Savage Stalkers (Masked Men #9)

Chapter One

Silas

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The pounding from the next room blasts through my focus like a jackhammer. I grit my teeth and try to concentrate on the screen, but the sound drowns out everything else.

Why do they need to fuck like it’s an Olympic sport?

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The pen twitches between my fingers, bleeding black ink onto my notes. I shove my chair back from the desk so hard the wheels screech.

Those two have the worst fucking timing. Of course they pick now, when I have important shit to do, to turn their bedroom into a damn construction site.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My jaw aches from clenching my teeth so tightly. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes as I take a deep breath, but all I see are stars.

The noise doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder—more frantic—like they’re competing in some twisted endurance contest.

I pull up the camera feeds, my fingers moving across the keyboard in a practiced sequence I could do blindfolded.

Living room, empty. Kitchen, empty. Her bedroom—there.

Skye lies curled on her side, arms wrapped around that ridiculous body pillow like it’s the only thing keeping her safe. Her breathing is deep and even, one bare shoulder peeking out from under the covers. I lean back in my chair, the knot in my chest loosening.

She’s okay. She’s safe.

My gaze drops to the timestamp in the corner: 12:47 a.m. When did I last check?

Forty-three minutes ago. Before that, thirty-six minutes.

I have alerts set to detect motion and sound, even to detect a change in the lighting, but I still cycle through the feeds every half an hour or so, sometimes more often.

The folder on my desktop labeled “Security Protocols” contains the forty-seven entry points I’ve mapped out for her building.

Window access, service entrances, ventilation systems, and emergency exits that don’t quite latch properly.

I update it weekly, sometimes daily, when building maintenance changes something.

Not because I plan to use them, but because I need to know how someone else might get to her.

Thud, thud, thud.

I storm into the dingy hallway of our temporary apartment and barge into their room, slamming the door with enough force that it ricochets off the wall.

Zay, who is holding the headboard as Kain smashes into him, notices me walk in and smirks. “Your dick hard? Come to join in?” Zay teases, but he knows I have better things to do than join them.

“I’m going to fucking murder you if you don’t shut the fuck up,” I snap as I pull the switchblade from my pocket and flick it open.

“But I’m too pretty to die,” Zay mocks.

Lifting my hand from my side, I throw the knife, and it sails through the air and embeds in the wall above Zay’s head. “Next time I won’t miss, asshole.”

I turn my back and leave as their laughter rings out from behind me. Zay’s voice carries down the hall—something about me being “wound tighter than a cock ring.” It’s followed by Kain’s chuckle and the sound of skin slapping skin.

This is how it always goes. I lose my shit, and they push back just hard enough to remind me they’re not afraid of me.

Then they go back to whatever they were doing like nothing happened.

The knife will stay in the wall above Zay’s head.

He’ll leave it there as proof that he can get under my skin without breaking a sweat.

Kain’s the one who keeps us grounded, as much as three criminals can be. When I spiral too deep into surveillance mode, or when Zay’s mouth goes off, Kain steps in with his calm, calculated violence that reminds us both why we listen.

Zay feeds off chaos like it’s oxygen. The louder I get, the more he fucking smiles. The angrier Kain becomes, the more he jokes. It’s like he’s hardwired to find the button that will set us off, then he smashes it repeatedly to see what happens.

I need control like most people need air to breathe. It makes living with these two a special kind of torture.

I walk back into my room and sit at my desk, then do a double take when I find her bed empty. Jerking forward, I make my fingers fly across the keyboard, cycling through every camera feed. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room . . .

There—the kitchen. She stands at the counter barefoot, an oversized shirt barely reaching her thighs as she stretches for a glass from the cabinet.

My shoulders drop as I let out a shaky breath, my hands trembling against the keys.

The shirt she’s wearing hangs loose on her body, but I know who it belongs to. My fingers curl into fists every time she wears something that isn’t hers, something that smells like someone else. I force my hands flat against the wood, pressing down until my knuckles go white.

