Page 24 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Nikolai

H er breathing is still ragged beneath me. My hand rests over her chest, feeling the hammer of her heartbeat slow. Her skin is warm, damp and silky against mine. For a moment, everything is still. No encrypted messages, no syndicates clawing at the edges of our world.

Just her and I. A soft groan escapes her throat as she shifts, but then something cuts through the warmth and she stiffens, trying to identify the faint acrid scent. Smoke .

“Oh, my God—” she gasps, shoving at my chest, panic breaking through the haze. “The chicken!”

I blink, caught completely off guard. “The what?” I ask, but she’s already scrambling off the bed, wrapping her gown around her like armor as she stumbles barefoot toward the hallway.

“The damn chicken! I left it in the oven!”

I sit up, the scent hitting me fully now—burnt rosemary, blackened edges, the telltale waft of something forgotten and now very, very dead. “You didn’t hear the timer?” I call after her.

“It didn’t go off! Or I didn’t hear it! Probably because you were too busy—” Her voice cuts off in a flustered huff as I hear the oven door fling open.

I roll onto my back with a low laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. “So now it’s my fault the chicken’s burnt?”

From the kitchen: “Absolutely. You distracted me.”

I smirk. “Jesus. I think I liked it better when you were calling me a liar and trying to slap my face off.”

From the hallway, I hear her shout, “Still might if my oven catches fire!” The kitchen fills with frantic clatter and the unmistakable scent of something ... crispy. I pull on my jeans slowly, dragging a hand through my hair as I follow her voice.

She’s standing in the kitchen, bent over the stove with a tray of blackened chicken, smoke trailing off of it. She exhales hard and flips off the oven. “Well. That’s done. Cremated, actually.”

“I’ve had worse,” I offer from the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame like I didn’t just fuck the life out of her two minutes ago. She turns to look at me. Her cheeks are still flushed, hair a mess, lips still kiss-swollen. But her smile is dry.

“What, like ... war rations? Canned spaghetti?”

I lift a brow. “Once had a guy try to feed me a protein bar he’d stored next to a stack of C4. Tasted like chemical warfare.”

She stares at me with her hand on her hip. “And you still ate it?”

I shrug and smirk at her. “What can I say, I was hungry.”

She blinks and rolls her eyes, turning to pout at the ruined dish again. “You’re deranged.”

“Maybe,” I say, grinning. “But at least I’m not the one who just turned dinner into charcoal art.” She laughs then. Really laughs, and the sound breaks something loose in my chest. I’d bottle it if I could.

She grabs a potholder and lifts the tray like she’s about to present evidence in a murder trial. “Bon appétit, then, soldier.”

I cross the room slowly, eyes still on her. “Don’t worry about me. I had a big lunch.”

She narrows her eyes. “Let me guess, drywall and adrenaline?”

“Exactly that.” She’s still smiling when I reach her, but there’s something in her expression, something behind her eyes.

I brush a loose strand of hair away from her face and kiss her again.

Softer this time. No heat, no urgency, just a pause in the chaos.

When I pull back, her eyes flicker up to mine.

Searching and unsteady. “Lila...” My thumb brushes over her cheek.

“Do you trust me?” She hesitates. It’s just for a second, but it’s long enough to feel like it stretches across the room.

Then she whispers softly, “Yes.” and I nod once. My chest tightens, just a little and I pull back just far enough to speak. “Good,” I murmur. “Because there’s something I need to show you.”

****

T he living room feels heavier now. I drop the black bag onto the couch and unzip it.

She hovers near the armrest, wrapped in her gown, her face unreadable.

“I told you I can’t say who hired me. Not yet.

But I can tell you this...” I lay out the contents, a folder, a few printed pages, a USB, and my phone. “Carl isn’t who he says he is.”

Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“His name, his credentials, even the stories he’s told you, they’re all fabricated, designed to pass casual inspection, but fake enough to collapse under scrutiny.” I slide one of the pages toward her. Her fingers hesitate before picking it up.

“This,” I say quietly, “is a digital footprint we intercepted. Timestamped logins from an encrypted hub out of Buenos Aires. Same IP linked to a woman named Annalise.” Lila’s eyes move across the page slowly, her brow furrowing.

