Page 20 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Lila

T he chicken’s in the oven, finally. I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and glance around the kitchen, heart flickering.

It’s stupid, but I’ve been ready for over an hour.

Showered, dressed in a black camisole under a loose, open-knit sweater.

A little lower-cut than I’d usually dare.

Just casual enough to look casual. Just enough effort to capture his attention.

I’m reaching for the wine bottle when I hear a soft click behind me.

I turn and nearly jump out of my skin, heart racing, until I see it’s Nikolai standing in the doorway, as silent as a shadow.

He’s already inside, the door closed behind him and a black backpack slung over his shoulder.

God, he moves like he was born to sneak in and out of people’s houses.

He makes no sound, gives no warning. Just poof and he’s suddenly there.

“Jesus,” I exhale, hand over my heart. “Do you ever use the door like a normal person?” He cocks his head, mouth tugging into a lopsided smirk.

“Stealth’s part of the job description, sweetheart. Bodyguard 101.” I arch a brow, crossing my arms as the warmth of the oven brushes my legs.

“Oh, so now we’ve graduated from stalker to bodyguard, have we?” His smirk fades just enough to let something colder slip through.

“No graduation,” he says, stepping further inside. “I’ve been both since day one.”

He crosses the space between us slowly, deliberately, like he’s testing how close he can get before I push him away.

I don’t. His hand finds my waist, the heat of it bleeding through the thin fabric of my sweater.

He draws me in, eyes flicking over my face once, searching for any sign of resistance and when he finds none, he leans in.

His mouth brushes mine, slow and warm and unhurried. I lean into it, just for a second. Just long enough to forget the knot tightening in my chest. When he pulls back, he’s quiet for a beat then turns to the counter like he didn’t just short-circuit half my nervous system.

He grabs a glass from the cupboard, uncorks a new bottle of wine with practiced ease, and pours himself a generous amount.

Then, glancing over his shoulder with that maddening, unreadable calm, he says, “Smells good in here. What are we having?” I turn back to the oven, pretending like my skin isn’t still buzzing from his mouth.

“Rosemary chicken,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “with roasted vegetables and mashed garlic potatoes. Nothing fancy.” He takes a slow sip of his wine and leans a hip against the counter, watching me.

“You went all out,” he says softly, and I shrug.

“Maybe I figured if I fed you something decent, I wouldn’t wake up to an empty bed again.” That lands. Not harsh, but honest enough to sting. I see it, the slight shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. Just for a second.

I feel a tiny, bitter flicker of relief that he understood exactly what I meant.

That he knows how shitty it was of him to leave.

That it sucks being touched like you belong to someone, like they couldn’t get enough of you, only to wake up to cold sheets and silence.

He doesn’t apologize. But he doesn’t look away, either.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says, and I almost believe him. I know I shouldn’t be questioning him. We’re not together. Not dating. We’re not anything, really. Just two people who got caught in something sharp, hot and wild and aching.

But still, he was inside me. His mouth, his hands, his voice in the dark. He traced every inch of me with his tongue, with his fingers. And then he left when I fell asleep. I don’t look at him when I speak again.

“Oh, yeah?” I say. It’s not really a question, not quite sarcasm.

Just enough to hang there between us, a quiet dare for him to go on.

I get up and cross to the stove, twisting the dial to set the timer.

Thirty minutes. That’s how long I have before the chicken goes dry or burns completely.

I turn back slowly, waiting for him to say more.

“It was work,” he says. “Something I couldn’t ignore.” I nod slowly, even though it tells me nothing.

Then before I can stop myself, I ask, “And what exactly is it that you do, Nikolai?” The question comes out too light, too casual. Like I’m asking about his favorite drink or where he went to school.

But the second I say it, I feel the shift, the pause in his body, the slight adjustment in his stance. Like he's weighing just how much to say, how far to pull the curtain back. His eyes don’t leave me and he doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me for a beat longer than feels casual.

Then, quietly, “That is actually something I was hoping to talk to you about.” That pulls me up short and my fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the countertop. He doesn’t say anything else, just tilts his head toward the living room, wordless.

