Page 2 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

I wake up like someone just threw me off a cliff.

Heart hammering, sheets soaked, that metallic taste of fear coats my tongue, like I’m breathing in the aftermath of a fire. The nightmare clings like a second skin—empty carnival rides creaking in dead wind, a blade catching light where it shouldn’t.

See you soon.

Her voice. Still echoing in my head like she whispered it six seconds ago instead of months.

Fuck.

I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the windows.

My penthouse overlooks half the city—all those lights twinkling like scattered diamonds.

Usually this view makes me feel like I’ve conquered something.

Tonight, it feels like she’s out there somewhere, watching me lose my mind one sleepless night at a time.

And she probably is.

My phone sits dark on the kitchen counter, silent as a tomb.

After weeks of her twisted little gifts and messages that always seem to arrive at exactly the wrong moment, the quiet is somehow worse.

It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, except the shoe is probably a severed body part wrapped in a bow.

Christ, what is my life right now?

I grab the phone and dial. Second investigator this month. The first one ghosted me completely, just stopped answering calls like I’d never existed. Either he got spooked or she got to him. Neither option makes me sleep better.

Three rings. “Yeah?” His voice sounds like gravel and bad decisions.

“Jackson. Tell me you found something.”

“Not exactly.”

My jaw tightens. “I gave you everything. Photos, numbers, workplace details?—”

“That’s the problem.” Papers rustle in the background. “None of it leads anywhere real. Her name’s fake, her background’s fiction, even her address belongs to some guy who doesn’t exist either. It’s like chasing a ghost made of other ghosts.”

The headache brewing behind my eyes decides to throw a full party. “So you’re saying what? She’s actually dead and haunting me from beyond?”

“I’m saying whoever she is, she’s good. Professional-level good. This kind of identity scrubbing takes resources and connections most people don’t have.”

Yeah. That tracks. Nothing about this woman has been amateur hour from day one.

“Keep digging. Money’s not an issue.”

“Look, I’ll keep trying, but watch yourself. This feels like more than just some obsessed fan. It feels planned.”

The line goes dead.

My phone lights up immediately.

No Caller ID

Get some sleep. You’re going to need it tomorrow.

I type back a message that would make my mother wash my mouth out with soap. It bounces back undelivered, obviously, but it makes me feel slightly less helpless. For about ten seconds.

She’s out there right now. Probably watching my building, maybe even watching me pace around like a caged animal. I should be terrified. Any reasonable person would be barricaded in a bunker somewhere by now.

Instead, there’s this sick part of me that’s almost...fascinated? Like I want to understand how her mind works, what makes someone capable of this level of calculated torture. The need to figure her out burns hotter than the fear, which probably says disturbing things about my own mental state.

Security apps all show green. Cameras, locks, motion sensors—everything’s supposedly secure. But she’s already proven my million-dollar security system is basically expensive decoration. Whatever she has planned for tomorrow will be another reminder that she can reach me whenever she wants.

I should have killed her that night in the woods. Should have taken that knife and…

No. Stop. That way lies madness.

But the thought keeps circling back like a vulture.

The box on my desk looks innocent enough. Black velvet, the kind that usually holds engagement rings or expensive cufflinks. The kind that makes you think of good things, special moments, love.

This one holds eyeballs.

Two of them, actually.

Brown eyes with broken blood vessels, nestled in silk like they’re precious gems instead of someone’s former body parts.

I slam the lid shut, my hands shaking hard enough that I nearly drop the damn thing.

What kind of sick fuck packages death like a love letter?

The image is burned into my brain now. Those lifeless eyes staring at nothing, whoever they belonged to reduced to a calling card in my stalker’s twisted game. Each gift gets more personal, more calculated. She’s not just threatening me anymore. She’s claiming me, piece by piece.

When I find her, and I will find her, I’m going to enjoy returning the favor. I’ve never killed for pleasure before, but there’s a first time for everything. This woman has woken up something dark in me, something I’ve kept locked away for good reason.

My phone buzzes and I nearly jump out of my skin. Tristan’s name on the screen instead of another anonymous threat.

Thank God.

“What’s up?”

“Jumping in a car. Be there in five.”

