Page 4 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Lila

I wake up with a headache that’s thick and heavy. There’s paint on my fingers, shirt, collarbone, and my thighs. The kind of mess I only make when something inside me claws to be released and won’t stop until it’s out. But I don’t remember painting last night. I remember the couch, I remember having another glass of wine, and another. Then ... nothing.

I must’ve dragged myself to the studio. That’s how it looks. Everything smeared, spilling from one room to the next. Pigments bleeding into each other on the walls, the floors, my skin. The carpet beneath me feels bruised with paint and sticky. A stain that won’t come out. I sit up, brush a stiff, stained curl from my eyes.

Everything aches and my hands won’t stop shaking. I don’t remember anything after the wine. Nothing except the grip of that thought, the one that’s taken root and spread like mold through my body. I swore I wouldn’t go back to the studio and paint when I was filled with wine. The only thing that does is end up revealing my deepest thoughts, thoughts sober me doesn’t always enjoy looking at the day after. I touch my face, my neck, and realize I did exactly that. I groan when I discover that I’m covered in paint—shades of dark grays, blue and violet.

The paint on my collarbone shimmers like a fresh bruise. The damp fabric of my shirt clings to my skin. The kind of mess that screams for a new canvas. For a release. The kind of mess that makes me feel helpless and alive and so fucking scared of myself that I want to claw it all away. But I can’t remember doing it. My heart won’t slow down.

I stand, knees weak, the room spinning in a wild blur. I walk toward the studio, my fingers twitching and fists tight. Each step is heavy with dread. I want to freeze time before I see it, whatever truth is waiting on the other side of this mess.

The walls in the hallway have small smears of paint. Why didn’t I clean up? I hate the feeling of waking up and not knowing what happened during certain parts of the night before, of not being in control. I push through the door and my heart sinks. The mess in the studio is worse than I thought. Colors tangled, raw and furious, fighting for space.

My breath catches, and I walk to the easel. My eyes won’t focus at first but when they do, the painting staring back at me shows him. The man in the trees. Cloaked in shadows. Hood drawn. Half his face hidden, the other eerily clear.

I freeze. I don’t remember touching the canvas, but the paint is mine. And his lips, that jawline ... it causes a shiver to move through me.

The brushstrokes are fast and angry. His eyes aren’t visible, but I still feel them. Watching. Waiting. My hand moves to the canvas edge like it might bite.

I trace the lines, the shape of his jaw. Each stroke sharp and wild and desperate. I stumble back, breath catching in my chest. This man. This painting. It sits here like a goddamn confession.

Why did I paint him? And why can’t I look away? The questions bleed into one another until the fear is almost as heavy as the wine haze that still clings to the back of my skull. I grab an old white sheet from the rack and toss it over the canvas. I can’t look at it anymore. Not right now.

I want to say I imagined him. That he’s not real. But deep down I know. I know I didn’t imagine any of it. And if I didn’t, if he’s out there, closer than I’ve let myself believe, then what the hell does that mean?

I shuffle into the bathroom, still in yesterday’s oversized shirt and nothing else. My feet are cold against the tile. I splash cold water on my face, but something stops me. The lotion. It’s on the left side of the sink. But I always leave it on the right. Next to the mirror. Lined up with my toothbrush. My routine is precise, even when I’m drunk. And I remember using it last night, before I even started drinking wine.

I stare at it, heart thumping. Why would I move it? I wouldn’t. Not after I was already halfway to blacked out. I glance around. Check the closet. Behind the door. Inside the cabinet. Everything looks normal. But I feel wrong. It’s like walking into a space where someone just left. The air still disturbed, the silence a little too stretched.

At first, the bathroom looks exactly as it was when I left it. The towels are straight, the mirror is clean, and my toothbrush stares at me from its usual place. I want to think I’m overreacting. I want to think it’s nothing. But my head still feels like static and wine, and my skin is stained in shades of panic I can’t wash away.

My mother’s voice fills my head. Accusing. Dismissive. You’re being dramatic, Lila. You always were. But the more I stare, the more the room looks rearranged.

I swallow the panic and try to be rational. I probably just moved it without thinking. I reach for the lotion and set it back in its place, letting my fingers linger as if it might grow teeth and bite. My mind drifts back to the man in the woods. If he has moved to town recently, maybe I could just walk past his house. Catch a glimpse of him. Maybe seeing him in a normal environment will prove to myself that he’s just another guy. Not some weird stalker I’ve started to convince myself he is based on almost no evidence.

