Page 7 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)
Lila
Not even a breath. The silence hangs too heavy, bloated with something unseen, something unspoken. Like the moment before a downpour. I turn back to the stove and reach for the wooden spoon. The pan hisses softly as I stir the sauce in slow, circular motions that feel more like following a ritual than a recipe. Homemade Bolognese. The kind I only bother with when I need grounding.
The air is thick with the scent of garlic melting into hot oil, crushed tomato bleeding into basil, rosemary, and cracked pepper. It curls around me like a memory. A soft hum slips past my lips. Wordless and familiar. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s there, breaking up the silence.
The wine bottle is already open—one of the good ones. A deep red with notes I’ll never bother describing but always feel in my chest. I pour slowly and it glugs into the glass. I take a sip of the warm, dry liquid. Let it coat my tongue as my hip leans against the counter and I stare down at the boiling water that refuses to start. Everything feels too still. Too expectant.
I glance at the clock. 9:04 PM.
The sauce thickens and the pasta sits in its box. Suddenly, my skin begins to prickle, and then I hear it. The familiar Buzz of a text coming through. My phone lights up and I glance down at the screen.
Smells delicious.
My heart starts beating a little faster. But not because I’m afraid. Because I was waiting for it. Because he’s here. The air around me shifts like static crackling before a lightning strike. The hair on the back of my neck lifts and my pulse trips. I whip around toward the deck door.
The curtains haven’t moved. Not yet. But I feel him there. I look down, tempted to type back but, like always, the message is gone before I can reply.
“Show yourself,” I whisper into the quiet. My voice is soft, but it slices through the air like a dare. “If you’re going to watch me, why hide in the shadows like a scared fucking kid?” I challenge, quickly grabbing a knife off the counter.
At first, there’s nothing but silence. Then suddenly there’s movement as the curtain shivers, just a subtle flutter, like it’s caught in an unseen breath. And then I see him.
He’s standing on the deck. Absolutely unmoving, like he was carved from the shadows themselves. Rain drips from the edge of the roof, but it doesn’t touch him. It’s as if even the storm knows better than to disturb him. His hood is up, casting the top of his face in darkness. I can just see his eyes peeking out from beneath the darkness. They gleam through the gloom—lit from within like some unholy fire. Pale and sharp, burning with something predatory. Like he sees everything. He seems too big for the space he’s in. Too solid. Too still. The world around him feels warped, bent to make room for the sheer weight of him.
My breath snags in my throat and my fingers clench tight around the counter’s edge. Every muscle is on alert, strung taut and thrumming. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t blink. He just watches. Like he knows I’ll come to him. Eventually.
His stare isn’t a question. It’s a promise. Patient and possessive. Like a wolf stretched out in tall grass, watching the lamb he’s already marked crawl closer. Shaking, silent and complicit. And without realizing it, I do. At first it’s just one slow step. Then another. The hardwood is cold beneath my bare feet, but I barely register it. All I feel is him. His presence like a riptide disguised as a man.
My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a war drum loud enough to echo in the hollowness between us. But it doesn’t stop me. If anything, it drives me. I move toward him faster now, like gravity no longer applies. Like I was meant to drift toward this monster in the dark. Slow and measured with a knife in hand. Not because I’ll actually use it, but because I need the illusion of control.
The glass door is open just enough to let the cold bleed in. Just enough for the scent of rain and pine and something darker to wrap around my ankles like a leash. He notices the knife immediately. A grin unfurls across his face, crooked, feral and dangerous.
“And what are you planning to do with that, little lamb?” His deep voice slides over me like black velvet and underneath it, the rasp of something sharp. Something that cuts even when whispered. I swallow, the motion scraping against the dry heat in my throat. “Don’t test me.”
“I’m not.” He steps closer. Slow and controlled. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. My hands are still trembling, but I wrap them around myself like armor, the knife clutched tightly in my fist.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is sharper than I feel. “Why are you following me?” His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. A slow, snake-like expression that unfurls across his face as if he's relishing the question.
“You’ve been watching me,” I accuse. “Sending messages. You stole my painting.” His eyes flash.
“Yes.” No apology. No denial. Just a single, ice-slicked confession that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“And you think that’s okay?” I whisper. “You think stalking someone is normal?” He tilts his head, almost thoughtful.
“No.” A pause. “But I don’t give a fuck about normal. Normal doesn’t keep you alive.”
That stops me cold. I blink. “What?”
“You think this is about obsession?” He steps closer again and slides the door open enough for him to slip through, one boot over the threshold now. “You think I’m here because I’m broken. Dangerous and delusional?” A beat. “If so, you’re right.” My breath catches. “But I’m also the only one protecting you right now.”
“From what?” He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head. Then, softly, like he’s asking me to take my clothes off, he says, “Drop the knife.” I hold my ground.
“No.” His eyes narrow, but not in anger. More like ... disappointment.
