Chapter 35
DROGO
The car sits in darkness three houses down, engine off, nothing to draw attention. Black. Unmarked. London plates that won't raise questions if some neighborhood watch busybody decides to peek. We blend into the suburban quiet like predators in tall grass—patient, invisible, waiting.
I'm in the back seat with the laptop balanced on my knees, screen dimmed to almost nothing, the glow barely reaching my face. Live feeds flicker across the display—every room, every angle, complete coverage of Alena's house.
Yuri's in the passenger seat. Viktor driving. Both silent. Both smart enough to know when to shut up.
The front door camera shows movement. A car pulling up—black Aston Martin, expensive, the kind of car that screams money and confidence.
A man gets out. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes even visible from this distance. Expensive clothes. Moves like someone who's never been denied anything.
My jaw clenches.
He walks to her porch. Stops. Bends down. Picks up the black rose.
My black rose. The one I left there at dawn this morning. Anonymous. A promise she couldn't understand but I needed to give anyway.
And this fucker picks it up. Holds it. Presents it like it's his.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack.
"Boss," Yuri starts carefully. "Should I—"
"Shut up," I say quietly.
Oliver knocks. Waits. Wine bottle in one hand, my rose in the other, wearing that confident smile like he's fucking Prince Charming.
The door opens. Alena. She looks exhausted. Hair a mess. Robe barely tied. Like she just woke up—because she did, I watched her sleep all day on the bedroom feed, restless and haunted.
But she lets him in anyway.
He steps inside. Presents the rose with a flourish. "For you."
She stares at it. Takes it. Her voice when she speaks is flat, sarcastic: "How nice."
He doesn't notice. Too busy charming his way into her living room.
I switch to the interior camera. Living room angle. He's already making himself at home. Setting down the wine. Uncorking it without asking. Pouring two glasses like he owns the place.
She closes the door. Tightens her robe. Sits on the far end of the couch. Guarded.
He doesn't care. Pours anyway. Hands her a glass. Sits closer than he should. Too close.
My hands tighten on the laptop edges.
They talk.
He's leaning in. Flirting. Touching her arm, her shoulder. She's stiff. Reserved. Taking drinks of wine too fast. Not pulling away but not leaning in either. Going through the motions.
He moves closer. Tucks her hair behind her ear. Fingers lingering.
My vision narrows.
She pulls back slightly. He follows.
In the corner of the screen, the shadows thicken. Shift. Her ghosts reacting to the intrusion. He doesn't see them. Too focused on her.
His hand slides to her shoulder. Massages. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
Practiced line. Smooth. Makes me want to rip his fucking tongue out.
She doesn't answer. Just sits there like she's forgotten how to say no.
His hands work her shoulders. She's tense. Uncomfortable. He leans in. Kisses her neck.
No. No.
His hands slide down. To her waist. Under her robe.
Every muscle in my body coils tight. My hands start trembling against the laptop.
"Boss," Yuri says quietly. "You want me to—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Final. "I need to see what she does."
On screen, Oliver's hand moves to her thigh. Slides higher. Under the fabric.
She's not stopping him. Not pulling away. Just sitting there, letting it happen.
"Boss—" Yuri tries again.
"I SAID NO!" I roar.
Viktor glances in the rearview mirror. Sees my face. Says nothing. Smart man.
Oliver's hand disappears under her robe completely. Between her legs.
My hands shake harder. The laptop rattles on my knees. I lean closer to the screen, every nerve screaming, rage building like a bomb about to detonate.
He leans in. Kisses her.
And she—she kisses back.
What the fuck.
My heart stops. Vision tunnels. Everything in me screams to kick the door in, to drag him out by his throat, to break every bone in his hand that's touching her.
But I force myself to look. Really look.
It's wrong. All wrong. I know what she looks like when she wants something.
When she's truly present. When pleasure is real and not performance.
This isn't that. This is going through the motions.
This is faking. This is her body there but her mind somewhere else—probably two years in the past, with me, in that bed where I claimed her and promised forever without saying the words.
His hand moves under her panties. Fingers sliding between her legs.
She gasps. Arches. Gives him what he expects.
But I can see the truth. The way her eyes stay unfocused. The way her body responds on command but without genuine desire. She's faking it. For him. Because it's easier than explaining why she can't feel anything.
Then his fingers push inside her.
I see red.
