tightening around myself. “Yes. Just for a few weeks. I need the space to focus.”

Her eyes narrow, calculating. “You need to focus to paint?”

“Yes.” I say through clenched teeth, my breath coming out sharper than I intend, defensive and serrated. “I need to start rebuilding my portfolio. If I ever want to get back into galleries, I need the time to work. Without distraction.”

Her hands are still now, a fragile quiet between her fingers and the counter. She sighs, and it’s a precise, careful sound. “Then take Tess. At least for a few days so you’re not completely alone up there.”

I shake my head and close my eyes for a second, trying to steady my voice so I don’t lose it with her for the second time this week. “No. The whole point of going is to be alone. I don’t want company, Mom. I need the quiet to bring out my creativity again. You know how safe it is there, even out of season. We never even close the doors at night.” The silence that stretches between us is thick with unspoken words. “It’s not like I’m disappearing into the wild never to be seen again. I am literally going to find my mojo and I’ll be right back. I’m 23 years old. I am more than capable of spending a few nights alone in a cabin I’ve spent most of my childhood summers enjoying.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, a small, surgical arch. “It’s still secluded. I don’t know anyone that’s going to be down there this time of year and I’m not comfortable with you being so isolated,” she presses, and I can see the thread of fear she tries so hard to keep hidden. “And you’ve been ... not yourself lately. It’s worrying your father and I.”

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “That’s because I’m stressed, Mom. I haven’t been able to create anything worth selling in months. Painting is my passion and right now I’m stuck.” My voice turns cold, armor-plated. “And I’m tired of pretending I’m okay in this house. I’m an adult who still lives at home with her parents while she waits for some big break. Everyone I know is either finishing college, exploring the world, getting married, or having kids. I feel like I’m being left behind and I need space to figure out what to do with my life next. Without you and Dad hanging over my shoulder trying to control every decision I make.”

She flinches, her composure breaking like the first crack in thin ice, but the mask returns quickly, even tighter than before. She opens her mouth to say something, but the sound of Dad’s heavy, precise footsteps silences her.

He arrives in the doorway with his presence rather than his words. Even without looking, he commands attention. The lines around his eyes are deep, etched from years of calculated expression. His voice is low, calm, carrying authority in its simplicity. “What’s going on now?”

I want to speak, to shout the words before she can twist them, but my mother answers first, her voice clipped. “She’s going to the cabin. Alone.”

I turn to him, meeting his eyes with a challenge, expecting opposition, waiting for the line that will tell me how this ends. That he has the keys and if she doesn’t want me to go now then I won’t. But it’s not my fault they canceled their trip because of work. He sizes me up like he’s assessing a battlefield, measuring strength and intention. The pause is longer than a heartbeat but less than a breath. “Well, I don’t see what the problem is if you make sure to keep the alarm set at night and keep your phone on.”

My heart slams against my ribs, shocked with disbelief. “I—”

“Steve,” my mother starts, her voice brittle, but he cuts her off with a look.

“She’ll be fine.” He speaks with the finality of a closed door. “We’ve just had the place cleaned, the pantry stocked, the security systems checked. Just because we can’t go anymore doesn’t mean she shouldn’t.”

She searches his face for betrayal, for cracks in the fa?ade, but finds nothing. Only resignation, only steel. When her eyes meet mine, they’re like glassy, polished stones. “Fine. But you better answer when I call you.”

The knot of tension in my chest loosens, barely, and I nod with a softness I hadn’t expected. “I will, I promise.”

The last rays of the day slice through the kitchen windows, casting sharp, dissecting shadows across the floor. She turns from me with the elegance of defeat, her shoulders taut with years of fragile anger. She moves past him without speaking, without looking, leaving a trail of icy silence in her wake.

I breathe out, a careful exhale, watching his face. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

He holds up a hand, a gesture that is part dismissal, part reassurance, the signal of a general satisfied with his campaign. “Go on. Finish getting ready. I’ll get the keys and leave them here on the counter.”

I nod, a smaller movement this time, a sign that maybe, just maybe, I have some control over my life after all. I turn to leave, my feet feeling weightless and heavy all at once, but he speaks again before I can escape.

“She’s just worried about you, you know. We both are.”

I pause, my hand on the doorframe, and I let the weight of his words settle like dust on forgotten furniture. When I answer, my voice is flat. “I know.”

The moment holds, stretched and fragile for a few seconds before I walk out, footsteps loud against the silence.

****

I drive with the windows half-open, and the cool air bites my face like it wants to leave bruises. I turn the music up and the air fills with guitar and soft vocals. The suburbs fall away like abandoned promises, replaced by thick forest and narrowing roads.

