2. Chapter One
Chapter One
Kairo
I smile as I work, each new camera feeding life to my obsession. These are the best you can buy without spending a fucking fortune on installation. Creed’s words echo in my ears, as if I would use his security company to watch my girl. He’d just watch her and pull his chode to her. No fucking thank you. Nope. I’m the only one who can see her. My breath hitches when I hear movement inside her apartment, forcing me to freeze, eyes locked on her door. The shadow of her steps nearly drives me to kick it in, but I remember myself, place the last device by the threshold.
Just to keep you safe, baby girl. Until I come for you.
It takes precision to place cameras at these angles, but I have a steady hand and a watchful eye. Harbor doesn’t know how well she’s observed. I’d have to work on her observation skills once we’re together. There are dangerous men out there who would do unspeakable things to her if she’s not careful. I test the feeds, adjust a few, pleased with my placement. They’re discreet, wireless, meant for hobbyists and sleuths. A way to see her every move. Even Creed had to admit they’re the best you can get without having his tech team involved.
The hallway is silent, save for my measured breathing and the clicks of installation. It’s late, and everyone in this building is fast asleep or at the bar down the street. Everyone except my girl. I know from her planner that she’s been doing research, exploring some dark romance for inspiration. As if she could find better inspiration than me. The last I saw, she’d borrowed books about obsessive men and their lovers. She’s lucky she’s got her own man that’s obsessed with her. Not many women could say the same.
I place the audio recorder right by her door, then step back to check its range. Opening my phone I finger swipe until I land on the app. Putting in my Bluetooth, I can hear her rummaging around inside.
Perfect.
There’s silence again, and I exhale, closing the app and sliding my phone back into my pocket. The little device was a good buy. The cameras are too full of static, and this thing will pick up all the noise inside her place. It fits neatly inside the grate that adjoins to the inside of her place. Some kind of air conditioning system, I think. Undetectable. Just like the cameras. Harbor won’t know I’m watching until I decide to tell her. The tremor in my hand makes it hard to screw the last piece, but I manage, licking my lips as I picture her finally seeing what I’ve done.
Once I finish, I step back to admire my handiwork. Feeds run smoothly, covering all angles. Every step she takes will belong to me. A smile creeps across my lips. My pretty girl will never be alone again. Then I turn to leave, knowing in a few hours, she’ll be up and at the cafe, hopefully writing out more of her fantasies.
***
The way she moves is like music. I know her rhythm by heart. I wait outside the coffee shop, having a smoke, a flat cap pulled over my eyes. I’m not quite ready for her to know who I am, but the need to be close to her burns through me. The new notepad I bought feels right at home in my hand, and I record her arrival time. A few minutes late. And she looks tired today.
Her schedule is easy to predict but still thrilling to watch. I document each move, each precious minute she allows me to own. She doesn’t stay at the cafe today, instead she orders her usual and heads across the street. I follow behind her, slowly.
The door to the little bookstore jingles as she steps inside. She loves that place, always sitting at the same table by the back corner, surrounded by writing journals she fills with her words. She pretends to be caught up in her work, but she glances around, nervous and excited by the presence of strangers. I know the dirty thoughts that fill her mind, and can tell by the way she’s clenching her thighs she’s thinking of them now.
Of me.
She sighs and shuts her notebook. Frustration coloring her face as she silently screams. Her muse has left her, and she doesn’t know why.
I do.
Her fantasies are just that… fantasy. But I’m going to make them a reality for her, and she will never have writer’s block again.
With a grunt, she gets up and waves goodbye to the shop owner just as her phone rings. Looking down at her watch, panic fills her eyes. She’s expecting this call, but she doesn’t want to answer.
Interesting.
She sits on the bench next to where I’m standing, pretending to scroll my phone. It sounds like some kind of therapist as she answers in clipped tones.
Something about her father and her brother… hurting her. Taking advantage of her. Forcing themselves on her. She asks how she can work through this, how she can get past the blocks that haunt her. I can’t make out what the therapist says but she sighs. She doesn’t want to meet this person at their office, claiming she’s not ready for that step yet.
Anger courses through me and an idea form. The ultimate gift. Freedom from the burdens that are holding her back. The pain that still lingers in her mind.
I glance at her again, seeing the tears well in her eyes and something inside me snaps. No one hurts my girl.
A burning rage builds, and I need to leave before I do something stupid. Before I expose myself to her and ruin everything. Walking quickly back to my truck, I sit for a moment, scribbling notes in my notepad, the writing barely legible as I press too hard, ink staining the pages.
