Chapter 8
EMBER
I slept like shit.
First, the messages from… whoever he is.
The hot, tattooed badass with the mark of the Bratva on him. It’s… starting to feel more and more like he’s telling the truth.
He was on my roof.
But he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t even touch me. So far, all he’s done is shamelessly flirt, give me an insanely expensive camera I’ve been researching online, like he’s hacked into my search history.
Oh, god. If he looked into my search history… my cheeks flame.
No, wait. I shake my head and drop my forearm across my face. He came to my home , which means he looked me up and found my address.
I blink my eyes open, my vision blurry, and blink again.
This is…different. Shawn never leaves me alone. Shawn finds every one of my locations and even though he leaves me for months at a time, he always resurfaces like a relentless weed, immune to being plucked and destroyed.
But this guy…
I sit up in bed, staring at my phone plugged into the bedside table like it’s a snake coiled to bite me.
I’m kind of embarrassed he knows where I live. I don’t even know the guy, but there’s a reason I film all of my videos in front of the bookshelf or on the rooftop.
There’s a reason that one hundred percent of my friends are fellow influencers who share a mutual love of reading and bad boys.
In real life, I don’t make friends easily. I don’t trust anyone.
This apartment is a study in contradictions, a ridiculous blend of hope tangled with despair. The kind of place that clings to the smell of mildew no matter how hard I scrub or how many candles I burn. The walls are thin, the once-white paint now an uneven patchwork of peeling corners and smudges that won’t scrub out. At night, the soft glow of the fairy lights I hang disguises the cracks spidering across the ceiling.
I’ve thrown down thrifted rugs to cover the worst spots of the cheap laminate flooring, little splashes of color I hoped would lend a vintage edge but sort of scream “flea market finds.”
My bed is crammed into the far corner of the studio, tucked beneath a window that rattles in its frame every time the wind kicks up. The bedspread is soft and inviting, though, my one splurge after a recent shoot—a pricy comforter I bought on sale, the bright crimson fabric a rebellion against the drab apartment.
I pinned a sweet little string of lights made of tiny romance book covers on the wall above it, one of my favorite little bonuses from a sponsored ad. I love the little gallery of escapism and reminder of a world that’s fully within my control.
Unlike this one.
Sigh.
Before I went to bed, my phone pings. My heart surges and I reach for the phone, only to realize… it’ s Shawn.
I close my eyes and will him to just go away. I don’t want to deal with him, with the memories he dredges up and the way he makes me feel.
Shawn
I want to visit dad’s grave together.
Of freaking course he’s tugging at my heartstrings. Just because he’s back in town, he wants to play nice. Wants to pretend that nothing ever happened, that I’ve forgiven him for what he did.
His dad wasn’t my father, but my mother’s husband. We buried him a decade ago, and I did love the guy. He was good to me—good to us.
Except for the day he moved his son into our home after his ex-wife gave up custody.
I toss the covers aside and head to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. It feels as if my phone has eyes on it, boring into mine.
Is he watching me?
Does he have cameras set up here, after all?
Why would he go through that much trouble for me ?
I take the camera with me and prop it on the kitchen table, staring at it for a moment as if it’ll reach out and bite me.
My god, it’s a beauty.
I look away from it. It doesn’t belong in a place like this.
The kitchenette, if it can even be called that, sits on the other side of the room. A single-burner hot plate balances precariously on the edge of the tiny counter, and the mini fridge hums loudly, drowning out the faint murmurs of my neighbor’s all-day TV fest. I tried to dress it up with dried lavender and baby’s breath from a farmer’s market, but it didn’t really help.
I really hate this place.
I should pack up and move.
But here’s where I have my connections. I can get a gig in a matter of hours, and I’ve finally started making a name for myself, booking clients. now that the influencer gig is picking up, that’s less of a pressing need, though. I can, for once, be a bit more discriminating.
I have goals and aspirations, not the least of which is to sock away every penny I can so that I can move into a place of my own. Suffer for a bit, then buy my own place.
