4. Cipher
Cipher
Apologize.
I work methodically, drilling into the wall above Rose’s door frame.
Yes, asshole, you need to apologize.
As I connect the final wire of the small camera and begin to secure the housing, I cringe, remembering how I slammed the door right in her face. She caught me off guard. Caught me observing, obsessing, and I acted before I could stop myself.
This new camera will have optimal coverage of both her entrance and the surrounding hallway.
This model offers high-def resolution with exceptional low-light performance and 360-degree rotation.
I've modified it further with thermal imaging.
Overkill for hallway surveillance. Perfect for protecting what's mine.
Mine. The word surfaces again, and I grit my teeth against it, focusing on the technical aspects of the installation.
"Adding to your collection?"
I don't startle at Ghost's voice behind me. I sensed his approach twelve seconds ago—the specific cadence of his footsteps, the particular scent of his leather cut and the specific brand of deodorant he uses. My brain catalogs these details automatically.
"Standard security upgrade," I reply without turning. "Blind spot in our coverage.”
Ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His steel-gray eyes miss nothing. “Just happens to be outside Rose's room."
I don't deny it. Lying to Ghost is pointless—the man reads people better than I read code. "She's vulnerable. A target."
"To whom, exactly?"
I finish securing the camera housing with a final twist. "Her stepfather's still out there."
"And you think he's coming here? To a compound protected by thirty armed men?"
My jaw tightens. "I think she deserves every possible protection."
He cocks a brow. “You know, most men would just talk to the woman they're interested in. Maybe bring her flowers, not install surveillance equipment."
Heat crawls up my neck. "This isn't about interest. It's about security."
His laugh is short and humorless. "Right. And I'm running for public office next year." Ghost studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "What do we know about the stepfather?"
"Richard Hartley. Small-time con man, gambler, all-around piece of shit.
Sold her to settle a debt." I’ve already pulled up info from the police database using an access key I shouldn't possess.
The fact that there were no reports of Rose's disappearance told me everything I needed to know about the fuckhead—he’s not about to report merchandise he sold.
"He's on the move. Left town three days ago, heading north. I've got facial recognition running through traffic cams."
Ghost's jaw tightens, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. "Find him."
I nod once. "Already on it. Got security footage showing him filling up a rusted blue pickup truck, looking nervously over his shoulder every few seconds. He knows he's being hunted."
What I don’t say is I know exactly where he is. I’ve been tracking his every move, and I’m already mentally cataloging disposal methods, isolated locations, and techniques that leave no trace. I’m well-skilled in the art of cleanup operations.
Ghost continues to watch me for a long moment. "You planning to talk to her at some point, or just analyze her on your screens?"
The question feels like a thousand pinpricks all over my flesh. "I'm not good with trauma victims," I say flatly. Not a lie. “I cause trauma, I don't heal it.”
Ghost's laugh is short and humorless. "Right." He pushes off from the wall. "Just remember—there's a line between protection and stalking. Make sure you know which side of that line you're on."
I don't respond.
Back in my surveillance sanctuary, I test the camera, confirming optimal transmission. Perfect coverage of her doorway and the adjacent hall. No blind spots. Another layer of security between Rose and a world that's already hurt her too much.
I scan the latest results from my search algorithm. Richard Hartley's credit card was used at a gas station sixty miles north two nights ago. I’ve got his cell phone signal bouncing off towers in rural areas. He’s avoiding major highways.
We are playing a game, he and I. A game he’s unaware of. I want to know where he goes, who he contacts, what holes he crawls into. When the time comes, I'll extract him so cleanly even he won’t know he’s missing—not until he’s introduced to some of my more creative torture techniques.
Movement on one of my primary monitors draws my attention. Rose is in the main room cleaning again. Her brow furrows in concentration. I adjust the focus. She looks so impossibly young, so vulnerable, so sweet.
Rash enters, saying something that makes Rose smile—a genuine smile that transforms her face, bringing light to her eyes.
My stomach clenches into a hot, ugly twist. The reaction is so visceral that it momentarily disrupts my breathing pattern.
She's never smiled like that around me.
But why would she? I represent everything she should fear—violence, control, obsession.
I watch as Rash leans against the counter next to her, casually invading her space in a way that would normally make her tense. But she doesn't flinch from him. Instead, she relaxes, her body language open and unguarded. She trusts him.
My teeth clench.
He's too close. Too familiar. Too fucking comfortable with what isn't his.
The rational part of my brain acknowledges that Rash is harmless—a young brother who treats Rose with genuine kindness and friendship.