Breathing deeply, I force myself to calm. No point in driving home and crashing. She needs me. She needs me to protect her from them. Now my plan is two-fold. Save her and keep her. The drive back to my house is quick because I make it that way.
Heading into my office, I plop down on my seat and take a breather as I ruminate on the men who hurt her. Who touched her.
They won’t know what hit them.
The photos fill my walls, arranged like a scrapbook of the obsession I call love. Harbor at nineteen, discovering herself and the woods where she grew up. Harbor at twenty, letting the world know her name. Harbor at twenty-nine, wanting inspiration, her pen writing on her cheek as she holds it the wrong way. The camera shots from outside her apartment are beautiful, my little writer moving between stages of knowing herself.
I map the timeline of her life, but her past had eluded me. Until now. Paternal abuse, a brother’s molestation. It’s not her fault. It’s theirs. They touched what’s mine.
Everyone these days has social media. Everyone posts everything, all the time. It creates a very easy to follow timeline of life events. Except hers. Hers had ‘Throwback Thursdays” but all oddly devoid of anything meaningful linking to her past. Just photos of her when she was younger, important pieces of the puzzle, to be sure, but nothing substantial.
Hers reads like a novel with missing pages. Public posts, private pain. I sort through the clutter of her life, knowing she didn’t put it there. Her patterns, her relationships, all recorded by someone who thought they knew her. They didn’t. Not the way I do. I print every image, each one more telling than the last, pinning them to my wall until I can see how the story ends. It ends with us. Harbor and Kairo, the way it’s supposed to be.
After that phone call, now I know where to dig. What to find. The timeline of when she stopped posting her life so creatively, started the day his comments began.
Ian . He comments on everything she posts, all the way back to when she was a teenager. Her brother. Then her father’s name. John. Tagged in old family photos she hasn’t deleted, in memories she can’t escape. My hand tightens around the mouse as I discover them. She never had a chance with those fuckers in her life.
I slam my fist into the wall. My vision goes white for a second, but I welcome the pain, let it fuel my next moves. Harbor won’t have to remember what they did to her. She’ll remember what I’m going to do for her instead. They think they’re safe, think they can ruin her while I sit back and watch. Not this time. Not ever.
I’m clinical as I plan, checking current addresses and printing satellite images of their homes. One’s rural, the other in a crowded city. The wolf and the fox. I’ll have to be smart, move fast and precise, leave nothing behind except the memory of their blood.
The map unfolds before me, entry points marked with a careful hand. I pack a duffel with tools, each one selected for a different task. Ropes and plastic sheeting. Gloves to cover my tracks. They won’t know what hit them. They won’t even have time to beg.
I catch sight of Harbor’s face in one of the photos, her green eyes questioning, unsure. I trace her outline, whisper that it will be okay. I’m making the world safe for her, killing the ones who need killing. If I let her go, she’ll break. If I let them live, she’ll be ruined. I’m the only one who can protect her from the past she couldn’t escape. The past I will destroy.
My movements are sharp, precise, anger channeled into purpose. I pack the bag and close it with a snap. One last glance at my walls, and I see only Harbor, her pictures leading up to the present, to our future, to what she will become with me. She’ll thank me for this. It’s what she’s always wanted, what she’s never had. Someone who knows her. Someone who will make it right.
A normal one… one with a conscious, would console her, comfort her. But I am no ordinary man. I’m going to do this and I’m going right now.
It’s dark when I arrive, just the way I want it. The house is a shadow, abandoned by decency, occupied by the past. I leave the truck down the road, boots on gravel and tools at my side. One window glows, but the rest of the house is in darkness. Not even a floodlight to warn him of me, lurking outside. Inside, John drinks. I’m in his yard, and he doesn’t know. I’m in his head, and he doesn’t know. When I break down the door, he understands. When I break his neck, he understands more. I cut the hands that touched her and put them in a plastic bag, leaving him to rot in his festering stench.
The drive to my next target takes the better part of half an hour, but I’m a man on a mission and there’s no stopping me now.
Just plucking the thorns so my beautiful flower can flourish. The first step to the rest of our lives.
Her brother’s place is isolated, even more than my girl. He thought he could escape, but the things we do catch up. They caught up to Harbor. They caught up to her father, and now it’s his turn. Ian’s. I park where no one will see, approach where no one will hear. My breath clouds the air, but I’m not cold. I’m warmed by the fire of making this right, the thrill of watching him pay.