Wherever I want.
I look back at the camera. It rests on my kitchen table like a coiled snake—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Its black leather casing, weathered and soft, contrasts with the sharp glint of its brass accents. An antique. A collector’s dream.
A note, handwritten on textured paper, lies beside it: “Use it wisely.”
My stomach churns. It’s not signed, but it doesn’t need to be.
What’s his name?
“Um, excuse me.” I’m talking to dead air like a psycho, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
It’s ridiculous. But this feeling, the same one I got at the gym, is prickling the back of my neck and won’t go away.
My eyes flick to the corners of the room, to the window, even to the tiny blinking light on my laptop.
He’s been watching me. I know he has.
“Do you think this is a game?” I say out loud, again to no one.
What am I doing? I rub my temples. I’m losing it.
I pace the small space of my apartment, my steps muffled by the worn rug. He’s been watching me—closely enough to know my weak spots, to anticipate that I’d be drawn to the camera like a moth to flame.
I should call the police. I should burn the thing and be done with him.
Instead, my fingers itch for the leather strap.
The thought makes me nauseous, and I push the chair back violently, sending it scraping across the floor. The sound jolts me, grounding me, and I take a shaky breath. This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay.
But damn it, if there isn’t a part of me—small, treacherous—that feels seen.
I stare at the camera, daring it to reveal the secrets it carries. What’s on the film? What has he captured?
Some modern photographers don’t use a dark room anymore, fully embracing the lure of digital art and eschewing the older methods. But me… I love it.
It takes less than five minutes to load the film into the developing tank, my hands working on autopilot, movements honed from years of practice.
Until the first image appears.
It’s me .
Walking down Melrose, oblivious that I’m being watched.
Me, sitting on a park bench, scrolling through my phone, completely exposed.
Me, entering my apartment building, keys in hand, shadowed by the late afternoon light.
I slam my fists against the table, the developing solution splashing over my hands as I head to use the bathroom. Surely he hasn’t set up a camera in there.
But when I get to the bathroom, the glaring, flickering fluorescent lighting reminds me that this is the worst part of this apartment. A cramped space with tiles that perpetually feel damp and a shower curtain that clings to my skin no matter how hard I try to avoid it. It’s a good thing I’m barely five feet tall because anyone bigger than me wouldn’t even fit in that shower.
I hung up a framed print of a sunlit forest on the wall, a hopeful touch, but even that can’t mask the reality of rust-stained fixtures and a cracked mirror.
God, I hate this place.
I flick off the light and march back to my room, coffee in hand, and check my messages.
I have a few choice things to say.
Sure enough, Shawn’s back at it again, and there are… wait. I blink. I look again.
That’s four times as many notifications as I normally get on one of my posts.
I stare, my eyes wide, as I flick open the app. My jaw unhinges.
Overnight, three different follower badges are tacked next to my name, thanks in no small part to the videos my stalker’s account tags me in.
My mouth goes dry as I quickly do the math. This is… this is going to bring in money. Good money, ten times faster than any photography gig I could bring in, all while sitting in the privacy of my home.
I could… if this keeps up, I could move out of this shithole and into a place of my own?—
No.
NO!
I can’t allow myself to fall for this… I can’t.
There has to be another way.
My notifications tell me that he posted another video.
Last week, I was happily immersed in my fictional worlds, where it was…safe. And now…
My hands are shaking, and I can’t look away. I click the button.
I exhale. Now that I’ve seen him in person, the sight of him on-screen makes my heart slam so hard against my rib cage I hold onto the bed for support. The camera shows his best angles, yes, but I know what it’s like to be next to him, to see those veins along his neck when he leans against the wall, to hear his low, dark voice in my ear, to see his broad shoulders and powerful frame, knowing he could and would have his way with me and I’d never be the same.
Also? He smelled so good.
Sigh.
My god. I’m wet and bothered—and he didn’t even touch me.
I swallow hard and let myself watch the video.
