Page 8 of To Love a Monster (Oaths & Obsessions #1)

Lila

I barely slept. Maybe an hour. He’s been gone for two days now. No messages, no shadows behind the curtains. No warped possessive texts to wind their way under my skin like barbed wire. Just plain silence, like he vanished back into the dark that made him. And after getting that close to him, hearing his voice, it’s driving me insane. My mind refuses to quiet. It loops the same image over and over like a curse I can’t shake. His hand on my waist. His mouth a breath from mine. The look in his eyes. His name.

Nikolai.

I whisper it aloud like it’s sacrilege. Like if I say it too loud, he’ll appear. A summoning spell in three syllables. But now that I know it, I can’t unknow it. It’s burned into the backs of my eyelids, branded behind my ribs like he carved it there with the tip of a blade.

I try to shut my eyes and pretend to sleep, but all I see is that moment before he pulled away. That terrible, beautiful instant where the whole world was just the width of his mouth and how close it came to breaking me. And then he was gone. Just fucking gone. I should be relieved. Grateful. Anything but this.

Yet here I am, drowning in the too-quiet dark with only the echo of his voice to remind me what it felt like to be seen that clearly. To be wanted like a drug, like an unholy fix.

I shove the blankets off, curl into myself like maybe I can contain it. This wanting, the shame, this fear that he won’t come back. And the deeper, dirtier fear that he will. The clock blinks 3:47. Red and insistent. I can’t keep doing this, can’t keep letting him take up all the air, all the space. All of me. But I don’t know how to stop or how to make myself want it to stop. His name sits heavy on my tongue. Like a lie I told myself just to survive the truth of it. I say it again, quieter, letting it spill from my lips like a sin.

“Nikolai.”

The walls lean in like they want to smother me, but all I can think about is how close I came to losing myself in him. The scent of smoke, pine, and steel. The raw burn of his presence against my skin. It’s like I had just one hit of him and already I’m addicted.

The hours bleed together and I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing about what I’m feeling makes sense. Maybe I pushed too hard, gave too much. Maybe he saw the way I crumbled under his touch and decided I wasn’t worth it. I don’t know what to do with this kind of wanting. I drag my nails across my ribs, try to scratch the feel of him out but it only makes it worse, only makes the ache louder, deeper.

Frustration builds as I think about how pathetic it is to sit and overthink—no, obsess over—this. He doesn’t get to do this to me. Doesn’t get to force his way in and brand his name across every inch of my skull, my body, and then vanish like a ghost. But he did, and the only thing more fucked up than being terrified because you’re always being watched is realizing how much you actually love it. Crave it.

****

I roll over and grab my phone. The screen flashes to life but there’s still nothing. I stare at it too long. Like maybe if I want it bad enough, the words will manifest. Like his obsession is something I can will back into being. But no. There’s only the echo of my own breath in this too-quiet house. I throw the covers off and the cool air bites at my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to conjure something other than his face. But it’s like I can still feel his hand on my waist and see the hunger in his eyes.

The floor is cold under my feet, the morning light is cruel and invasive. I move through the room like I’m trying to escape my own skin. The walls feel too close, the ceiling too low. I’m coming apart and I hate myself for it.

I pick up the phone again, knowing damn well what I’ll see, or rather, what I won’t. It lights up, bright and accusing. No messages. No missed calls. No goddamn presence except my own pathetic longing. I almost throw it against the wall, almost watch it shatter like I’m afraid I might. But instead I just hold it and stare.

He told me not to let another man touch me. Said I’m his. Then he fucking vanished. I hate that I’m counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds since I almost kissed him, since I almost lost myself.

I throw the phone onto the bed and turn away, but there’s no escaping it. No outrunning the truth that snakes through every thought I try to have. I’m losing my mind waiting for him to come back, to pull me into the dark where I belong. To claim what he’s already marked as his.

But he’s gone. And maybe that’s the plan, to leave me wrecked and waiting and desperate for the leash to tighten.

The kettle clicks off and I pour my coffee. My fingers are wrapped too tight around the mug as steam curls into my face, but it doesn’t chase away the chill sitting in the back of my neck. I don’t drink it at the table. Instead, I move to the easel I left abandoned by the window.

The canvas is blank. But not for long. I start with charcoal first, broad strokes that form a man-shaped shadow. Broad shoulders, the dip of his hood, his stare. I paint his mouth next. Full lips. The kind of mouth made for cruelty or worship, maybe both. Not soft, not sweet. A snarl or a smile. I can’t tell. Because all I can think about is how close I came to tasting him. How my lips hovered there, waiting for the heat of his to break the distance. How my body leaned in like a sinner at the altar who’s ready to kneel.

Then comes the rain. Smeared streaks of silver and gray across his body, dripping from his arms like he’s standing in the middle of a storm and doesn't give a damn about getting wet. He watches me through the canvas, just like he did that night. And when I’m done, I step back and he’s there. Not really, but close enough.

Trapped in oils and shadows and whatever fucked-up fantasy I’ve stitched into my bones. He looks like hunger, like obsession given shape. I swallow hard. My coffee’s gone cold and the painting stares at me from across the room. It feels like a confession I didn’t mean to write. A truth too loud to ignore.

