Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHASE
Six Months Later
My journal has become something else entirely. It's no longer just a file of Noah's mind, it's a chronicle of our descent into the criminal underworld.
Noah has become Marcus’ most trusted operative, I write.
Over the past few months, Noah has become more ingrained into the workings of the clubhouse and the Kozlovs’ operation.
He has a reputation, and is trusted with interrogations and kills that are beneficial to both parties.
Slowly, he has developed his own independent role, and it feeds him well.
I think it’s the one thing that keeps him grounded living in one place as it prevents the boredom, and he has unlimited access to whatever feeds those desires.
And I watch it all.
I've become his willing accomplice, his watcher, recording everything he does. I go with him everywhere, as he never leaves my side. I’m well protected by those around me, and word has spread enough of Noah’s ownership of me.
I pause, pen hovering over the page.
I’m also still aware of what is happening to me, that I'm exhibiting every sign of criminal complicity, of moral corruption and psychological descent. But that makes me happy and adds a fun dimension to my journalling.
I'm exactly where I want to be with the man I love. I am fully aware that it’s all wrong, but Noah can do anything and I will remain here, because there is no life without him, just as there is no life for him without me.
I close the journal and look around our beautiful home.
I walk downstairs and Noah is in the living room, on the phone with Ivan.
They're planning something I don't know the details of yet, but I will. Noah always tells me eventually. Him and Ivan have become quite the duo over the past few months, although Noah still resists the “friend” title that Ivan insists on calling them. Noah only wants the benefits he gets from Ivan, access to information and weapons. Ivan is alone in this friendship, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and that makes me happy on some level, that he accepts Noah as he is, but tries anyway. Noah is unable to change, but the people around him adapt to his ways, and you can see that they hope something will shift. It won’t, but sometimes it’s best to let people live in their own hope.
I watch him through the doorway, as usual he's wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt, his posture relaxed but alert.
He's beautiful, and not despite what he is, but because of it. A look of annoyance is visible on his face as he ends the call and looks up, catching me watching him.
“You need to have a chat with your brother, and tell him to get Ivan to back off,” he says, waving his phone at me.
“What has he done now?” I ask, and I have to suppress my amusement, as this is the only problem Noah is unable to solve his own way.
“Every conversation I have with him ends up with him trying to get closer to me. He has spent the last five minutes trying to convince me to spend Wednesday afternoons with him designing new torture devices. Says it will be good bonding as we’re practically family.”
I can’t help the laugh that leaves me, picturing Ivan pouting on the other end of the phone.
“It’s not funny, Chase. It’s bad enough that he texts me TikTok videos. I would block the fucker if I didn’t need him for clubhouse work.”
“Videos? What kind of videos?” I ask, as this should be good. Noah takes a deep breath as he scowls at me like I’m the one doing it.
“Funny cat videos, except they’re not funny. Who watches that shit?”
“Oh my god,” I say as I cover my face with my hands, unable to control the laughter. Ivan is fucking special. Noah sits down on the sofa, his face stoic as he pats his lap.
"Come here," he says, with a warning in his voice. I walk over to him, and he pulls me down onto his lap as his arms wrap around my waist, holding me close.
“I will talk to him,” I say as I nibble on his ear, and he grunts in response.
"I love you," I tell him, and he holds me tighter.
“I need you in my life, baby,” he says and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to hear that he loves me back, because I know what he feels for me. It’s more intense than love, it’s an eternal bond. He would fucking kill for me, and I think that says it all.
It’s the next day and I decide I need a new journal.
The current one is nearly full with pages and pages of observations, analysis of Noah's behavior and my own thoughts and feelings. I need a fresh start for the next phase.
There's a stationery shop in the West Village that carries the specific Moleskine notebooks I prefer. And a coffee shop two blocks away that makes excellent espresso. It’s a simple errand and one I can do on my own, so I tell Noah I'm going out.
He's in the study, reviewing something on his laptop.
He looks up when I speak, his expression neutral.
"How long?" he asks.
"An hour. Maybe two."
He nods but doesn't say anything else. But I know. I know he'll follow me. He always does.
The air is crisp as I walk down Madison Avenue and I'm wearing a dark coat, and a scarf wrapped against the chill. The city moves around me with people rushing to appointments, tourists taking photos, delivery trucks double-parked.
I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light, and that’s when I feel it, the awareness and thread of connection that tells me Noah is nearby.
I don't turn around or look, I only smile slightly to myself as the light changes and I cross the street. The millions of butterflies in my stomach have never faded since he started doing this, as he stalks me through Manhattan like I'm prey.
I continue walking, taking my time. I stop to look in a bookstore window, studying the display.
I can't see Noah's reflection, but I know he's there, watching my every move, because let’s face it, he will never let me leave the house alone.
His feigned indifference to make me feel like he does is amusing, as we both know this is what he will always do, stick to the shadows to keep me close.
The coffee shop is warm and crowded and I order an espresso, then sit at a small table by the window. I pull out my phone, scrolling through nothing in particular, but I'm hyperaware of the door and of every person who enters.
Noah doesn't come in. On some occasions he would join me, but on anti-social days he will just monitor me from a distance.
I know he's outside somewhere, his eyes fixated on me and probably smoking a cigarette as he enjoys his view.
I love knowing that he is out there, my heart swells at his display of affection, as that is what this is to him. A form of love.
I finish my coffee slowly, savoring both the drink and the knowledge of his surveillance.
The stationery shop is a quieter space where classical music plays softly as I browse the journal selection.
I choose three new Moleskines, one for observations, one for clinical notes, and one for personal reflections.
The clerk is friendly, making small talk as she rings up my purchase, and I'm polite but distant, my mind elsewhere.
On Noah. My world.
Before I grab a cab, I take a walk through Washington Square Park, where students sit on benches, street performers play music, and chess players huddle over their boards.
All of it a reflection of a normal life that I used to live.
It’s like watching through glass on the outside, where I’m not a part of that world anymore, only an occasional observer.
I'm part of Noah's world. Where love means being owned, and being cherished means being stalked through city streets. A life where it’s normal for your husband to be a psychopath who is also a serial killer.
When I arrive home, Noah is in the living room. I’ve no idea at which point he left me to return home. He is sitting in the leather chair by the window, his arms splayed over the armrests.
Waiting for me.
Our eyes meet knowingly without saying the words.
"Good shopping excursion? Got what you needed?" he asks, his voice perfectly neutral.
"I did. I know you followed me," I say quietly.
"I know you know. And you love it, greedy for the attention."
He’s right, I am officially an attention whore when it comes to him.