“Shame.” He takes one step back. “That’s just a damn shame.”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs, turns. Begins to walk away. “I’ve had many opportunities to hurt you if that was what I wanted to do. But you don’t trust me yet. That’s understandable, I guess. I’ll just leave then.”
No. That single syllable pulses through my chest like a flare. I don’t say it out loud, but my hand moves. Slowly. Almost like it belongs to someone else, and then the knife slips from my fingers. It clatters to the floor and he stops.
He doesn’t look back right away. I can’t explain why I did it. Not to myself. Not to anyone. But my heart lifts a little when he turns back, slow and controlled like he’s savoring every second, and steps forward again. He towers over me. Shadowed like danger personified.
The night spills in behind him like smoke and everything stills for a moment. And then he’s in front of me. He reaches up, so slowly I barely see the movement and brushes his knuckles along my cheek. A whisper of contact that sets fire to my skin. He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. Then he whispers, low and cruel, “Did you enjoy your little coffee date with the neighbor? I saw you. You smiled like you were trying to pretend I wasn’t there.” His voice is low, curved around something cruel and jealous. “Tell me, did it work?” The words are quiet, but they hit like a whip.
The heat snaps out of me, rage and shame and something darker lighting up beneath my skin like wildfire. “Don’t do that,” I spit. “Don’t act like you know my thoughts. I joined Carl for coffee because I wanted to. It had absolutely nothing to do with you.”
He tilts his head. Smiles like sin dressed in restraint. “Oh, really? You think I don’t know what runs through that pretty little mind? That I don’t know you?”
“You don’t.” I say again, firmer this time as he leans in, deliberate and slow. The air shifts as he does, dense with want and warning. His scent curls around me like mist, filling the air with scents of pine and rain, making my stomach twist into knots.
“I know your heart started racing when we locked eyes the first time, know you think about me enough for it to reflect in your paint, even when you’re drunk. I know that you like it when I watch you. Like knowing that soon, I’ll consume not only your mind but your body. If that’s not the truth, then by all means, tell me I’m wrong, Lila. Go ahead and explain why you are still standing here. Why would you bother inviting a shadow into your life if you’re not intrigued by the dark?” The question guts me. Because he knows he’s right. Because I don’t have an answer. Because I am still here, holding my breath like I’m waiting for a verdict I’ll beg to be guilty of.
I shake my head hard, desperate to shake off the spell he’s casting. “You’re wrong. You can’t just say I’m yours. I’m not an object. I don’t belong to anyone.” His grin sharpens and there’s no softness in it now, only hunger. His emerald eyes light up with something primal. The kind of look you’d expect from a predator that’s already decided which part of you it wants to bite first.
“Oh, little lamb,” he breathes, “but you do.”
My fists curl at my sides, nails carving crescent moons into my skin like I’m trying to anchor myself to anything but the pull of him. “You think just because you’re obsessed with me that means I should just automatically give myself to you?”
His eyes flicker, something violent and guttural behind them. His jaw ticks once. Twice. Like he’s swallowing a storm. The temperature in the air shifts. “No,” he says, voice low enough to drag along my spine. “I think you owe it to yourself to stop lying about how bad you want me, even if you don’t understand the reason why. Even if it makes no sense.”
“Don’t act like you know how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking. You’ve just watched me from afar. You actually have no clue who I am.” He takes a step closer. Slow and predatory, like he’s not sure if he wants to taste me or tear me apart.
“You didn’t answer my question.” His voice dips, dangerous. “When you were smiling, laughing with him, did it help you pretend I wasn’t there? That I wasn’t real?”
“Yes.” I lie. “I wasn't thinking about my stalker when I was chatting to Carl. I actually enjoy his company. Carl is kind, normal, he doesn’t treat me like prey. Doesn’t lurk in shadows and send fucked-up texts. He doesn’t show up at my house uninvited.”
Suddenly, his mouth twists, and something cruel pulls at the corners as clear, untamed jealousy flashes across his features. “Then why don’t you take the next step and go fuck him? You think that kind and normal is what you’re really craving? If so, then I truly do know you better than you know yourself, and I haven’t even laid a finger on you yet.” The words land like a gunshot, cold and precise. Meant to maim. “So go ahead. If he’s your type, then why not try it out? Lie back, let him touch you with hands that wouldn’t even know how to please a woman like you. Pretend he could ever satisfy that pretty ache between your legs. And when you’re done, when you realize that all you did was sign his death certificate, I’ll be here waiting.” My stomach flips.
“You’re insane,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say with the air ripped out of my lungs.
He steps in, close enough that the heat of him scorches through the fabric between us. Close enough that I feel his restraint unraveling thread by thread. His hand rises, not to touch me. Just to hover.
“And you,” he says, voice dipped in something feral, something final, “are mine.”
He doesn’t give me time to breathe, let alone react. One hand flies out, rough and unforgiving, seizing my waist like he’s claiming stolen territory. A sound slips from me, soft and startled, as he yanks me into his solid chest. It’s not gentle, it’s dominance in motion. A demand carved into movement. The collision knocks the breath from my lungs. Every part of me slams into heat and muscle and power, like slamming into a wave of pure violence barely restrained by skin.
