My Girl to Stalk (Wilder House #3)

Prologue

Asher

The city looks different through a scope. Smaller. Simpler. A problem with one clean solution. I’ve solved it a hundred times and never once lost sleep. Tonight will be the first.

I crouch at the edge of the rooftop. One knee pressed into rough concrete, rifle steady against my shoulder. My breathing is slow. Controlled. Measured. Always measured. My job requires it. Through the scope, the world narrows down to a single window.

Third floor. Lights on. Curtains half-drawn and target confirmed. Victor Hale. Mid-forties, trafficker, dirty money. Dirtier business. I think back to the file I got about him. It contains his logged patterns. His habits. His weaknesses.

He is always alone. That’s what the file said, and that’s what I confirmed.

My finger rests lightly against the trigger.

One squeeze. That’s all it takes. Clean and quiet.

I exhale slowly, lining up the shot. Hale steps into view, pacing across the room with a phone pressed to his ear. Agitated. Distracted.

Good. Easier that way.

He’s talking to someone, phone pressed to his ear, free hand carving the air. Agitated. Whatever the conversation is, it’s not going his way. I don’t need the words. The body language tells me enough.”

He stops. Turns and moves out of frame. I shift slightly, adjusting my angle.

“Stay still,” I mutter under my breath.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. I freeze. There’s someone else in the room. My grip tightens on the rifle as I refocus the scope. It’s a child. A boy, maybe five or six years old, wanders into view, clutching something in his hands. A toy.

My chest locks. “What the hell…”

The kid climbs onto the couch, legs dangling, absorbed by whatever’s on the screen. Oblivious. He has no idea that a man on a rooftop three hundred yards away already has the shot lined up.

Hale comes back into frame, still on the phone. My finger doesn’t move.

No women. No children. No innocents.

That’s my rule, and the rule is simple. I pull back slightly from the scope, jaw tightening. This wasn’t in the file.

“Fuck.”

The boy laughs softly at something on the TV. The sound doesn’t reach me. But I see it. Hale drops onto the couch beside him, still talking, still distracted, dragging a hand over the kid’s hair without even looking. The move is casual. Almost human. As if those hands haven’t ended lives.

My mouth curls at the thought. Every despicable act done by him that I’ve read about floods my mind. My hands tighten around the rifle, and my finger curls slightly against the trigger.

But the kid is innocent…

I lower the rifle.

“Fuck.” The word escapes under my breath.

This job is blown. I know it the second I pull back. I disassemble the rifle with practiced efficiency, hands moving on instinct. With my weapon arranged, I zip the bag shut and stand, casting one last look at the window.

By the time I get back to the motel, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving something colder in its place. Annoyance. At the job. At my handler. At myself.

The room smells like stale air and cheap detergent. Same as every other place like this. Temporary and easy to leave behind. I drop the duffel on the chair and run a hand over the back of my neck, tension coiling tight under my skin.

I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the screen for a second before dialing. It rings once.

“Yeah,” Emerald answers, voice smooth and controlled. “That was fast.”

“There was a kid in that apartment.”

Silence. Then, the man exhales slowly. “There shouldn’t have been.”

My jaw tightens. “He was sitting on the couch, Emerald. Not exactly hard to miss.”

“I wasn’t informed of that,” he says. “The client…”

“Don’t,” I cut in sharply. “Don’t pass this off.”

“I’m not passing anything off,” he replies, tone shifting slightly. Less smooth now. More careful. “The information I gave you is what I was given.”

“That makes it worse. You know my rules.”

He sighs, “I do. But change is part of the job, Obsidian. Variables change.”

“Not like that.”

He doesn’t argue that. Because he knows I’m right. Because this isn’t how I work. “I think it’s time I take a break,” I say gruffly, squeezing the back of my neck.

Silence stretches between us again, heavier this time.

Then Emerald says, quieter, “You’ve taken dozens of contracts without an issue.”

“Yeah.”

“And now one complication has you ready to burn the whole thing down?”

“It’s not one complication.” I push off the wall and start pacing, restless energy building under my skin. “It’s me. I almost didn’t see him, Emerald. That’s the part I can’t walk past.”

“That’s not on you.”

“It is.” My voice stays calm, even, but there’s no give in it. “I don’t take jobs that break my rules. You know that.”

“I do. But contracts aren’t exactly…flexible. Which means you can’t just abandon this.”

“Then get someone else to do it.”

He knows that tone. He’s heard it before. It means the conversation is already over on my end.

“Obsidian…”

“I’m done.” I was hesitating before. I’m resolute now. “With all of it.”

“This is your job.”

“Not anymore.”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Because of one kid?”

“Because I almost didn’t see him.”

That shuts Emerald up. For a second, anyway.

Then, softer, “You’ve been at this a long time. You’re good at it. And you’re just…what? Walking away?”

“I am.”

There’s something like frustration in his voice now. “To do what?”

I glance around the motel room, at the bare walls, the worn carpet, the life that fits into a single bag.

“Don’t know yet.”

Another exhale. Slower now. Accepting.

“Alright,” he mutters. “If that’s how you want to play it. I’ll handle the client.”

“Good.”

“And Obsidian?”

“Yeah.”

The line goes quiet for a second. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Just…don’t disappear,” he says.

I almost laugh at that. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It would be the first time without a trace.”

I consider that. Then, “I’m not planning on disappearing.”

“Good.” Another pause. “Take care of yourself,” he says finally.

“You too.”

I hang up before Emerald can say anything else.

The room falls silent after the call ends, but my mind doesn’t. I drop my phone onto the bed and sit on the edge, elbows resting on my knees, staring at nothing. For the first time in years, I feel something I haven’t allowed myself to feel.

Doubt. Not about the job. Not about the outcome. About myself. About whether I’m still as sharp as I used to be. I’ve always relied on control. Precision. Discipline. That’s what has kept me alive. That’s what has kept other people alive.

But tonight, for the first time, I see the cracks.

I push to my feet and start pacing the small space, restless energy buzzing under my skin. This isn’t the first time something unexpected has happened on a job. But it’s the first time it’s made me question whether I should still be doing this at all.

I’ve always had rules. Always had lines I don’t cross. That’s what separates me from the men I’ve taken down. But tonight, I came too close to crossing one without even realizing it. And that’s not something I can ignore.

I stop by the small desk and flip open my laptop, the screen lighting up the dim room. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before I start typing. I pull up listings, classifieds, anything that isn’t tied to the life I’ve been living.

It feels strange. Wrong, almost. Like I’m stepping into something unfamiliar without a weapon in my hand or a plan in place.

“Figure it out,” I mutter, echoing something I’ve told myself more than once over the years.

A few listings pass by: short-term rentals, overpriced apartments, places that don’t fit what I need. I’m not looking for comfort. I’m looking for quiet. For space. For somewhere I can disappear without actually disappearing.

Then one listing catches my attention.

Room for rent. Wilder House. Quiet building. Long-term or short-term. No trouble tolerated.

I lean back slightly, eyes scanning the description again. It’s simple. Direct. No unnecessary details. That alone tells me something about whoever runs the place. There’s an address. A contact number. A few photos of a plain brick building. It’s nothing special, but it looks clean. Maintained.

I study it for a moment longer, then reach for my phone again. My thumb hovers over the screen, not hesitating this time, just considering.

“Yeah,” I murmur to myself. “This works.”