I glance at the box of horrors on my desk. “Actually, now’s not great. Maybe?—”

“Time is a construct, Aaron, and you seem to have forgotten how it works. Deeply concerning.” That edge in his voice means he already knows something’s wrong. “Be there in four minutes if my driver doesn’t want a one-star review.”

He hangs up before I can argue.

Five minutes later, Tristan strolls in looking like he stepped off a magazine cover. Charcoal suit pressed to perfection, not a hair out of place despite the late hour.

“You look like absolute shit. And not the fashionable kind of shit—more like ‘haven’t slept since the Bush administration’ shit.

” He surveys my penthouse with unease. “Christ, it’s like a serial killer’s Pinterest board in here.

Are we going for ‘unhinged recluse’ or did you just give up on basic human maintenance? ”

“Want a drink?”

“I want to know why you look like you’ve been personally victimized by insomnia and bad life choices.

” He drops into my leather chair. “You’ve been ghosting society for months.

Missing galas, dodging my calls, generally behaving like someone’s hunting you for sport.

Which I’m starting to think might be the case since you’ve hired not one but two private investigators.

Without consulting me. Me, Aaron. The man who once found compromising photos of an investor’s wife with her yoga instructor using nothing but public Wi-Fi. ”

The betrayal in his voice is so overblown it’s almost comical. If I wasn’t slowly losing my mind, I might actually laugh.

“I’m deeply wounded,” he continues, pressing a hand to his chest. “Emotionally devastated. My therapist will need her own therapist after I tell her about this betrayal.”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. I’ve been trying to protect him, keep him clean from this nightmare, but Tristan’s too smart and too stubborn to stay in the dark forever.

And honestly? I’m drowning here. Keeping this secret is like trying to hold my breath underwater—eventually, something’s got to give.

Part of me wants to tell him everything. The other part knows that once I do, there’s no going back. He’ll be in this mess up to his neck, and if something happens to him because of my problems…

But what if I don’t tell him and something happens to Zoe instead? To Dom?

“You sure you want to know? Because once I start talking, you can’t unhear this shit.”

“Try me.”

Maybe it’s time. Maybe I need someone else who understands exactly how fucked up this situation really is. Someone who won’t judge me for the dark thoughts that keep me awake at night.

“Remember that night at Untamed?”

His grin turns absolutely feral. “How could I forget? Though some parts are delightfully fuzzy. Are you getting the itch?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, then sits up straight. “Okay, I’m done. For now. Spill.”

Here goes nothing.

Here goes everything .

“When we split up looking for Selene, I walked into a room that should have been locked.” My throat wants to close around the words, but I force them out.

“Witnessed what I thought was some kind of kinky performance art until I saw the blood pooling on the table. Real blood. Real screams. Real fucking terror.”

The humor drains from his face like someone pulled a plug. “What the actual fuck?”

“After Dom disappeared into the woods at the end of the night, she found me. The woman from the room. Cornered me at that abandoned carnival without my mask, no protection and nowhere to hide.” I touch my chest where the blade kissed skin, where I can still feel the phantom sting.

“Threatened me with a knife and basically told me I belonged to her now.”

The memory hits like a physical blow. Her breath against my neck. The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to dissect slowly. The absolute certainty in her voice when she promised this was just the beginning.

“She’s been playing with me ever since,” I continue, my voice rougher than I’d like. “Like I’m her favorite toy.”

And the messed up part? Sometimes, in the darkest corners of my mind, I wonder what it would be like to play back. To match her move for move. To see if I can be just as ruthless, just as calculating.

What does that make me?

“You witnessed an actual murder and didn’t think to mention it?” His voice goes deadly quiet, which somehow makes it worse than if he had shouted. “Aaron, what the everloving fuck?—”

“We’d just met!” The words explode out of me, months of guilt and fear and self-recrimination finally finding a target.

“It was supposed to be one wild night of sin and debauchery, not the pilot episode of my own personal horror show. How was I supposed to know she’d decide to make me her pet project? ”

But even as the words come out, I recognize how they sound. I know what should have been done that night. I should have told my friends. Should have strangled her, run the opposite direction. Something...instead of being fascinated by the predator who’d marked me as prey.

I’d been drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And now I’m burning.