Literally. Everything goes red. Vision narrows to a pinpoint. Blood roaring in my ears. Hands trembling so violently I almost drop the laptop.
Inside her. His fingers. Inside. My. Woman.
"Boss," Yuri says urgently. "Boss, you want me to go in there? I can—"
"NO!" I snarl. "Nobody moves. Nobody fucking moves."
"But Boss, he's—"
"I KNOW WHAT HE'S DOING!" My voice cracks the air like a whip. "Just—just watch. I need to—" I can't finish. Can't explain why I'm torturing myself like this. Why I need to see every second of this violation.
Maybe because I deserve it. Maybe because this is my punishment for leaving her. For making her so lonely that she'd let a stranger touch her just to feel less empty.
Or maybe because I'm a sick fuck who needs to catalog every moment so I know exactly what I'm avenging when I finally snap his neck.
His fingers move inside her. In and out. Curling. Searching. She's not wet enough. I can tell from the way she winces, the way her body tenses despite the moans she forces out.
He doesn't notice. Or doesn't care. "You're so tight," he says against her neck.
I taste blood. Bitten through my cheek without realizing.
My hands are shaking so hard the laptop screen blurs. I want to destroy him. Want to tear him apart piece by piece. Want to make him understand what happens to men who touch things that don't belong to them.
But I don't move. Can't move. Trapped. Forced to watch every second. Every violation. My woman. Mine. And I'm sitting here three houses away watching another man's fingers inside her while rage eats me alive from the inside out.
The lights flicker on screen. Once. Twice. The shadows in the corners thicken dramatically. Move with purpose. Alive in ways shadows shouldn't be.
Her ghosts. They're furious.
Good. At least something in that house has sense.
Oliver pulls his hand away. Sits up. "That's weird."
The lights flicker again, longer this time. The cold intensifies—I can see their breath fogging now.
"Is your wiring okay?" he asks, pulling his hand away and sitting up.
"It's fine."
"It's freezing in here." His breath fogs too now, confusion crossing his perfect features.
"Old house." The lie comes automatically.
The shadows reach closer, almost touching him now. I can feel their rage—protective, possessive, furious that this stranger dared touch what belongs to them. What belongs to him.
The lights flicker again and die completely, plunging us into absolute darkness on the feed—just the faint glow of emergency lighting from the hallway.
I lean closer to the screen, every nerve screaming, willing her to stay strong. To send him away.
Fucker move. Leave or I will lose my shit, and I will come and drag you out.
When the lights come back on, she's at the door. Opening it.
He follows. Stops at the threshold. They exchange words.
I switch to the exterior camera. Watch him walk to his car. Get in. Drive away.
"Tail him," I say. Voice flat. Dead. Dangerous.
Yuri nods. Pulls out his phone. Sends the text. Another car—parked further down the street—pulls out and follows the Aston Martin into the night.
"Boss," Viktor says carefully. "What do you want us to do about—"
"Everything," I say. "I want to know everything. Every place he goes. Every person he talks to. Every weakness." I pause. Voice dropping to a whisper. "And if he touches her again... you come to me first. I want to do it myself."
Silence. Then Yuri: "Understood, Boss."
I switch back to interior. She's on the floor now. Door closed. Locked. Leaning against it. Then sliding down. Curling into herself. Sobbing.
Because she tried. Because she let another man touch her and couldn't feel anything except the absence of the one she actually wants. The one who left her. Me.
My hands stop shaking. The rage cools into something colder. More calculated. More dangerous.
Two years I've been building this. Becoming feared enough that when Klaus dies, I inherit everything. Spilling blood. Breaking bones. Killing without hesitation. Became the monster Klaus wanted.
All to protect her.
And now I'm sitting in a car three houses away watching her cry on her floor because some other man tried to fill the space I left empty. Because she's so lonely she faked an orgasm for a stranger just to feel less alone for five minutes.
Fuck patience. Fuck strategy.
I close the laptop. Set it aside. Lean back. Breathe.
"Boss?" Yuri asks carefully. "Orders?"
I open my eyes. Look at the house. At the windows glowing warm in the suburban night. At the woman inside who's still mine even if she doesn't know it yet.
"We wait," I say.
"How long, Boss?"
I think about his fingers inside her. About her faking moans. About two years of watching from shadows while she broke.
About what I'm going to do to Oliver Sutherland when the time comes.
"Not long," I say quietly.