I pick up my phone, I need to talk to Tess. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I need to hear a voice that’s not my mother’s and not my own. I glance around one more time before I text her, like I’ll see him jump out of the shadows if I look hard enough. Then, a message flashes across the screen.

Thought you’d released some tension but you still look wound up. The bath didn’t help?

I freeze. There’s no contact name, no number, no typing bubbles. Just a message, and my heart stopping in my chest. What. The. Actual. Fuck. The message disappears after a few seconds and I scroll back to find it, hands shaking. But it’s gone. Deleted. Erased like it never existed, like I’m losing my goddamn mind.

I clutch the phone, breathing hard. The walls pulse around me. The air presses close. I swipe to Tess’s chat, type the words before I can think them through.

I got a random text that just appeared and vanished. Like it’d been deleted except I didn’t delete it! I really feel like someone is watching me. The text mentioned me in the bath!

My thumb hovers over send but I stop myself. Because what if it makes me sound insane? What if she thinks it’s another one of my overreactions? Another Lila freak-out?

I want to text Tess. I do. I want to call her, let it all spill out. But what if she gets worried and contacts Mom? I’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll either talk me into coming home and going back to therapy or insist on coming here. Neither option sounds appealing right now, even if I have a creep watching me. Then again, the text could also have been like some type of technical glitch or ghost notification. Maybe that’s why it disappeared.

I stare at the phone, my thumb hovering as my courage withers until I sigh. I can’t message her. Not when there’s a chance that the text could have been some error and telling her could result in Mom and Dad freaking out on me. I turn the water in the shower on, and my pulse won’t slow.

The mirror fogs up and my breath is too loud. I try to convince myself it was nothing, a glitch, a trick. But that message. It mentioned me being in the bath. Could that have really been a coincidence? I wipe the steam away and watch as it blurs back. Then another buzz against the counter and when I read it, I quickly realize that the first message was no fucking glitch.

Nice painting by the way. You captured me just right.

I drop the phone and my entire body goes cold. The screen stares up at me, the room spins and my pulse spikes. I bend to pick up the phone, fingers trembling just as the message clears from the screen again.

I run to the kitchen and my fingers fumble across the counter, grabbing the magnet with the local sheriff’s number printed in white letters. I jab the numbers into the keypad, hit call, and press the phone to my ear, my heart pounding so loud I almost miss the first few rings.

After four rings I’m starting to get impatient, not sure what I’ll do if they don’t answer.

Come on, come on. I start pacing up and down when finally, a male’s voice answers. “Sheriff’s Department. Officer Denny speaking.”

I stumble over my words. “Hi, yes. Um. I think someone’s watching me. I saw a man earlier, near the tree line and now I’m getting weird messages. They show up and then disappear.”

There’s a pause, papers shuffling faintly in the background. “Okay, slow down for me, ma’am. You say that you think someone’s watching you?”

I bite down hard on my frustration. “No. I know. I saw him, not completely, but he was there. He was wearing a hood that covered most of his face and he was wearing dark clothes.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums. “Did he try to approach you at all?”

“No. He disappeared when I went back inside to call my friend.” I say, looking out of the window like he could reappear at any second.

“I see” the officer says, the sound of scribbling in the background. “And do you still have these messages?”

“No. They disappear right after they show up.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Sorry to ask, but have you been drinking at all, ma’am?” he asks, casual, almost amused.

I grip the counter to steady myself. “No. I’m not drunk. The messages were deleting themselves and there was absolutely a man in the woods facing my house. I know what I saw.”

“All right, easy.” More paper shuffling. “Did the man threaten you? Show any weapons?”

“No, but—”

“Were the texts threatening? Did they imply that someone was planning to hurt you?”

I swallow hard. “Not exactly, but don’t you think it’s strange that—”

“All right, then,” he interrupts, “best thing you can do right now is lock your doors and windows. Don’t delete anything else that comes through. Chances are the guy you saw was just passing through, especially if he didn’t actually make any contact. And maybe the texts are from someone’s number you forgot to save. Look, resources are a bit tight at the moment, so we try not to do call outs for situations that are more than likely nothing to worry about. But tell you what, if you get another message or see anyone suspicious, call us back. We’ll send someone right out if it’s urgent. Sound good?”

I stare at the phone like he’s lost his damn mind. Lazy ass small town cops. Honestly, I have no idea what they do all day if they don’t even bother following up on situations where someone feels threatened, even without being directly threatened!