This one’s new, shot in the early morning light I am oh-so-familiar with on the rooftop. I narrow my eyes and look closer—no, he isn’t on my rooftop. Instead of the industrial pipes and sea of gray, I can tell this rooftop’s different. Higher end.
Of course it is.
The video’s both mesmerizing and unsettling, shot with the raw precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re aiming for. He stands in the frame, his broad shoulders filling the screen. This time, he’s not posed or polished—his stance is casual, almost lazy, though, like before, it’s somehow drenched in Bratva energy.
Maybe because he isn’t posing. Maybe because he is the real thing.
I can feel the undercurrent of tightly coiled power in the way he leans against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.
The camera catches every detail: the veins along his forearms, the latent power and ink that scream danger .
I once read somewhere that a woman is naturally drawn to a man with ink because she knows … he won’t pussyfoot around. He’s a man well acquainted with pain and risks, a man who is willing to take her to new heights.
I have no idea if it’s true.
I want to see his jaw again. I want to see that stubble, that smirk, but most of all… I want to see his eyes. I can tell by the way his lips are moving he’s talking.
I swallow hard, start it over, and turn the volume up on my phone.
“You want a man to protect you,” he whispers, his voice low and rough and so sexy a pulse of need throbs between my thighs. I swallow. That subtle Russian lilt turns every word into a threat wrapped in velvet, and I could listen to him talk all day long. I’m not the only one—comment after comment comes in, flirting with him, begging for more, offering him their first-born children and hands in marriage.
His gaze is unflinching as if he’s addressing me directly.
Maybe he is…
“You don’t want a gentleman, little queen.”
I gulp.
There’s no maybe about this. He is talking to me.
The camera pans in slightly, framing his masked face, those eyes growing so serious my breath catches. “A gentleman does what’s right. Plays by the rules.” He’s shaking his head, then leans in closer, the movement deliberate. I watch the veins in his neck stand out slightly as he speaks with quiet intensity. “I would break every rule, every law to keep you safe.” The pause that follows is intentional, almost cruel, the tension crackling through the screen as he holds his breath.
“I would stop at nothing. No one…” His voice drops to a lower register, rougher. “And I mean, no one would ever harm a hair on your head.”
He doesn’t say it, but I hear his words loud and clear…
Except me.
Still, the thought of Shawn in town and all that entails reminds me how nice it would be to have exactly this.
No.
He stalked me. I don’t know him.
I can’t trust him.
For a moment, the silence lingers, heavy and charged. The video ends abruptly, leaving behind the sound of my own shallow breathing and the thunderous pounding of my heart.
With trembling fingers, I click my message as text after text comes in. I don’t want to look at those. They’re Shawn, I know it.
Instead I pull up his.
Bratvabloodline
Morning, little queen. Did you sleep well?
I need to take back some control here, so I don’t answer and instead click the message from my friend.
Bookbabe
OMG. Ember. EMBER. This guy is so into you!
Into me or stalking me?
I can’t tell her the truth. I don’t want to. It’s… too personal, somehow.
Bookbabe
What if he’s LEGIT? What if he really is this…sexy af guy who’s super into you?
How do I break this to her?
Strange way to flirt, no?
Bookbabe
Well, not really. He knows what you’re into. You’re basically like hey, so role playing a book girl into a masked man is my thing and he’s all, lemme show you the fantasy RIGHT HERE AND I LOVE YOU
He didn’t say he loves me
Bookbabe
Pfft. Girl. He’s posting videos directed at you four times a day. Some of the thirstier girls are a little jealous that he only ever responds to YOUR comments.
I blink. Wait. What? He does?
My head pounds. I should’ve made that stupid coffee.
I swallow hard. This feels… alright, okay. So color me intrigued.
What if I could play this right?
What if… what if I could make this work for me?
What would you do if you were me?
Bookbabe
I would do exactly what you’re doing. Give him shit online. Tease him. Milk this for all it’s worth. Your notifications have shot up overnight, your followers are climbing by the second… and maybe suss him out a bit. Has he slid into your DM’s yet, or…
Um. Yeah.