He’s fire in a human form, heat rippling off him in waves, licking at my hoodie, soaking through the thin fabric and branding me underneath. My palms splay against his chest, unthinking, desperate for balance, for control, for something to keep me from falling. But there’s no safety here. No anchor. Only the chaos he is and the storm he brings with him.
His breath ghosts across my neck, slow and controlled. Like he’s wrestling back something feral. My pulse kicks wildly. Relentless and screaming. He feels it, I know he does. It’s in the twitch of his jaw. The sharp inhale between his teeth. The way his fingers tighten on my waist like he wants to crush the space between our bones. Then his other hand rises, so slowly it feels cruel. Rough knuckles trail up the column of my throat, sending shockwaves under my skin. He drags them down to the hollow at the base of my neck, lingering just above the neckline of my hoodie. He grazes lower, barely brushing the upper curve of my breast. Not quite touching but just close enough to make me burn for it.
My breath hiccups and my thighs clench. A live wire. Too much want, too much heat, too much him. And then his face is closer, so close. His lips hover over mine but he doesn’t touch. It’s a threat, a promise of possession and my knees nearly buckle. I know I should shove him away. I should scream, fight, run. But I don’t. Because in some fucked up way, I realize that I want to experience the danger, experience him. And he knows. Oh, fuck, he knows. His mouth twists, dark and lethal. That same crooked grin like he’s already won and then he steps back. Ripping the heat out of the air like he never even touched me. Like he didn’t just take something from me I didn’t even know I was offering.
“Wait—” It rips out of me before I can stop it. Panic, desperation, need. He pauses. His silhouette already halfway swallowed by shadow. “What’s your name?” A long beat of silence. For a moment I think he’s just going to keep on walking without another word. Then he speaks, his voice low, “Nikolai.” And he disappears into the dark. But that name, it burns its way under my skin like a brand. And I know I’ll never get it out.
****
Surveillance Log: L.M
S ubject : Lila Montgomery
Location : Deck Perimeter, Visual Contact—Direct
Status : Breach of Containment / Voluntary Exposure / Initial Contact Established
She came to the door. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run.
Didn’t even flinch when she saw me standing there like death in a hoodie.
She stepped toward me. One barefoot step after the next, like she wanted to be hunted.
She had a knife in her hand. God, it was adorable.
Shaking grip. White knuckles. A little tremble in her lip she thought I wouldn’t catch.
I caught it all right, and I caught the heat in her too.
That pulse behind her throat. The way her breath hitched when I told her to drop the blade. She didn’t want to. But she didn’t want me to leave, either. I knew she wouldn’t let me.
The moment my hand touched her cheek, I felt it, the fight in her gut warring with the part of her that wants to submit.
And when I called her mine? She didn’t correct me.
Not really. She challenged me. Threw her defiance in my face like it meant something.
Like her stubborn little fists and trembling jaw made her immune to what I feel for her.
She said Carl was normal. Kind. As if any of that matters when I’d ruin her in ways Carl couldn’t begin to imagine.
And I told her to fuck him. I fucking dared her.
Told her to sign his death certificate with every moan, every breath.
Because if she lets him touch her? If she lets him between those thighs?
I’ll snap his neck with my bare hands. No hesitation.
No orders. No cleanup crew. Just the sound of her crying out while I painted the walls with his blood for daring to claim what’s mine.
That’s what she does to me. It’s not poetry.
It’s not flowers. It’s fire barely contained beneath skin stretched too tight over want.
She tried to deny the truth. When I gripped her, instead of resisting, she stepped into me and pressed her body to mine like she was begging to be broken.
Her words no longer match what her body says, and I nearly gave in.
I saw the truth printed on her body. How she leaned in, how her hips tilted forward. How she opened her mouth like she was already imagining how I’d fill it.
Her reaction was almost my undoing. If I didn’t step away, I knew it would just be a matter of time before I lost control.
I’d be on my knees in front of her, tearing those shorts down her thighs with my teeth.
I’d press her back against the glass where I’ve stood watching her.
Show her what it means to be worshiped by a monster, my tongue buried so deep she wouldn’t remember how to breathe without my name in her mouth.
I almost gave in. I almost kissed her. I wanted to. Fuck, I wanted to taste the wine on her tongue and force her to admit that nothing would ever satisfy her the way that I can. I needed to get away from her before I pushed too far too fast. So I turned to leave.
Then she asked me my name. That’s when I knew I was too far gone, because I actually gave it to her.
No mask, no alias. Just me. And now she knows what to call the wolf that’s always watching, Always waiting.
Let her paint me all she wants. Let her dream.
Let her ache. Let her fantasize about kissing me and ache for my presence, because I won’t step away from my sweet little lamb.
It’s too late for me now, and next time, I won’t hold back.
No. Next time, I take her. All of her. And I don’t plan on giving any of it back
—N