I follow. The lights are low in here, just the soft lamp near the bookshelf casting shadows across the rug. The storm outside hasn’t come yet, but I can feel it pressing at the windows. Waiting.

He drops his backpack by the side of the couch and gestures for me to sit. I hesitate. When I do, he remains standing at first, like he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stay still once the words start.

“You asked what I do,” he says, voice quiet but steady and he sits next to me. “It’s not a simple answer.” A pause. “And it might not be one you’ll like.”

I nod for him to continue, but my throat tightens around it, dry and uncertain.

There’s a weight in his tone that sinks straight through my skin.

I don’t know why, but something inside me stills.

Like my body already knows the shape of the blow before it lands.

And suddenly, I’m not so sure I want the answer I asked for.

He shifts slightly, his hand brushing over his jaw like he’s choosing every word with care.

“I run my own business,” he says finally.

“Security, but not the typical kind. Not bodyguards in suits standing outside hotel doors. What I do is ... different. I get hired by very specific clients. The kind of people who deal in dangerous things. People with power. Wealth and enemies. People who need protection that standard companies can’t offer.

Because what they need ... isn’t always legal. Or clean.”

His voice doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens like he’s said this a dozen times before, just never to someone who mattered.

“I’m trained in things most people aren’t. Covert surveillance. Tactical field work. Weapons. Counterintelligence. Extraction and infiltration. Things you don’t learn in college or weekend defense classes.” My breath catches in my throat. He lets the silence settle before finishing.

“It’s a lot to explain all at once. But at the core of it ... people hire someone like me when they want to make sure that nothing bad happens to someone important.”

Another pause as he looks right at me.

“Someone like you.” Suddenly the room feels smaller, tighter. I stare at him, the weight of his words pressing into my chest like a slow-forming bruise.

“Someone like me?” I echo, my voice thin. “What do you mean someone like me?” He doesn’t answer as my thoughts begin racing faster than my heart. I don’t quite understand what he’s saying. And then I replay what he’s just said long enough to land on the question I should’ve asked first.

“Wait.” I stand up and take a step back. My stomach twists. “You said ‘hired.’ You were hired ?” His expression shifts just slightly as he nods. “By who?”

I look at him, waiting for an explanation but I’m met with nothing but silence. I throw my hands up, showing I’m not letting this one slip and eventually he sighs. “I can’t tell you that,” he says, voice quieter now. “Not yet. I’m not authorized to.”

“What? Authorized ?” I laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Jesus, you make it sound like I’m some mission file. Like someone stamped my name on a manila folder and handed me over to you.”

He says nothing to that, and his silence feels like more of a gut punch than anything he could have said.

“The art store,” I whisper. I see his shoulders tense slightly and I already know the answer to what I’m going to ask next.

“That was planned, right? That wasn’t just ... some coincidence?” He hesitates. That’s worse than answering. “You were there for me. You wanted to see me, for me to see you .”

I shake my head and press my lips together as I take a deep breath and continue, “So, you were sent by someone, paid by someone to watch me and you won’t even tell me who. You followed me, watched me.”

He swallows. “Yes.” One word. That’s all it takes.

Something inside me doesn’t just break, it shatters.

All the air in the room shifts. What’s worse is that I realize how badly I wanted it to be fate.

How I convinced myself I’d found something rare and real.

That I ended up in some fucked up love story where guy becomes obsessed with girl, stalks her, she lets him in and then they live happily ever after.

The end. Now I find out that someone paid him to do all of it.

I don’t know what to feel or how to process any of this.

I think about how I let him touch me, sink into me, unravel me. I thought maybe it meant something.

“So, this was all part of the plan?” I choke, my voice barely steady.

“Get close. Gain my trust. Make me think it was fate or chance or whatever the hell else.” I’m pacing now, half out of breath and half holding tears of frustration back.

“God, and I let you in. I invited you in even after I knew you were following me around like some creep.” I shake my head. “And then I slept with you.”

His eyes flash. “Lila—” But I cut him off. “You didn’t want me. All this time, all you wanted was easy access.” He flinches and that response alone tells me everything.