Bookbabe
NO FUCKING WAY. Annnnnddddd???
He’s even flirtier in the DM’s than he is publicly.
Bookbabe
SEEEE?!??! He’s into you. Like really into you
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Bookbabe
Well has he stepped out of line?
Is stalking me, taking pictures of me, then giving me the vintage camera of my dreams with the pictures on it stepping out of line?
Is looking up my home address and…
Yes. Yes, it is.
The question is… Is it worth it?
Do I care?
I’m not sure…
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Bookbabe
Okay. So do what I said. Have some fun. Suss him out.
What if he’s really brATVA?
I know he is. He has to be.
Bookbabe
Oh c’mon, he can’t be really…
He has a Bratva tattoo and a Russian accent.
Bookbabe
You mean… they really exist? They’re real?
I laugh out loud.
Well yes, obviously.
Bookbabe
I thought they were made up for the book world!
I smile at that.
Some are, some aren’t
Bookbabe
I smirk.
Bookbabe
Okay, I gotta go to class. Ugggh, responsibility rearing its ugly head once more. Le sigh. Keep me posted!
She’s a teacher by day, one of the reasons why she smartly kept all her identifying information off her socials. Meanwhile, I might as well have hung a neon sign around my neck that says Stalk Me.
Freud would have a field day with this.
I go back to my messages.
I saw the pictures...
He responds immediately. My heart beats so fast that I’m a little dizzy.
Bratvabloodline
And my latest video, I see. I promise you, Ember. I’m not bluffing. I meant every word.
Yes
I pinch the bridge of my nose, unsure of how to respond because honestly? A part of me… wants this. There’s a reason why I spend so much time reading the books. There’s a reason I started this account. And sure, while I keep telling myself that this is fantasy, that I don’t really want this, it would be a lie to say there isn’t a part of me—a small, hidden, quiet part of me I don’t share with anyone else—that fantasizes about what’s directly in front of me.
I swallow hard and don’t respond. I quickly check my texts, and my blood runs cold.
Shawn has sent me twelve messages since last night.
Shawn
Hey, sis. I really want to see you. It’s been so long, and I’m only back in town for a while. How’s breakfast?
When I didn’t respond, the messages grew increasingly urgent and pushy.
Shawn
Why are you ignoring me? I’m waiting.
Shawn
Hello? Are you up? I know where you live, Ember. If you don’t respond to me, I’m coming by in person.
I don’t know how to play this. If I tell him off, he will retaliate and make my life a living hell.
But I can’t play nice, not with this asshole who made my childhood a living nightmare.
Shawn
Please. Things are different. I’m not the same person I was. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I want to see you.
I shake my head when a brilliant idea crosses my mind.
A crazy, brilliant, terrible idea.
Fury races through my veins as I type a message to my masked stalker. My hands are shaking.
Hey. Stalker boy.
Bratvabloodline
Ouch. I’m not a boy.
I smile to myself. He didn’t deny stalker.
Bratvabloodline
What is it?
My heart thunders in my chest so hard I’m a little dizzy.
You said you’re not bluffing.
Bratvabloodline
I’m not
You also said you’re not going to hurt me.
Bratvabloodline
I would never hurt you.
Talk is cheap, but… but…
If he were going to hurt me, he… he would have already.
Right?
No, Ember, you stupid bitch— my inner voice warns me before I shut that shit down and continue my conversation.
Can we meet for coffee?
Some place public, out in the open, where he can’t do anything to me.
My pulse races as the dots on the other side of the phone appear then disappear, come back again, then disappear.
I wait and wait, but nothing.
Seriously? I mention coffee and get ghosted by my online stalker?
I can’t ask him to do this. I can’t, but?—
Bratvabloodline
I thought you’d never ask. Look out your window, beautiful. Meet me on the rooftop.
Oh god.
I freeze, my pulse thundering in my ears. My hand trembles as I pull the curtain aside—and there he is, leaning casually against a lamppost, two coffees in hand… all masked up, before he turns and heads toward my building.