Kain won’t let me leave her a shirt. The only way he even allows me to watch her is if I keep my distance, especially if I want to stay out of prison.

“Yo, Si Spy,” Zay chirps, strolling into my room, his sweats hanging low on his hips.

Zay is good-looking, and he knows it. Owning a gym, even if it’s a front for an illegal fighting ring, has done wonders for his body.

I trail my gaze over his toned abs, and when I reach his face, I find his ice-blue eyes sparkling with amusement as he runs a hand through his dark hair. “Finished checking me out?”

“What do you want, Zay? I’m busy.”

He strolls across the room until he is standing in front of me. Without warning, his hand grips the arm of my chair, and he spins it around to face him completely.

The sudden motion makes my pulse spike—half in panic that I can no longer see what Skye is doing, and the other half because being this close to Zay is intoxicating.

He leans down, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin. His eyes lock onto mine as one hand comes up to rest against the back of my chair, caging me in.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low, and I know he doesn’t want to set me off. “This obsession—is it under control?” I nod, my mouth going dry as his lips feather across mine. “Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”

“Of course I would.”

“Good.” He presses his lips to mine and then quickly pulls back. “Kain and I are heading to the gym. I have a fight in a few hours.”

He pushes up and spins my chair back around to face my screens. “Your girl just got changed, and it looks like she is heading out.”

Shit. I watch as she grabs her keys, her honey-colored hair now twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face.

As I note her oversized hoodie, my chest tightens.

Not because she looks bad—she could wear a garbage bag and still be beautiful—but because this isn’t like her.

Skye wouldn’t normally leave the house without every hair in place, makeup done, and looking like she stepped off a magazine cover.

Something has upset her enough that she doesn’t care about appearances, and that knowledge sits in my stomach like a stone.

She can’t be going anywhere important—not dressed like that.

I’ve watched her get ready for family dinners and seen the transformation from college student to Hawthorne-Ellington heiress.

The careful makeup, the designer clothes, and a posture that screams pedigree breeding.

Her mother, Lillian, would have a coronary if she saw Skye leaving the house in sweats.

But I think that’s exactly why Skye does it, as a small act of rebellion; her mother’s lies turned her entire world upside down.

The ancestry kit had been innocent, one of those DNA tests everyone was doing in the senior year of high school. She probably expected to find some distant cousins, but instead, she discovered Harrison Ellington was her biological father.

I remember the night she found out. I’d been monitoring her stepfather Alexander Hawthorne’s accounts for months by then, skimming small amounts that would never be noticed. There was a new company registered under Skye’s name, and Alexander was funneling money into it.

But when I pulled up a security feed to confirm her identity, everything changed.

She was in the kitchen at the Hawthorne mansion, staring at the DNA results. I watched as she called Harrison. Their conversation lasted three hours, after which she packed two suitcases and walked out.

The apartment she moved into was a slap in the face to Lillian and everything she stood for. No doorman or marble floors. Her roommates didn’t even know there’s more than one fork setting at the dinner table.

“You should come down to the gym and watch,” Zay says.

I stiffen. My obsession with Skye trumps most things in my life, but not Zay or Kain. Without them, I would be in prison—or worse, dead.

We met ten years ago when I was sixteen.

The cops were after me—I stupidly got caught trying to break into a jewelry store.

I didn’t want the jewelry; I wanted to install software on their computers.

They didn’t know me, but Kain gave me his shirt and Zay his cap.

We became instant friends. Kain and Zay grew up next door to each other.

I wouldn’t say they were middle class, but they certainly didn’t come from where I did—somewhere below dirt poor.

My mom was a prostitute, but she did the best she could.

Men would come and go; there were parties every other day.

I would be woken from a dead sleep by Mom coming into my room drunk, telling me to keep my door locked until the next morning.

I think that’s why I like things to be routine now, to be in control of my life.

“Once Skye is home, I will come down.”

Zay nods as I take another look at the cameras to see Skye push the call button to head down to the garage.

