Page 1 of Watch Me Burn

T he first time I killed someone, it wasn’t justice. Not really.

It was instinct—raw and merciless.

Fury sharpened by years of watching monsters walk free.

He was smiling, unbothered, surrounded by the kind of people he liked to break. And I simply snapped.

There was no plan. No hesitation.

Just the sound of his breath catching, the warmth of blood on my skin, and a silence so profound it felt sacred.

It should’ve haunted me.

Instead, it lit something inside me I’ve never been able to put out.

That was the moment I realized I wasn’t broken. I was built for this.

The second time was calculated. I was prepared—eager, even. It surprised me how naturally it came, how much satisfaction I took from it.

Does that make me a born killer? Maybe.

But I frame it differently. I’m not killing for pleasure. I’m purging the world of its contamination.

That difference matters, doesn’t it?

By the time Aaron stumbled into that room at Untamed, I’d perfected the art of making bad men disappear.

More than perfected—I thrived on it.

It had become something I looked forward to, a ritual I craved.

Tracking them. Baiting them. Hunting them.

And eventually, killing them. Torturously slow.

I made them suffer exactly as they’d made their victims suffer.

But that night at Untamed, I made a small mistake.

Left a door open, which allowed Aaron to unknowingly enter my world.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. And I wasn’t supposed to let him live.

It was a mistake I’m still paying for.

I should’ve taken care of him in that forest. No one would’ve known.

Should’ve cleaned up the mess before it became a liability.

But I hesitated. Because no matter how I try to justify it, I don’t kill for no reason.

Even when they’re loose ends.

And now, here we are—locked in this messed-up game where I dig, claw, search for something, anything, to justify what needs to be done.

Because if I can find even one terrible thing about him, one shred of evidence that he deserves it, then I can end this strange, unwanted fascination that keeps me from finishing him.

Or I could just let my father handle it.

Decisions, decisions.

From my position across the street, I watch Aaron through the lens of my camera as he exits the office building.

It’s the first time he’s been here—a new client, no doubt.

He looks impeccable, but that’s nothing new.

Aaron doesn’t seem capable of a bad day, at least not when it comes to his appearance.

He moves with an effortless, quiet confidence that demands attention.

Standing just over six feet tall, he towers gracefully over the rush of businesspeople streaming past him.

His athletic, perfectly sculpted frame is showcased in a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric hugging broad shoulders and powerful arms—each step radiating strength and an air of controlled dominance.

Is it strange that I’m noticing such details about him?

Zooming in, my pulse quickens as I capture the familiar intensity in his storm-gray eyes. They’re sharp, scanning the street with a vigilance that makes me instinctively shrink lower behind my lens.

He can’t possibly see me from here, but I wonder if he senses my presence anyway.

After months of distant observation, he remains guarded—the way he checks his watch, then glances over his shoulder, lingering a moment longer than necessary after everyone else has moved on.

Smart boy.

Sunlight spills over Aaron as he steps clear of the building’s shadow, catching the nuanced shades of his hair.

What initially appears light brown reveals itself to be dirty blonde, woven with subtle golden highlights that flicker as he moves. It only does that in the sun. I’ve noticed that once night falls, his hair darkens, sharpening his features into something colder.

Such a contradiction.

I let myself get distracted.

My eyes trail the sharp, chiseled line of his jaw—firm and defined, like the stubbornness beneath that composed exterior.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined what it might feel like to trace a path down to his mouth—lips that rarely curve into anything beyond a polite smile.

I’ve never seen him laugh. Not once in months of surveillance.

That type of loneliness…does he choose it, or did it choose him?

His hands, strong and veiny, slip into his pockets. A gesture he does often, emphasizing his air of control.

I’ve studied his routines, his habits, catalogued the way he maintains that invisible barrier between himself and everyone else.

The slight furrow between his brows never quite disappears, as though he’s working through some major problem.

I wonder if it bothers him, that solitude.

Or maybe he embraces it, wearing isolation like armor.

My phone rings, and I tap my earpiece to answer.

“That box you wanted me to deliver? It’s ready,” Marco says.

I smile, adjusting my focus on Aaron as he slides into his Mercedes.

“Good. Make sure it’s delivered to Seventeen Hudson Yards’ lobby by morning.”

The gift isn’t anything too crazy. Just a gentle reminder that his silence comes with a price.

A price I’m starting to enjoy collecting.

Nothing too crazy? He’s going to freak out when that thing stares back up at him.

Insanity comes with certain professional advantages in my line of work.

A family inheritance I’ve refined to an art form.

I’ll admit it—something about Aaron fascinates me. I don’t want him. I want to understand him. That’s different. Isn’t it?

That night at Untamed—the elite, highly secretive BDSM club where I hunt bad men to their inevitable end—I saw something in Aaron’s eyes.

Not just fear.

Something darker.

A flicker of understanding. A quiet acceptance of the brutal truth: survival demands sacrifice.

He wasn’t merely afraid—he was ready.

Just like me.

I discovered later why he’d come to Untamed in the first place.

Not for pleasure or pain, but to strike a devil’s bargain with Tristan—the man with blood-soaked ties to the Mortelles.

Aaron had traded his soul for something as fleeting as power. As hollow as promised wealth.

I wonder what drove him to such desperation. What price was worth the weight of his own soul?

He was trying to find a cheat code.

And maybe that’s what makes him a bad man.

It seems almost childish.

As if stacking bills could silence whatever demons drove him to the club that night.

As if that could ever be enough.

Not that it’s brought him much joy.

Then again, I might be the one killing his mood these days.

The Mercedes disappears around a corner, but I keep watching.

Switching over to the app that tracks his car.

I’ve become a little obsessed with keeping tabs on him.

My research into Aaron Jackson has been disappointingly clean.

Sure, he’s made some bad deals. But his hands aren’t exactly covered in blood.

Not yet, anyway.

The closest thing to dirt I’ve found is his involvement with Tristan and even that’s more desperate than devious.

Tristan isn’t a bad guy either, although he’s done very bad things.

I should just kill Aaron and be done with it.

Give more of my time to the work that matters.

But something stops me every time I consider it.

Maybe it’s the way he handled himself that night in the forest.

How he grabbed my knife. Met my eyes. Didn’t beg for his life.

How he didn’t try to run.

Time hasn’t even helped.

I gave him some space after that night, made Aaron believe he was safe. That maybe I had moved on to other things. But I’ve been keeping tabs on him since we met. And it’s only been in the last six months or so that I’ve amped up surveillance. Hoping to find him doing something truly despicable.

It’s been nothing but dead ends.

The smart play would be to tell my father. Let him handle the loose end and keep my hands clean of innocent blood.

But I don’t want to share him.

The thought of anyone else determining his fate makes my skin crawl.

Tomorrow’s gift will shatter him completely. I’ve made sure of it.

I’ve been gradually escalating, watching his reactions, looking for cracks.

Tomorrow will remind him exactly what he saw that night at Untamed.

The blood. The body. The way he stood there, frozen, before running off like a scared cat.

Will it finally break him?

Make him slip up…reveal the darkness I know is hiding beneath that polished exterior?

The clock is ticking.

And I’ll be there, watching him when he shatters.