4.
Noirhaven's neon veins pulsed through the night, bleeding light into the alley behind The Velvet Grind.
Isolde hurried past dumpsters, her knee-length hair wrapped in a scarf, the choker his choker burning like a brand in her tote bag.
She'd tried to pawn it. Three dealers had refused, their faces paling as if the diamonds were cursed.
"Get that thing out of here," the last one had hissed.
She didn't know what to do with thus expensive gift from someone unknown.
Dante Valencourt watched her panic from the rooftop, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
The wind carried her lilac perfume, even from four stories up he could smell her.
His blood hummed, a dark chord struck deep in his bones.
She'd tried to discard his gift. Rude.
But he'd forgiven her. After all, punishment was his love language.
Later.....
His phone buzzed a security alert. The motion sensor Isolde's bedroom had tripped. Dante smiled. Right on time.
Isolde's apartment was ice-cold, the window pried open.
She stared at the sill, where a single black rose lay, thorns still dripping with condensation.
Her breath hitched. The room felt wrong the air thicker, her belongings subtly rearranged.
Her journal sat open on the desk, a page marked with a crimson fingerprint.
She scrambled to check under the bed, in the closet. Empty. But the scent lingered sandalwood and bourbon, expensive and cruel.
Dante slid into the leather seat of his Rolls-Royce, the live feed from Isolde's choker glowing on his tablet.
He'd spent an hour in her room, memorizing the cadence of her sighs as she slept, the way she clutched a threadbare rabbit she'd owned since childhood. Pathetic. And yet...
He'd left the rose. The journal note. Folded her lingerie into perfect origami swans. Now, he watched her tear them apart, her hands shaking.
"Weirdo," she whispered to the empty room.
Dante licked his lips. "Louder, petit oiseau. Beg."
3:00 a.m. Isolde jolted awake, sweat-drenched. The choker glowed faintly on her nightstand, though she'd buried it in a drawer.
She reached for it-
Click.
The apartment door creaked open.
"A-Aunt Sylvie?" she whispered.
No answer. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, climbed the stairs. Isolde lunged for her phone. Dead.
Under the door, a shadow stretched-tall, broad-shouldered. A knuckle rapped once. Tap.
"Who's there?" Her voice cracked.
Silence. Then, a low chuckle, velvet and venom.
"Sweet dreams," a man murmured in a French-accent.
She wanted to scream but her voice got trapped from fear buy then she saw...
The shadow retreated. Isolde didn't sleep until sunrise.
Dante returned to his penthouse, high on her terror.
He rewound the footage her wide eyes, the choked sob she'd swallowed and played it on loop as he unbuttoned his shirt.
His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows showed a monster of greek god's face sharp jaw dusted with stubble, raven-black hair swept back.
A killer's hands, still tingling from where he'd traced her pillow.
He poured a glass of '45 Macallan, dropped in a cube of ice carved from Arctic glacier water.
On his desk lay Isolde's stolen hairpin, the one she'd worn yesterday. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
His thumb drifted to the intercom. "Bring the girl from the dungeon. The redhead."
A distraction. A palate cleanser. But as the woman knelt before him, trembling in a silk robe, her porcelain throat bared, her tears like diamonds.
He backhanded the redhead. "Look at me when I'm kill you."
She's the spy of his rival gang but got caught while spying as a maid.
Isolde called the police. They found nothing. No fingerprints. No broken locks.
"Prank," the officer shrugged. "Pretty girl like you? Probably some loser crush."
But that night, her shower turned scalding mid-rinse. Through the steam, words appeared on the mirror:
"YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL"
She screamed. In the living room, Aunt Sylvie's game show blared louder.
Dante adjusted the smart thermostat from his limo, smiling as Isolde stumbled out of the bathroom, towel clutched to her chest.
He'd hacked her apartment's systems weeks ago every light, every pipe, a puppet string in his hands.
"Sir?" His driver eyed him in the rearview. "The cartel expects you at the dock."
"Let them wait." Dante zoomed in on Isolde's collarbone, flushed pink from the burn.
He imagined his teeth there, biting until she bled. The cartel could rot.
Isolde left to the café at dawn.
She served espresso with mechanical smiles, jumping at every customer's touch. At noon, a deliveryman arrived with a white box.
"Isolde Winslow?"
Inside: a severed dove's wing, feathers drenched in syrup, and a note.
"Fly, and I'll clip you myself. -DV"
She vomited in the sink.
Dante watched her unravel, siphoned into his screens like a vintage wine.
He'd sent the dove himself a specimen from his aviary, beheaded with a silver knife.
The syrup was a nice touch, sticky and sweet, like the lies he'd soon feed her.
"Soon," he thought, flexing the hand that wore the silver ring. "She'll beg to wear my collar again."
Midnight. Isolde's phone lit up with an unknown number. A video loaded: her, asleep, the camera angled from above her bed.
A gloved hand entered the frame, brushing her hair aside.
"Miss me?" texted DV.
She threw the phone. It shattered against the wall, but the video kept playing on loop, his whisper slithering through the cracks.
"Je te vois, petit oiseau..."
"I see you."