“It was used to access confidential background fabrication software two weeks before you ever met him. Education records, work history, a cover identity built from scratch and logged through one of the most secure dark nets in the world.” I pause.

“You don’t just get access to that system unless you’re part of something big. Something very well-connected.”

I reach forward, flipping to the next sheet.

It’s a black-and-white surveillance photo of Carl standing just outside the back of an art exhibition three nights before she arrived at the lake house.

He’s got a coffee in hand, a camera slung low around his shoulder.

“He was watching days before you ever spoke,” I say.

She doesn’t say anything, but her hand lifts to her mouth like it’s trying to keep something down—rage, nausea, disbelief.

Maybe all three. And then I add, quietly, “These logs prove he didn’t go rogue.

He wasn’t freelancing. He was sent .” I tap my finger against the log sheet.

“And this IP trail tells us that it was Annalise who authorized it.”

Lila doesn’t look up from the sheet in her hands, but I can see the tension tight in her shoulders. Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks. “Who’s Annalise?”

I pause, deciding how much to tell her right away. “She’s one of the highest-ranking members of the Syndicate,” I start, keeping my voice low. Steady. “They call her the White Widow. She’s never visible. Never takes meetings, doesn’t handle footwork, not unless the job is critical.”

Lila finally looks up at me. Her brows pull together.

“And this?” she asks. “Me? I’m critical?

” My jaw tightens. “If she’s involved, yes.

That means you’re not just on their radar.

You’re the fucking bullseye.” She swallows.

Her fingers loosen on the page, letting it slide slightly on the coffee table.

“She deals in high-value acquisitions. Human leverage, political strings, corporate infiltration. Anything that can be turned into power, she finds a way to use it.” I pause. “She’s also the one who gave Carl the green light to take you.”

Lila flinches, her eyes snap to mine like I just slapped her. “Wait—” Her voice breaks mid-word. “ Take me?” She says it like she doesn’t understand. I nod once. Slowly. But that only makes it worse and I can see the panic building her eyes.

“Take me where?” she snaps, sitting up straighter.

“For what? Why would anyone—I don’t even—” She drags a hand through her hair, the other still hovering on the edge of the file like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Are you telling me that this has been the plan from the beginning? That Carl’s not just some guy who happened to meet me because he’s staying in my ex-boyfriend's cabin?”

“He’s not just some guy, Lila.”

“Then what the hell is he?” Her voice is rising now, her panic climbing right along with it.

I don’t speak right away. Instead, I reach into the folder and pull out the next set of documents.

Another grainy photo from a satellite timestamped three years ago.

Carl at a private military airstrip in Dubai.

Another image follows, a surveillance shot from a week later.

Carl again, just in a different suit with a different name.

I slide both toward her and she stares at them, her lips parting.

“His real name is Jakob Friese,” I say. “German-born. Operated under at least six aliases over the past decade, but the one that’s been most consistent is Carl Donovan, the one you know.” Her hands hover over the photo like she doesn’t want to touch it.

“He’s not just some creep with boundary issues,” I continue, my voice even but taut.

“He’s former private military, discharged under black seal, which means even the official reason’s classified.

Recruited into syndicate contracts less than a couple months later.

Since then, he’s been hired for high-threat operations.

Kidnappings, torture extractions, target surveillance. Disposals.”

Her head shakes slowly, like her brain’s rejecting it. “Disposals?”

“When someone’s too much of a liability to keep breathing.” Her jaw clenches and her breath staggers.

I lean forward and place a third file in front of her.

This one is thicker and I tap it with a finger.

“This is a breakdown of the last five jobs he was assigned to. All involve strategic manipulation, working his way into his target’s life over weeks.

He gains their trust, gets close, makes them feel safe. ” I pause. “Then disappears with them.”

Her eyes are wide now, hands trembling slightly as she flips the next file open and scans the first page. There’s a victim photo of a woman with dark hair. She’s in her mid-thirties and labeled MIA.

I speak quietly. “This was two years ago in Brazil. The client was an arms dealer trying to silence a witness before a court date. Carl posed as a security consultant. Gained her trust, took her out for drinks one night and she was never seen again.”