A storm of emotions brew under my skin. Rage, confusion, want. I’m pissed that he’s disappeared after staking his claim, after looking at me like he wanted me to want him. I’m furious that he’s left me pacing like an addict waiting for a fix.

I push off the stool like it’s responsible for the knot in my chest. I tell myself I need air, movement, anything that doesn’t feel like sitting in his absence. I head to the bathroom and flip on the light. When I look in the mirror there’s a tired version of myself staring back. My light eyes look more gray than blue, the skin around them slightly puffy. My lips a little swollen, skin pale except for a slight flush in my cheeks, and my dark hair’s a tangled halo of last night’s sleep.

I splash cold water on my face, press my palms to the counter, and stare at myself until my breathing steadies. I think I just need a run to clear my head.

With my hair wrapped up into a tight bun, I pull on my leggings and a hoodie. Once my shoes are tied tight enough to strangle, I walk to the door and pause with my hand on the knob. Just ... wait. My phone sits on the counter. Silent and dark. I glance back at it, like maybe I missed something. Maybe I blinked and a message slipped past.

I know I shouldn’t, but I reach for it anyway. Wake the screen and let out a deep breath but there are still no new texts and no missed calls. The silence is so loud it feels intentional. Like he’s punishing me. Like he wants me on edge. I hover in the doorway a beat longer than I should, heart beating in rhythms meant for war. Hoping, stupidly, that I’ll feel it again. That prickle at the base of my neck. That knowing. His presence.

But the woods are still, the house is quiet, and I am alone. I shove the door open hard enough to make it echo. If he won’t come to me ... maybe I’ll go find him. I do know where he lives. After all, he implied that I’m in danger. That he’s protecting me. And I deserve to know more.

The trail is cold, damp from last night’s storm. Pine and mist cling to my skin as I push into the woods, lungs burning with each breath. I press harder, much harder than usual. My footsteps are quick and determined, even as my mind reels with thoughts of him.

The cold air slices through my clothes, but I don’t feel it. Not really. Not like I feel the sting of his absence. I reach the path that leads into the woods, and I don’t slow. Can’t. I’m desperate to feel it. To feel him. That sense of being watched. Of being wanted. But the silence is so thick it feels like another person. Like a taunt, like he’s already won and he’s not even here to see it.

My heart thuds in my chest. It echoes in the empty space around me as I push harder, faster, sweat dampening my clothes and clinging to my skin. The trail is slippery and my shoes slide on the wet ground but I keep going.

The woods are still. There’s no wind, no movement. Just the sound of my own breaths coming too fast and too ragged. Pine and damp earth fill the air. It should smell like freedom, like escape, but it doesn’t. It smells like him. Like he’s everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

By the time I reach the end of the loop, my legs are shaking. And that’s when I hear it. Footsteps behind me. Fast and purposeful. I whirl, heart slamming into my ribs as I expect to see him. Wanting it to be him.

I slow, let my hands fall to my knees as I suck in lungfuls of air. There’s a hollow ringing in my ears, a painful pulse in my chest. But worse is the sick disappointment that floods through me as I see who’s approaching.

Carl. Lean, clean-cut, and jogging toward me. “Hey!” he calls, still at a distance but gaining fast. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.” He slows to a stop in front of me, brushing a hand through his short brown hair. It’s damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in a way that should be endearing.

“Guess I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep in,” Carl says with a breathless chuckle. “You’re really pushing it this morning.” He gestures to the path, to my shoes caked in mud and my breath coming in fast, uneven bursts. He’s close now, too close. I step back and give him a shrug, casual. “Just needed to clear my head,” I say. It’s not a lie. Not really. But it doesn’t feel like the whole truth, either.

“I was about to make a loop back to the cabin,” Carl says, his smile warm and full of things I don’t want. “Mind if I join you for the rest of your run?”

“Sure.” I say as I start jogging again, pretending like his company is not the last thing I need right now. He falls into step beside me, our strides syncing without effort. For a while, it’s quiet. Just the steady crunch of gravel underfoot and the whisper of wind in the trees. The sun is starting to cut through the canopy of trees now, casting dappled light across the trail like it’s trying to soften the edges of everything.

“You always run this early?” Carl asks, glancing sideways with a breathy chuckle.

“Not always,” I answer. “I should probably make it more of a habit to be honest.”

“Ah,” he nudges me with his elbow, playful. “You should try podcasts. I swear, half the reason I work out is so I can keep up with my murder show backlog.”

“Murder podcasts while running in the woods?” I arch a brow. “That feels like tempting fate.”

“True,” he grins. “But if I ever get murdered, at least I’ll die informed.” It should be cute. And maybe it is. Maybe he’s everything he’s supposed to be—funny, friendly, safe. But I’m not really listening. Because I keep glancing into the woods. My eyes track every shadow between the trees. Every rustle of leaves. I keep expecting to feel it, that slow prickle down my spine. That shift in the air. That sense of being watched. Of him. Of Nikolai. But he’s not here. I know he’s not. But some sick, twisted part of me wants him to step out of the tree line like smoke and ruin, eyes wild and furious that I let another man run beside me.