I wait and listen, knowing he’s inside and he’s alone. They always end up alone. A bottle, a glass, a coward. He doesn’t know what a real man looks like. He doesn’t know what a real man will do for someone like her.
The steps to his porch creak like they know my weight, but he doesn’t come to check the noise. Stupid, careless, drunk. Like father like son. Useless stains on society. It’s a mistake he won’t live to regret. I make quick work of the door, just like I planned. One kick, and it’s open. One move, and he’s mine.
I step into the stale air, heavy with dust and whiskey. There’s a floral smell here too. Lavender, I think. It’s almost like Harbor’s scent when I held her pillow close, but wrong. Violated. The older man looks at me, eyes wide, mouth opening, but I don’t let him speak. He’s said enough already, said it with his fists and his filthy fucking hands.
“You know what you did to her,” I say. They are the last he will ever hear.
I tackle him to the floor, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone on wood. He tries to fight back, but I know his moves before he makes them. Weak, pathetic, helpless against someone who knows the game. I let him think he’s got a chance, let him feel like he’s winning. I want him to have hope before I kill it, just like he killed her innocence.
My knee presses into his chest, and his eyes bulge. A gurgle, a gasp, then I twist his neck like I’d snap a branch. A perfect fucking snap. He’s gone. I don’t even break a sweat.
The hands. The hands that touched her. I work fast, bagging his hands along with his fathers. From the looks of this shit hole, no one will find him for a long time. But with two pairs of hands, I can gift my girl the best present she’s ever gotten.
Peace.
Then I’m gone, back into the night, the thrill of her safety beating in my chest. They made it dark for her. Now it’s dark for him.
It isn’t enough. Not until she knows I’ve erased them both. I make sure there’s no trace of me at the farmhouse, then head into the city to drop off her gifts.
The drive into town is long, but the promise of her safety keeps me steady. I think of the photos on my walls, each one a reminder of who she is and who she’ll become. The woman she’ll be when she understands. The woman she’ll be when I take her from this broken fucking world.
The apartment building is run down, pathetic, a place where no one cares what happens to their neighbors. A place just like him. It’s poetic, I suppose. She lives in what she feels she deserves. That will change. She will come to understand that she deserves the world, and I will give it to her. I park under the flickering light, letting the night cloak me as I sit for a moment, holding the bag and making a decision.
I call Noah, no hesitation in my voice. “I need a favor. I need you to contact Creed about building that cabin in the west quadrant. For two.”
There’s a pause before he answers, but I hear it. That edge. That little fucking glimmer of fear. “What the fuck did you do? You’re crossing lines again, Kairo. This isn’t what we agreed.”
“Agreements change,” I grunt. “She’s mine and I need to protect her, just do it for me and I’ll never ask for another favor again.”
I can feel him clenching his teeth, the way he does when things don’t go his way. Noah’s like me but not like me. Not enough to take what he wants when he wants it. He needs time. He needs plans. He took fucking forever with Cassidy, but I’m not like him. He doesn’t understand that this is what Harbor needs, and I’m going to give it to her.
“You always make shit complicated,” he mutters, but he knows he’ll do what I say. “I’ll talk to Creed. But you’re on your own if it gets messy.”
“Don’t worry, cousin. I’ve got this.”
He makes his displeasure clear, but I’m already hanging up, already out of my truck, excited to give her these hands. My trophies. My love. She’s not home, out at the dingy bar across town, I already checked. My lock pick set comes in handy as I open her front door and step inside, inhaling deeply.
It’s so fresh in here, despite the disgusting outside, she has carved a piece of her into this place.
The bag looks beautiful, all slick and red, almost as beautiful as Harbor will when she sees them. Slowly taking the hands out, I place them in the middle of the counter, placing them together. It takes some effort to pry the fingers apart and interlock them, but it makes it easier for her to spot the rings both of them wore. Some kind of family crest, I assume.
I snap pictures with my phone, knowing the shock and gratitude she’ll feel. Knowing this is the push she needs. The inspiration that will bring her back to life and back to me. Then I pack them back in the bag, bleaching the counters so the blood is clear and head out of her place and back to my own.
She needs to understand that I will always have access to her. I will be wherever she is, whenever I want to be.
Time is running out for her to finally understand the depths of my love for her, and this picture, this… message, this gift, will be the perfect prelude for my invitation to the cabin this weekend.
Afterall, you can’t be afraid of a man who is willing to offer you the world in the hands of those who destroyed you.
Harbor and Kairo.
Forever.