6. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Kairo
The room's too loud, too crowded. I'm still waiting for the perfect moment to slip in and take what's mine. I'm patient like that, but when she arrives, I'm reminded that patience can only stretch so far before it breaks. She's beautiful when she's scared. Her eyes dart around the room like her mysterious lover will just randomly pop up. I smile to myself at the thought. She's more fragile than I've seen her before. Perfect. Exposed. Her fingers tremble when she orders a drink.
She wants to lose herself in the bottle and forget about what’s happening to her. She’s confused. Scared. Horny. And it confuses her. It worries her that she’s becoming a monster.
Unfortunately for her, there can only be room for one of those in our relationship and that’s me.
The image sears itself into me like a brand. I savor the glow of the bar lights on her skin, how it leaves her luminous and pale, how it makes her look like she belongs to me already. She thinks she can hide, lose herself in the crowd. I don't let her out of my sight as she slips onto a stool and gives the bartender her order. She's nervous. Vulnerable. The same as when I found her curled up in bed with that delicious fear oozing out of her. Within seconds, the beer she ordered is slid across the bar, cap still on.
She doesn't know I'm here, so close, watching. She thinks she can drown out what I started in the bottom of a glass. I watch her struggle trying to twist off the cap before tapping on the counter and ordering something else, settling on something cheaper, straight from the well. She’s so non-confrontational. Didn’t even ask him just to take the top off. So now she sits, an unopened bottle and a glass of improperly poured, watered down beer from the tap. Rude of the bartender not to take the cap off for her, but I will once I make my move. Something simple, easy, to show her that a real man won’t make her life harder. Disarming. Helpful. My pulse matches hers. Rapid, panicked, then slowing. Her first sip makes her shoulders loosen.
The ice in my glass clicks against the edge when I pick up my whiskey. I watch her intently, the crowd nothing but sacks of meat passing between us. My fingers twitch as I take out my phone. This will take careful handling. I dial, holding it close to my mouth. We’ve had this discussion before, only he made a stink about it. He has Cassidy at the cabin, but it’s my turn. He’s taken long enough. After all, sharing is caring.
Finally he answers. “Kairo.”
“I need the cabin, like now.”
Silence, then a huff. Noah doesn’t like when plans change. “I don't care what you're doing, just leave me out of it.”
I say, quiet but firm, like he can feel my insistence through the line. “I need this, Noah. The temporary cabin. I'll handle the rest myself.” I end the call, not giving a shit if they aren’t cleared out by the time we arrive. We can make it work.
She's gone through her third drink by the time I start dialing Creed. It's a wonder she can still hold a glass. He picks up after the second ring, as reliable as he’s always been.
“Camera install in Harbor's apartment,” I say, keeping the urgency tucked neatly inside my words. “I need eyes inside, not just the hallway. Full coverage.”
Creed's voice hums with approval. “Thought you'd never ask.”
“Don’t be a fucking weirdo. Only I have access to the feed, understood?”
He grunts. “Fine.”
Her fourth drink arrives just as I hang up. The glass is barely down before she's reaching for it. I smile. The first sip was shock, her eyes dilating; the second is a warm embrace as her shoulders relax. This, I know, is when it really begins.
I don't take my eyes off her. Not once. Not even when the waitress comes around and brings me a new glass. The whiskey swirls golden and untouched. Her posture loosens, and with it, my grip tightens.
It’s rare, this intimacy of watching her, just steps from where she is. I have every intention of talking to her tonight, of letting her fall for the handsome man who listens. Who empathizes. It’s almost laughable, considering I’m the reason she’s here, drowning her feelings. She's in a bubble of her own anxious warmth, oblivious to the world around her.
I'm seeing her raw, open, right where I want her. I remember how she looked with her hair sprawled on the pillow. Her gasp when I shoved my cock in her. Part of me wishes I'd never left that apartment last night, that I'd stayed to hear her wake. But I'm patient. Strategic. I'm playing the long game here.
I wonder how she’ll feel when I install myself into her life completely. When she can't turn a corner without me being there. In a couple of hours, I'll be watching her every move.
She's ordering something to eat by the time I make my move, sliding next to her and giving her a wide grin and a nod. Just enough to draw interest, but not enough to be labelled creepy. I wait for her to speak first, letting the silence push against her. She doesn't recognize me, and it makes my blood pump with something savage.