I can still feel the edges of my parents’ house clinging to me, sharp and brittle as a porcelain doll. The scent of lemon cleaner and false affection, the constant pressure of my mother’s gaze. I breathe out, trying to exhale her worry, her doubts, her insistent voice. The air that rushes in is cold and raw—a relief and an ache all at once.

She doesn’t understand why I need to be alone to bring out my creativity that seems to have become dormant. She hates the career path I’ve chosen, always muttering about how I’ve wasted my potential. I grip the wheel tighter, trying to shake off the imagined presence of her beside me. The trees blur by, tall and thin like accusing fingers. I need to put some distance between us, and this is the perfect way to start.

The music drowns out everything. My mother’s fear, my father’s control, the tremor in my voice when I promised to call. Even the wind seems quieter now, reduced to a whisper that barely reaches my ears.

The landscape changes, and with it, something in me unravels. The road narrows further, flanked by dense woods, and the sky feels closer, boxed in by branches. I imagine the cabin waiting for me, its walls a sanctuary, a cage, a place where I can be everything and nothing. A place where I’ve always found myself and lost myself all at once.

My art. The one thing that lets me breathe, that lets me exist on my own terms. I remember the light in the studio, how it spills through the windows and pools on the floor like molten gold. I think of the last time I held a brush, the darkness that crept into my work, the shadows I couldn’t control. Can’t you paint something nice for once, Lila? my mother had asked, her voice tight and polished. Like it was easy, like I could just erase the darkness within me with brighter colors.

The music fades into static and I don’t bother adjusting the dial. The silence that fills the car is steady, meditative, the perfect soundtrack for unraveling, and I embrace it, let it seep into my skin, let it stitch together the places that hurt.

I glance at the passenger seat. My suitcase is small, half-empty, a symbol of the simplicity I’m trying to convince myself I need. Leggings, paint-stained hoodies, oversized tees. The uniform of a girl who doesn’t put too much thought into useless things like impressing strangers. I’ve always been one for comfort over anything else. In the back I have my sketchbooks, extra easels, a jug of turpentine and a case of wine. My fragile preparations for unraveling.

The cabin has always been a refuge, a place I could retreat to when the world was too loud, too bright, too sharp. I picture it as I last saw it, weathered cedar and glass, surrounded by trees and lake and silence. No expectations, no one watching. Just me and the demons I need to face.

I can hear my mother’s voice even now. A ghost of its own, haunting the edges of my mind. It’s still secluded. You’ve been ... not yourself lately. My hands tighten on the wheel. I know exactly who I am, and I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. The words ring hollow, even to me.

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of pine trees and damp earth, a reminder that I’m almost there. Almost where I want to be. Almost where I need to be. I let the sensation wrap around me like an old, familiar coat. It smells like freedom. Like isolation. Like solitude. It smells like everything I’ve been craving.

A sign looms ahead, nearly obscured by the encroaching trees. Greyveil Lake, five miles. The letters are faded, peeling, but they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks. My heart accelerates, a staccato beat of hope and dread and urgency.

****

I pull up to the lake house just past 5:00 and step out of the car. The large structure is defined by glass and weathered wood, and it stands in eerie familiarity, twisted by time. I inhale deeply and turn the key in the lock.

The inside greets me with the antiseptic scent of lemon cleaner and wood polish. My father told the truth. The place is spotless, empty, alive with memories. I move through the space like I’m floating in a dream. My fingers glide over the stone fireplace, the worn leather armchair, the heavy shelf of books. I touch everything, try to bring it back to life after being left alone for so long.

The walls echo with ghosts of summer thunderstorms, with firewood and whispers. I half expect to hear laughter, my own voice, the forgotten sound of happiness. But it’s so quiet I can hear my breath, my heartbeat, the small noise of memories unfolding.

My movements are automatic as I unpack. Clothes in the drawer, neatly folded. Art supplies in the studio, ready to spill open the emotions I’ve been keeping locked tight. Turpentine, brushes, paint tubes lined up like soldiers on a table. I’m imposing order on the chaos. Trying to convince myself I have some control.

The studio is a sunlit room that once cradled my youthful aspirations. It’s haunted by memories of my younger self. Filled with creativity and carefree ambition. It feels like forever since I felt like that. Before I can dwell on the thought, I shove it aside and focus on the task. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, a ghost of myself. Pale and tired. I shake my head and look away.

Wine. I need wine. The box I brought has the basics, including a few bottles of my favorites. Tonight I’ll start with just a splash of red. After pouring myself a generous glass of Shiraz, I step onto the deck, letting the cold set in and the quiet wrap around me. The sunset reflects off the lake like molten gold, violent and beautiful. Then I see it. A solitary figure, between two trees. Motionless. Watching.