I have the elevator linked to my computer, and I hit the button to stall it, while I grab my helmet and race out of the apartment.

I know that once she is inside, it will take her directly to the basement and won’t stop if anyone else wants to get in.

The one bonus of being dirt poor and my mom bringing home random men was that we had a roommate for a few years.

Korbin rarely left his room and was always on his computer.

He also taught me things a kid should not have known.

Now I am a systems integration consultant, which is a fancy way to cover up the data theft, digital manipulation, and exploitation of security systems—just as a start—that I do in my private life.

My boots pound against the concrete steps as I head down to the garage.

My MTT 420RR waits in the shadows like a predator, and I hurry over to it, then swing my leg over the seat, feeling the cold leather through my pants.

With a gentle press of the start button, I wake the beast, and the sound of her rumbles through the garage.

Skye exits the elevator, unaware she is being watched, and climbs into her cherry-red Tesla. The stereo blasts Teddy Swims, and my heart sinks. She is feeling down; she only listens to this playlist when she needs a boost.

I pull out behind her as she takes off down the street. I sit a few cars back, thankful there is traffic. She pulls up in front of a coffee shop, so I pull in across the street and watch as she gets out and heads into the shop.

A man around her age doesn’t stand as she approaches him—he looks like a preppy college boy in his polo shirt and khakis. Exactly the kind of snobbish wanker her mother keeps trying to set her up with.

I pull out my phone and snap a picture; another loser I have to keep away from her. Blackmail is not beneath me, and if anyone tries to take what’s mine, I will bury them, figuratively speaking of course, because seeing someone with money end up with nothing satisfies me a lot more than death.

Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her shoulders, and the way she shakes her head while he leans forward, talking with his hands.

Whatever he is saying, she is having none of it.

Good girl. She stands to leave, but the asshole’s hand shoots out and wraps around her wrist, using his strength to yank her back down.

Skye’s face twists in pain, and something dark and violent explodes in my chest.

My fingers grip the handlebars so tight my knuckles go white. Nobody, and I mean nobody, puts their hands on her. Watching this entitled prick manhandle my Skye makes my vision blur.

She yanks her arm free from that bastard’s grip, and her face is flushed with anger. Then she storms toward the door, not looking back.

I swing my leg off the bike and cross the street, slipping into the narrow alley that runs alongside the coffee shop.

From here, I have a perfect view through the side windows while staying hidden in the shadows between the dumpster and brick wall.

The preppy douche is still seated, running his hands through his hair, and my jaw clenches as I watch him check his phone while she gets into her car and pulls out.

I press my back against the cool brick, pissed off that I can’t follow her home.

Rage boils over as I watch him exit the shop.

I smile to myself as he turns this way, and as he steps near the alley, I grab his wrist and drag him into the dark.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snaps.

I don’t answer. Instead my right fist finds his face, and he howls in pain, clutching his nose.

“If you want money, I have it.”

I move closer, gripping his wrist again. His other hand shoots up, but I twist sharply, and the sound of bone snapping under my palm rings out. His scream ricochets off the alley walls, and the sick part of me basks in the sound.

He staggers, cradling the broken bones to his chest. I shove him so his back slams into the brick wall, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.

I lean in, my visor inches from his face, then I jerk forward as if I’m about to headbutt him, though I stop just shy. Flicking my visor up, I glare into his eyes. “Touch what doesn’t belong to you again, and I’ll do more than break your fucking hand.”

As I lower my visor, I leave him crying to himself and step out of the alley.

Racing across to my bike, I pull out my phone and see that Skye is heading straight back to her apartment.

I want to follow her—to make sure she is okay—but Zay pops into my head.

He wants me at his fight tonight, which means there is a reason, and I can’t let him down.

I set an alert on my phone so I know when Skye arrives home and when she leaves.

This is as well as the motion sensor, which automatically activates after eleven when she and her roommates go to bed.

One day she will be mine, but the timing must be right. If I rush it, I could ruin everything, and my obsession won’t allow that to happen.