I give her the space to start. She glances over, surprised, those wide green eyes fighting to focus. She’s sweet like this, lips turned up in a sloppy smile, her green eyes, flecked with yellow gold, wide and curious as they stare at me. I’m the kind stranger offering her a lifeline, pretending like I don't want to pull her under.
“Hi,” she says, her voice stretching into something half drunk, half hopeful. Her words stumble over each other. “I didn't think, didn’t see you there... I mean... it’s so packed tonight.”
“Mind if I sit here?” I give her a look that says I care. That I’m not trying to hurt her. Giving her the illusion of choice, even when my ass is already firmly planted in this seat.
She laughs, a high, glassy sound that melts into the background noise. “Why not?” she says, knocking back a gulp of her drink. “Free country.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as I move the bar stool closer to her, crowding her in. My knee brushes hers, the contact electric. “You seem like you've had a rough night.”
She nods, pushing her hair back. It's messier than when I last saw her, like she just didn’t have the energy to tame it. I like it like this. Wild and free. “You could say that,” she mumbles, before launching into what I’ve been waiting for.
My girl has loose lips. She starts rambling, not caring what she’s saying, not caring who is listening. Telling me about me.
Her story comes in waves, unsteady like the rest of her. A break-in while she was sleeping. “Someone got in. To my apartment, I mean,” she says, her voice catching. “Left a photograph... and... other things.” She swirls the ice in her glass, subconsciously pulling her lip into her mouth and sliding it between her teeth. The action makes my cock spring to attention. “You believe that? I wake up to find... this stuff next to my bed.”
I barely have to ask. She wants to tell me. She's dying to.
“I don't know how they got in,” she continues, a nervous laugh bubbling up. “It’s fucking crazy. Should be scared shitless, right? But no. I just sit there this morning like... like...” She trails off, cheeks going pink. The flush looks good on her. Almost as good as it did last night. “Like some part of me likes it.”
I watch her. I want to rip away every piece of fear she has left until there's nothing but want, but I play my role. “I can’t believe that happened to you. I’m so sorry, that must have been terrifying.”
She shrugs, eyes on her drink, not on me. She’s embarrassed, as if I can’t see every thought she’s having. I push a little harder, giving her a smile, putting my hand over hers, rubbing my thumb over her skin. “If you don't mind me asking... what kind of things?”
She hesitates, then takes another long sip before looking down where our hands join, but making no effort to pull hers away. Liquid courage. That’s all she needs to spill.
“Ummm. A photo. Some things were moved,” she says finally, breathless, like she's letting me in on a secret. “Something else. It’s all... I don't know... weird.” Her voice cracks, and I want to break her all the way open. “You know what's fucked up? Part of me thinks it's romantic. In a fucked-up kind of way.”
Those words send a thrill through me. She's into this. She’s into me. More than I expected. I feel that same satisfaction as when she was struggling under me, trying to escape but pressing closer all at once. My heart's a drum. A beast pounding out a claim.
“You’ve got me curious now. What was the other thing they left?” I want her to say it. I want to see her freckles stand out against her cheeks as they flush a deeper red. I want her to admit she woke up with my come staining her perfect skin.
She doesn’t answer as her salad arrives, the waitress placing it in front of her and taking off.
“Well, you should be careful. Whoever it is might not stop there.” I finally say, filling in the silence, not wanting to lose her while she debates whether or not to tell me she was the victim of a crime. And how she felt about it.
She's taken in. She's telling me more than I thought she would.
“I know,” she says, with a hint of a sigh. “I really should.” Her fingers trace the rim of the glass, slow. She's thinking about it. Thinking about me. “He… he… I think he fucked me.”
Every second is a snapshot, a moment to hold and keep. Her words come easier now, stripped bare by the alcohol and my presence. She thinks I'm listening. Really listening. It makes her bolder, rawer. She doesn't see my grin behind the careful mask. She doesn’t see the noose I've looped around her, how tight it's getting.
“It’s like... like I know it’s a crime. I know it’s wrong. But some sick, sick, SICK part of me loved it. The feeling of knowing someone did something to me and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it,” she whispers, and I want to devour her whole.
