Page 16 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Lila

T he knock comes like a question I don’t want to answer.

Sharp, measured, and way too early. I stir beneath the sheets, mind still tangled in dreams I can’t hold onto, only the feeling lingers.

The weight of his body, the scrape of his stubble against my skin.

My eyes flutter open to soft morning light leaking through the curtains.

The air is cool and the room is quiet. Almost too quiet.

I blink against the silence, my body sore in the most intimate ways. The ache between my thighs is a whisper of what happened, of what I gave. Of what he took like it was always meant to be his. I reach my hand out to find that the sheets beside me are cold and empty.

I turn my head slowly, and my fingers trail across the mattress, finding the faint indentation where Nikolai had been. Where he should still be.

The cool imprint of his absence sinks into my chest like a stone dropped into dark water, no splash, just the slow pull downward. My palm rests there for a beat too long, like I could summon him back with touch alone.

There’s no message, no note. Just the lingering echo of him on my skin, in my breath, in the way my body still remembers him. My throat tightens around the thought, and I sit up slowly, the robe at the foot of the bed catching around my ankles.

And then there’s another knock. Louder this time.

I blink hard, pulse rising. I throw the covers back and grab the robe from the foot of the bed, tugging it over my shoulders and tying it in a loose knot at my waist. My legs are unsteady as I cross the cabin, every step still humming with the imprint of his touch, warm, lingering, and impossible to ignore.

I reach the door and pause for half a second, fingers hovering above the handle.

And then I open it to find Carl. He stands there like nothing’s changed, like we didn’t almost do something I’d really regret.

He’s dressed casually in a pair of joggers and a black shirt.

His hair is damp like he just came back from a run.

My stomach twists because all I can think about is how his mouth was on mine last night ... and how I was trying to convince myself I actually wanted him to take it further than just foreplay. But the moment I saw him, Nikolai, standing outside like a storm barely held back, I knew.

There was never any room for Carl. Not with whatever this thing with Nikolai is becoming.

But now he’s standing in front of me, smiling like we still might have something sparking between us.

Like I didn’t crawl into bed with someone else moments after leaving him and offer myself up like a secret I couldn’t keep anymore.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of the robe and how it hangs open at the collar, the way his eyes linger just for a second too long.

“Good morning, beautiful” he says, giving me a sheepish grin. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Hey, Carl,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Yeah, but it’s okay, I wasn’t planning on sleeping in anyway.” He glances down again and I tighten the robe instinctively. His eyes flicker, then he offers a lazy smile like nothing happened.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“And, uh, apologize. For last night. Things got ... weird. I think it was just some bored teenagers messing around. Probably dared each other to screw with the neighbor’s place.

” He chuckles like it’s nothing. “Anyway, I’ve got someone coming out this afternoon to fix the windows. ”

I nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I also...” He trails off, scratching the back of his neck. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for the way the night ended. I was hoping we could maybe ... I don’t know, maybe pick up where we left off sometime?”

I hesitate. His eyes scan my face, waiting.

“Look, Carl, I had a really great time,” I say softly. “But I didn’t mean for things to go that far. I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.” Carl’s expression doesn’t change. Not much. Just a flicker.

“Totally understand,” he says, smile unfaltering. “But I’d still like to make it up to you. No pressure. Just dinner, as friends. Let me make you supper.”

I hesitate again. Not because I’m unsure but because I already know the answer should be no.

But guilt is a heavy thing, and it settles in my chest before I can push the words away.

I did lead him on. I went to his house unannounced.

I kissed him. Let him touch me. Let it go further than I should’ve.

And then I left him, after the glass shattered and the mask slipped, and I ran straight into another man's arms.

So now, standing here in my robe, pretending everything isn't tangled and messy and blurred, I do the easy thing. I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Just supper.”

“Great,” he beams. “I’ll be in touch.” He gives me a wink, easy, casual, like we’ve already made plans for something more than supper. Then he jogs off down the path, light on his feet as he disappears into the distance.