I think about giving him a piece of my mind but decide against it and instead put the phone down. I lower the phone to the counter, switch off the running water and decide to make some coffee while I figure out what to do next.

****

A few hours pass and I finally call Tess, making sure I keep it surface-level. The last thing I need is her running her concerns about my mental health past my mother. “I’m gonna need that real estate search,” I say, trying to sound breezy.

Tess hums. “You mean for that creepy-hot dude you imagined? Or saw. I don’t know which version we’re going with.”

I’m already regretting this. I wish I could take the call back, scrub it from existence like that text message. My voice is sharp, but not sharp enough to hide the fear. “I didn’t imagine him.”

She goes quiet. “Okay,” she says after a beat. “I’m going to my parents’ this weekend. I’ll check their database while I’m there. But, Lila, please try to relax.”

I press my forehead to the window. Try to let her words mean something. But they don’t.

“Hey,” she laughs, the sound stretching thin over the phone, “I’ll call you soon. Love you, okay?”

I end the call with a hollow, “Love you too,” and toss the phone onto the couch. The lake outside is silent. Still. But I know he’s out there. And if I go back to the studio, if I peel away that sheet, he’ll still be there too. Waiting.

The last thing I need is to tell Tess everything. I hold back the things I really want to say and it burns. Just like it always does. The things that are sharp and heavy, sticking under my ribs. But I keep them in. If I told her about the text messages and how the cop just brushed me off it would only make things worse.

I let the silence eat at me. My insides churning with panic and words I don’t say. I wait, counting heartbeats, breath, steps from one side of the room to the other. Anything to keep from going insane. My body feels loose and unwound and ready to break.

I walk to the studio, eyes fixed on the window. My bare feet drag over the floor, the studio door swings open and I pull the sheet away. Just a corner, just enough to see. And he’s still there, exactly like I knew he would be. The man in the trees, waiting and watching. I pull the cover back down, the hangover haze dulling everything but my anxiety.

****

Surveillance Log: L.M

S ubject : Lila Montgomery

Location : Matteo’s Cabin

Status : Device sync complete

She’s not ready for what’s coming. But she’s close. I watched her sleep last night. Shirt twisted around her waist. No pants. No bra. Just the sweet press of her nipples visible through the fabric and thighs slightly parted like she was waiting.

I shouldn’t have gotten that close. I’ve told myself that a thousand fucking times. But I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her. Legs tangled. Her pale thighs spread open and exposed like a goddamn invitation. She sleeps like she doesn’t know the world is dangerous. Like she doesn’t know I exist.

I could’ve touched her, just reached out and traced the line of her hip. I could have slid my hand beneath the material of her underwear and felt the soft heat of her skin. She’d moan in her sleep. Arch into it.

I didn’t, but I wanted to. And it took every bit of self-control not to give in to the temptation.

The only reason I didn’t cave was because the first time I have her, I want her awake. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Pulse racing beneath my palm. I want her to know it’s me. That I’m the one who won’t let her go.

She doesn’t even know how close she is to being claimed. But she will. Soon, I’ll crawl into that bed. And she’ll beg me not to leave it.

She painted me, captured me watching her from the shadows beneath the trees.

The way I leaned on that trunk. The angle of my jaw.

She even got the tension in my stance. But she didn’t get my eyes.

Not yet. I sent the messages through the ghost number I buried in her system last night.

The spyware synced while she was dreaming.

Now I can see her camera, her messages, her location.

And I’m not going to stop teasing her until she becomes addicted to the rush of it.

She knows I watched her make herself come.

Knows I watched her rub her pussy as she moaned into the silence.

Her reaction to that was delicious. The panic, the way she tried to call the cops.

Little does she know that I replaced that number with my own.

That it was really me with a masked voice listening to her frustration building when she realized that nobody was coming to check on her allegations.

And when she walked past that painting? She flinched like it called her name.

She doesn’t know how close I was last night.

How long I stood above her, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and sweat.

She doesn’t know that I’ve memorized the shape of her hips, her skin beneath that shirt.

That I will touch her soon. I keep promising myself I’ll wait, but the closer I get to her, the more I’m losing patience.

I haven’t seen any threats around the cabin yet.

No new players, no one watching her but me.

I should report that. But I won’t. Because the longer I’m the only one watching, the more time I have to lure her in until she’s begging for me.

She’s slowly falling apart, and when she breaks?

I’ll be there to put her back together. Piece by piece. Exactly the way I like.

—N