My breath hitches, and I shake my head. When I blink a second later, it’s gone. A laugh escapes my lips, sharp and disbelieving. “Jesus, Lila. Get a grip.” The sound of my voice echoes in the quiet as I take a big sip.

Paranoia. It has to be. Paranoia ignited by my mother’s fucking voice, by the newness of this complete solitude. The impression of pine and shadow leaves me unsettled, but I shake it off. The wind is a cold hand on my back, pushing me forward, telling me to go back inside. I linger, stubborn in my need to prove I’m not afraid.

The space around me is immense, crushing. I stare out at the water, the trees, the sky, waiting for something to happen. For something to break, for shadows to move toward me like a bad dream but there’s nothing except the soft sound of birds chirping in the evening air and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

The taste of wine and fear is bitter on my tongue. I let the quiet seep into my skin, a slow invasion.

The house looms behind me like a silent giant. I look back toward the trees, and a shiver runs through me, leaving tracks of ice and doubt.

I force myself to speak out loud again, to fill the void, to hold onto sanity. “Stop being an idiot, Lila,” I say, and it sounds different this time. Somehow more desperate. Less real.

Instead of lingering on the deck, I decide to turn around, walk back inside, and let the door close behind me with a soft, final click.

****

The studio feels alive in the night, filled with the pulse of distant sounds. I pace the floor, dragging wine to my lips before rolling my sleeves up.

The canvas is a battlefield, each stroke a desperate attempt to control the chaos. Dark colors bleed into each other, consuming the white space. A house reflected in water, shapes emerging among trees. Abstract claws replacing branches.

Fear seeps into the colors, and the image evolves into something I can’t define. Paranoia threads through the brushstrokes, binding them tighter and tighter. I lose track of time, of space, of myself. There is only the painting, only the blur of shapes that hover just beyond recognition. The uneasy feeling of eyes on me gnaws at the edges, and I fight to capture it, to contain it.

The night closes in, a heavy curtain of shadow and silence. The clock nears midnight, but I don’t care. I keep going, frantic and wild, until all that’s left is my breath and my heartbeat. Until the strokes become a tangle of desperation. Until I can’t see through the blur.

I step back, hands shaking. The incomplete image stares back at me, dark and raw and unyielding. I struggle with what I’ve revealed, with the truths that I’ve painted into the lines. It’s like staring into a mirror and not recognizing the reflection. I don’t want to recognize it.

I clean my brushes with mechanical precision, a ritual to ground myself, to regain control. But my hands are still unsteady as I pour more wine, as I try to swallow the tightness in my chest. The studio presses in on me, the air thick and suffocating.

Eventually, I drag myself to bed, exhaustion pulling at my limbs, at my mind. The sheets are cold and unfamiliar. I close my eyes, willing sleep to take me, but it’s no use. The house creaks around me, every sound amplified.

Branches scrabble against the glass, the wind a mournful howl. Pipes groan and old wood settles. The noises merge into something unidentifiable, a symphony of unease that drowns out any chance of rest. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Of not being alone.

The bed feels too big, the room too empty, my thoughts too loud. I can’t escape them. I can’t escape myself. Each breath is a struggle, a reminder of the solitude I craved and the fear it’s given life to. I turn, twist, tangle in the sheets, fighting for comfort.

The hours stretch, endless and unforgiving. The sense of being a stranger in my own space wraps around me and tightens. I roll onto my back and stare into the dark, listening to the sounds as they become louder. My chest tightens, and I’m filled with a raw, electric tension.

A burst of sound echoes through the room. The clock ticking, the pipes whispering, the floorboards creaking. And I just know it’ll be hours before sleep whisks me away.

****

S urveillance Log: L.M

Subject : Lila Montgomery

Location : Northern perimeter

Subject arrived on time. Solo. No signs of distress or suspicion. No counter-surveillance behaviors detected. Vehicle registered to parental account. The cabin was prepped recently.

Cleaned and stocked. She moved through it like a memory, cautious but familiar.

She touched the surfaces like someone reintroducing herself to an old friend.

Or a ghost. She’s curvier than the file indicated.

Her hair is a mess of jet-black curls, her eyes a storm-washed blue.

She poured a glass of red wine and stood on the deck for several minutes, her eyes glued on the sunset.

She saw me. Not fully. Not clearly. But she certainly felt my presence. She blinked, then dismissed it. Subject painted from approximately 9:20 PM to midnight. Image not fully visible. Partial view shows dark palette, distorted. Themes appear psychological. Possibly trauma related.

She moved through the house with awareness. Turned locks and latched windows.

—N