The irrational part wants to rip his arm off as he reaches down and pats her shoulder.
I can almost feel his bones breaking under my hands, the specific pressure required to snap his radius and ulna simultaneously.
I force myself to look away, to focus on controlled breathing techniques. But my eyes keep drifting back to the monitor, cataloging every interaction, every smile, every casual touch between them.
She deserves normal. She deserves someone undamaged.
Someone who’s not a freak.
A memory rises unbidden from a carefully compartmentalized section of my mind.
I stand in the kitchen, fascinated by the pattern of water droplets on the window, a seven-year-old boy calculating the mathematical relationship between their size and distribution. Beautiful, perfect geometry in nature.
"What the hell are you doing, dipshit?” My father's voice shatters my concentration.
“The raindrops follow a Fibonacci sequence in how they—" I begin to explain, excited by my recent observations. The backhand catches me across the face, snapping my head to the side and splitting my lip. I don't cry out. I learned early that the sounds of pain only escalate his violence.
"There's something wrong with you, boy," he spits, his face contorted with disgust. "Always in your own world with your numbers and patterns. Your mother asked you to set the table ten minutes ago. Normal kids listen when they're spoken to.”
Eyes downcast, I move quickly to the cabinet for plates. My cheek throbs and I taste blood as my tongue runs over my lower lip, but I focus on counting silently—one plate, two plates, three plates—numbers calm the storm inside me.
“Hey, you little freak!” He grabs my arm, plates crashing to the floor. "Why can't you be normal?"
My mother stands in the doorway, watching. She doesn't intervene. Instead, she sighs, that familiar sound of disappointment. "I don't know what's wrong with him, Frank. The school counselor suggested we get him tested."
"Tested? For what? Being a weirdo?” My father's fingers dig into my arm, bruises already forming beneath his grip. "There's nothing wrong with the boy that a good beating won't fix."
Later, after the belt, I sit in the locked closet for hours, tracing patterns on the wall in the darkness, retreating into the world of numbers where everything makes sense, where there are no unpredictable explosions of violence, no confusing rules that change without warning.
The memory dissipates, leaving behind the familiar taste of bile as I refocus on the screens before me.
Rose has moved to arranging freshly cut flowers in a vase. Rash sits nearby, occasionally glancing up to say something that makes her smile.
That smile haunts me. Makes me wonder what it would feel like to be its recipient. To be the cause of light in those beautiful eyes.
I open the camera controls for the common room, zooming in, adjusting the angle for a better view of her face. The clarity is exceptional—I can see individual eyelashes, the small scar near her temple, the way her pulse flutters in her throat when she laughs.
This isn't security anymore. This is pure selfish indulgence.
Ghost's words echo in my head. "There's a line between protection and stalking."
I've crossed it. I know I've crossed it. But I can't stop.
On the screen, Rash says something that makes Rose laugh—a full, uninhibited sound that I can see but not hear. Instinctively, I reach for the audio controls, turning up the directional microphone in that section.
“Are you saying you wouldn't know how to fix a bike if the manual came to life and did it for you?” Rose’s voice is playful, teasing.
"Hey! I'm not stupid, just mechanically challenged," Rash protests good-naturedly. "Besides, that's what we have Hawk for. I handle other things."
"Like what?" Her ease with him is painful to witness.
"Security, sweetheart. I keep beautiful women like you safe." He winks dramatically, and they both laugh.
My fists clench involuntarily until my knuckles turn white. A possessiveness blinds me. My jaw aches from clenching it, and I taste blood again.
Sweetheart. He called her sweetheart.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The temptation to assign Rash to night shift perimeter duty for the next month is almost overwhelming. I could have him doing the most degrading prospect work despite his patched status.
Instead, I force myself to switch screens. I need to channel this possessive energy somewhere productive. Somewhere that doesn't involve terrorizing my brother for talking to a woman who isn't mine. Who will never be mine.
But as I work, I keep the common room feed open in a small window at the corner of my screen, unable to completely look away from her.
For her protection, of course.
But the burning in my chest when Rash makes her laugh again says otherwise.
And when he casually drapes his arm over her slender shoulders, my control snaps. Before I'm fully conscious of my decision, I've accessed the club's duty roster.
With a few precise keystrokes, Rash is reassigned to night shift patrolling the north quadrant—the most remote, isolated posting.
The assignment will effectively ensure he has minimal contact with Rose for the next week. Meddling with the scheduling in such a way is completely childish, irrational behavior. Totally beneath me.
I submit the changes anyway.
Remote sector. Solo.