My stomach coils as Carl’s voice pulls me back. “So, are you running for fun? Or are you training for something?” I blink. “What? Oh. No—no training. Just ... thinking.”

“Deep thoughts, huh?” he says and I glance over at him, offering a tight smile.

“Something like that.” He nods, and we fall back into silence. It should feel companionable and normal, but it doesn’t. I feel the wrongness of it. The trees part as we hit the last bend. Sunlight slants through the branches, casting long golden shadows. Carl wipes the sweat from his brow and shoots me an easy grin. “So, how often do you get out for a run?”

“Oh, just a couple of times a week. Enough to keep my body in shape and head clear I guess” I say with a shrug.

“It shows,” he says, eyes sweeping over my frame. Quick, but not crude. Then back to my face. “You’ve definitely got the body to prove it. Maybe I can join you on a couple of runs while you’re out here.”

“Yeah, sure.” I say, “And thanks,” I add awkwardly. The compliment rolls off me like rain on stone. I don’t even feel it. Not the way I usually would if someone like Carl were to hit on me. Not like I’m supposed to. We slow to a stop near the mailbox, gravel crunching beneath our feet. The sky’s a fading wash of gold and blue, the kind of twilight that pretends to be peaceful. But inside, I’m buzzing. Carl shifts his weight, sliding his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

His smile softens, friendly, not too eager. Just enough. “Hey, I was wondering. Do you wanna grab a drink sometime?” he asks.

I blink. “A drink?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Something chill. We could hit that bar in Millbridge we spoke about the other day ... or, if you’re not one for bars, I’ve got a couple decent bottles back at the cabin. Could even cook you something if you’d like. I make a mean steak. Or pasta, if you’re a carb kind of girl.”

That earns a ghost of a smile from me. He’s trying. Being nice. And that’s the problem. I don’t want normal. Not really.

But I find myself nodding anyway. “Sure. That sounds great.” His grin widens, boyish and harmless.

“Cool. You know where to find me, so just let me know.” He turns, jogging off toward his place. I stay where I am. Staring at the woods. The stillness. The shadows that don’t move but feel like they’re watching. Waiting. When I get back inside, I reach for my phone but as expected. There’s nothing.

No possessive warning. Nothing but silence and it’s deafening.

****

Surveillance Log: L.M

S ubject : Lila Montgomery

Status : Subject proximity compromised / Carl under review

I saw her this morning. I didn’t go to her, though. Didn’t linger outside her window. I just watched through the cameras. She looked ... tired. Like someone who didn’t sleep because she was too busy rewinding every second of our last encounter. That much was obvious by her painting.

I watched her dip that brush into shadows and drag my shape across the canvas. Hood up. Rain bleeding down like a baptism. I could tell in the way her breath caught when she stepped back to look at what she made.

It was like she didn’t want to admit she wanted me to walk back through her door and prove she wasn’t crazy for needing a monster to touch her.

So I let her sit in it. Let her feel the ache like a lamb who wants to be devoured but the wolf just .

.. doesn’t come. I want her hungry. Frustrated.

Primed. I want her to spiral. So when the time’s right, she'll fall into my arms and beg to be claimed.

She checked her phone six times in under an hour. Sat by the window like she thought she could will me out of the woods. She’s starting to crave it, the uncertainty. The tension. Me . And it’s exactly what I wanted.

But I didn’t expect him.

Carl. Fucking Carl.

That all-American, safe-smile, good-boy act she used to go for. He caught her on the trail. All charm and casual banter. Like he belonged beside her.

He doesn’t.

I followed. Listened to every word. Watched his eyes crawl across her body like he thought he had the right. He asked her out. She said yes, but she paused. Hesitated. She looked toward the woods like she was waiting for me. She wanted me to see it, to tell her I’d punish her for it.

But I didn’t.

I let her stand there and feel the silence wrap around her like a noose. And now Carl thinks he has a shot, he thinks he’s winning. But what he doesn’t know is that he’s already dead. He just hasn’t stopped breathing yet.

I haven’t breached his house. Not yet. But the moment is coming.

He’s too clean. Too precise. His movements aren’t random, they’re structured.

Controlled. I just need an opportunity. And when that window opens, I’m going through it with a bullet and a blade.

I’ll make sure Carl feels every second of what he thinks he can take from me.

Because Lila isn’t his to touch. To look at. To breathe near. She’s mine .

It took everything in me not to follow her into the cabin when she got home. I wanted to pin her to the mirror. Make her watch her own reflection as I peeled the hoodie off her body and dragged my tongue down her spine.

I’d have fucked her with my fingers slow, deep. Until she shook, begged. Until she choked on her own moan trying to say my name. And I wouldn’t stop. Not until her legs trembled and the only word she remembered was my name.

I plan to swallow her whole and leave nothing behind for anyone else to salvage.

She doesn’t know it yet but despite my silence, I’m not done.

Not even close. When the time comes, she’ll be begging me to make her forget every man before me.

And she’ll know better than to ever let another one close again.

—N