11. Trip
ELEVEN
TRIP
I knew where he was taking her before she did.
The rooftop restaurant isn’t even listed on public directories. No menus online. No delivery. You don’t just stumble into that kind of place; you are invited, or you paid enough to buy the silence that came with it.
And Patrick paid in more than money.
I sit in the back of my garage with the lights off, the faint hum of the security feed running through my ears.
Her street. Her apartment. Every camera I’ve rigged discreetly into her corners.
I never watch her in the creepy sense, never when she doesn’t want to be seen.
I just… keep her covered. Keep her safe .
But tonight is different.
Tonight, I feel rage.
Not because my little killstreak is with him.
But because he is with her.
Patrick. Fucking. Rhodes.
The man looks like money and smiles like sin. He cleans up nice, says all the right things, and tilts his head like he’s actually listening.
And underneath all that charm? He’s a sadist wrapped in silk.
We have history. Dark, bloodied, classified history. Missions that weren’t supposed to happen. Ghosts we were told to create and forget.
I never forgot.
Especially not what he did to that girl in Cairo. Or the one in Kyiv. Or the way he always pretended it was part of the job.
Lydia doesn’t know.
But she will.
I set up the camera in the corner of the garage, the lighting low and hot, shadows flickering across the oil-stained walls. I pull the black tactical mask over my face, flex my jaw, and let the stillness settle.
This one isn’t for attention.
This one is for her.
I click record.
The camera whirs as I stalk into frame, shirtless, breath already heavy from the anger seething in my chest. I grab the back of the old tattoo chair and lean over it, forearms flexed, veins pulsing.
“I bet he held the door open for you,” I say, voice low and slow. “Said you looked beautiful. Told you everything you wanted to hear.”
I pause, letting the silence ache.
“You think you’re safe because he opened your door. Because he said the right words. But when he leaves, you’re still alone. And you’re still wet from the last time you said my name.”
I stare into the lens, still, steady.
“I don’t need dinner to make you mine.”
Click. Stop recording.
Posted. No tags. No captions. Just dropped into the void with the rest of the thirsty masked men.
But she’d know.
She always knows.
It doesn’t take long.
An hour later, I see her light click on upstairs.
Then, her phone slips out of her hand.
She doesn’t even pick it up right away.
Good girl.
That means she felt it. Deep. Between her legs, behind her ribs. That ache only I seem to pull out of her.
But she doesn’t message me.
Not right away.
I sit there, still half-hard from the adrenaline and the fury, waiting. Holding my phone like it owes me something.
Then finally,
[lydie.live sent you a Snap.]
I open it fast.
It’s a mirror pic.
She’s out of her date clothes, back in one of those loose crop tops, tits bouncing underneath, hair wild, lip bitten hard.
Caption:
“He kissed my cheek goodnight. You would’ve ruined me against the door.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
And something in my chest snaps.
I’m not playing in the background anymore.
Let Patrick hold her hand. Let him buy her roses. Let him pretend he’s the good guy for now.
I’ll be the one she screams for in the dark.
I’ll be the one who leaves bruises she loves, where no one can see.
I’ll be the one she belongs to when everything else breaks.
And if Patrick ever puts his hands on her the wrong way…
I’ll bury him.