She's spilling over, and I'm the one soaking it up. I can barely contain the fire in my veins, the ache in my hands to grab her, hold her, take her away.
This. This is what I came for. What I need. What she needs, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I stay quiet, watchful. It pulls more from her. Her fears, her hopes, everything she can't say when she's sober and guarded. She keeps confessing, voice getting softer, breathier.
“This isn't me,” she says, more to herself than to me. “I’m not like this. I don't just... I don't...”
She looks up, and my face must be perfect because she gives a small, relieved sigh. Like she's grateful I'm not judging. “I think it’s just because I’ve been on a dry spell, and my writing isn’t coming. Well, it is, but not what I’m supposed to be writing, y’know?”
“It’s okay,” I say, touching her arm. Her skin jumps at my touch. “Everyone gets a little fucked up sometimes.”
Her words blur into sounds, wrapping me in their heat, and for a moment I don't care what they are, only that they come from her mouth. Too raw and real to realize who she's telling her secrets to. I want to slip up and give myself away. I want to be the confession she can't make. I pull it back, give her a soft look, watch as she sways. She's a whisper away from collapse.
My phone vibrates with Creed's message. "Done." It's all in place. I offer a gentle goodnight. Pay for the drinks. The need to take her to the cabin is almost too much to fight off. But I want to play. I want to edge myself. Edge her.
I want to force her to the brink so when I let her run from me, her pussy is wet, even as her mind is screaming no. It won’t be long until she’s begging me for more. Begging me to claim her as my own. She doesn’t know what she wants, what she needs, which is why she needs me. I will show her the fucking world of giving in, of letting the universe (me) dictate what she does and how she does it.
Once she’s in my arms, once she’s come to terms with the desire in her own mind, the desire she has for me, we will move from this sweet little game into something real. Something fucking substantial. Something where we can build a real life together.
We just need to get over these minor hiccups first.
“You should get some rest.” My words wrap around her like a net. “You've had a rough time.”
Her mouth opens, closes, like she wants to say more but can't hold it all together.
“I should.” It comes out a whisper. Barely a breath.
“Let me call a cab for you.”
I stand, pulling out my phone and dialling the taxi, make sure the look on my face is right, make sure she knows I'm still watching her with those soft eyes that burn with love for her. I don't let her see the real me, not yet. Her expression blurs, the last wall she's put up finally crashing down.
Harbor sways, then slips off the stool, one hand clutching the edge of the bar, the other fumbling for her purse. I take my time, watching her as she moves, a little more frantic than graceful. She’s completely lost now, lost to the story I've written for her. Every part of her screams vulnerable. Every step she takes to the door leaves me feeling hungrier. It’s all going to plan, and it’s all too fucking good.
I want to grab her before she’s out of sight, hold her before she even makes it through those swinging doors. Take her home the way she wants me to. I clamp down on that urge, harder than I've clamped down on anything before. The heat of it burns in my throat.
She makes it outside, and I follow, waiting for the cab before shutting her in and paying for the trip to her house. I rattle off her address and she doesn’t even notice.
The cameras are up, the feed on my phone. There’s an overwhelming need to see how she lives her everyday life. To understand her inside and out so that when she’s finally mine, she won’t need to explain herself to me. I want to see it all unfold. I want to be her perfect match.
There's no sweeter prey than the kind that walks right into your trap. No sweeter hunt than the one you don't even have to show up for.
I don't wait long before heading back to my house. I'm more patient than I used to be, but not that patient. Creed’s work is always good, but he really outdid himself. There’s feeds into every room in her house. Not a single blind spot. Harbor’s already there when I get home, barely inside before I see her fumbling with the keys and tossing them on her hallway table.
She thinks she's safe.
Her silhouette is grainy at first, an outline against the grainy black-and-white camera feed, but I see her moving. Slower than usual, stumbling around, trying to take off her clothes as she makes her way to her room.
I zoom in, click a few buttons, adjust the angle. There's a tiny delay, and I might have to talk to Creed about it later, but it's not enough to stop my pulse from quickening. Not enough to make me miss what I've done.
Now I don't have to be there. Now I get to watch as she unravels.
The best part? She still thinks I'm the concerned stranger who told her to get some sleep.