I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. My thoughts are a mess of fractured memories. Carl’s smile, the broken glass, Nikolai’s hands on my body, how he used his voice in the dark the way others might use their hands, guiding me to the brink of madness with nothing but a whisper.

I walk back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets are still a little tangled and still smell like him. My fingers ghost over the pillow where his head rested. The ache in my chest begins to bloom.

Is he coming back? The thought tastes bitter, too familiar. I only just let him in. I only just gave myself to him completely, without walls, without logic, without the armor I’ve spent years hiding behind. And now... Now he’s gone.

Part of me tells myself not to panic, but the other part, the quieter, crueler voice, whispers something else. Maybe he’s already gone for good. Maybe I gave too much. Maybe I made it real and that’s exactly what sends men like him running.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I grab it like it might vanish if I’m too slow.

You miss me already?

My heart stutters. Before I can try to type a reply, another message flashes across the screen.

Don’t worry, little lamb. I haven’t gone far. I’ll be back to finish what we started.

Usually, the messages disappear after a few seconds. But this one doesn’t vanish. It stays there, glowing, real.

I read it twice. Then again, and I can’t help but smile.

He left the thread open, inviting me to text him back for once.

I don’t know what to say at first. What do you text a ghost who finally shows signs of wanting to stay?

I bite my lip, fingers hovering over the screen.

The words feel ridiculous. Too light. Too normal.

So ... supper?

And for a second, I hesitate. This is all too weird. But without putting too much thought into how weird the whole situation is, I press SEND anyway. Because I’ve already made my choice. Maybe I made it the second I stopped being afraid of inviting him in. The response comes almost instantly.

Only if you’re dessert.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling like an idiot. The message still glows on the screen, and even though it’s maddeningly cryptic, so him, my chest feels lighter. He hasn’t disappeared. He’s still tethered to me, even if it’s by nothing more than words on a screen.

I toss the phone onto the bed and head to the kitchen and flick the kettle on. The smell of coffee soon fills the space, warm, grounding. Familiar in a way nothing else has been lately. Cup in hand, I wander back toward the studio corner of the cabin, where the canvas waits, blank and expectant.

Something stirs in me and my fingers itch for the brush, for the colors. I dip into the palette, midnight blue, crimson, a slash of smoke gray. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing.

This one won’t be soft, it won’t be abstract. It’ll be honest, a shadow and a flame. A storm wrapped around a heartbeat. Something that feels like danger but looks like home.

The image comes together in layers, each one bolder than the last. A figure, half-submerged in smoke, his back to the viewer.

Broad shoulders, spine curved slightly forward, as if he’s bracing for a blow or preparing to deliver one.

His form is cut in charcoal strokes, edges bleeding into the night behind him. He’s faceless. Silent but unmistakable.

Behind him a second shape emerges. Smaller, closer. A woman is tucked into the hollow of his silhouette. Her form is softer, less defined, like she’s dissolving into him. Around them there are swirls of crimson. Not blood, not fire. Something between.

****

Nikolai

I watch her through the feed after she tosses her phone onto the bed and walks over to the kitchen. She’s barefoot, her hair messy, robe tied loose at the waist.

She makes coffee and takes her mug over to where her paints and blank canvas wait. I let myself watch for one second longer than I should. Her brush strokes are slow, deliberate, focused. She leans in like she’s telling the canvas something she can’t say out loud.

Then I turn back to the drive. I sit at the table in my cabin with the lights off, only the faint morning glow bleeding through the windows. My laptop is open and the clone drive is plugged in. Everything I pulled from Carl’s system is copied, intact and untouched. I start with the obvious.

Emails. At first, they’re mundane. Spam, a couple of receipts. An automatic notification from a hardware store downtown. Then, I stumble across a series of drafts never sent. Messages he started typing but never finished. One addressed to “A” short, vague, but with enough intention to raise alarms.