Chapter 25 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I’m going insane.
It’s been four nights since Ivy scaled my balcony, folded my clothes, and crawled into bed with me, watching me sleep.
Before Drew arrived, I installed a camera in my bedroom. I’m pretty sure Ivy doesn’t know it’s here.
Until now, I hadn’t bothered watching the feed. But I can’t stand this any longer. I need to see her, if only on my phone.
Now, I’m sitting in bed, watching every video of her sneaking into my room at night.
Damn. Why didn’t I install cameras elsewhere? I need to get on that.
With a sigh, I rewind the feed and watch it again.
Then I watch the feed from the first night she didn’t come over. And the second. And the third.
I run a hand through my hair, tugging on the ends. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m in control. Always.
I had no problems with my solitary existence—until Ivy.
Now, I’m an addict who can’t get enough.
I fall back on the bed, my eyes on the ceiling. I can’t live like this anymore. I have to do something.
Knock.
Knock.
I sit up, my heart pounding faster until I realize it isn’t Ivy. She wouldn’t knock. She’d just come in.
“Come in,” I yell, trying to appear like my normal black cat self.
“Hey,” my brother says as he steps into my room. “I made chicken and veggies. Thought maybe you’d join me and we could watch Panic Room.”
“Panic Room?”
He blinks at me. “You know—Jodie Foster. Robbers break in. She and her daughter hide in the panic room.” His hands start waving excitedly. “Raoul is so crazy in that movie. Who would think Dwight Yo—”
“Raoul?”
He looks at me like I grew two heads. “The masked robber with the gun.”
“Ah. I remember that movie now.”
My mind is whirling with a horribly terrific plan.
“Raincheck on dinner and the movie. I need to go to the office. Something important I need to do.” I’m already on my feet. “Don’t wait up.”
Drew looks at me like I’m nuts.
Which, he’s probably not wrong.
Considering what I’m about to do, he’s not wrong at all.
Luckily, the clothing and the binoculars I bought from the sporting goods store are still in my car.
And now, I’m back inside the same store, getting gloves and a black ski mask.
I’m sweating as the clerk rings me up, hoping he doesn’t think I’m about to rob a bank. I pay and hurry toward the exit, excitement and nervousness thrumming through my veins.
Five minutes later, I’m inside my office, clad all in black.
I shove the ski mask into the hoodie pocket.
My hands shake—from adrenaline or nerves, I’m not sure—as I mentally make a list. I don’t write it down—I’m not a psychopath—but it exists in my head, neat and orderly, like everything else I try to control.
Okay, maybe I am unhinged. But writing it down would be a crime.
Instead, I use my fingers to tick off the items on my list.
Reasons this is a bad idea:
* I don’t stalk people—except that one time I crept into her home.
* Masks are for crimes and ski slopes.
* Ivy does not need encouragement.
Reasons I’m already doing it:
* She stopped coming over.
* She looked perfectly fine without me.
* I can’t stop thinking about her.
The second list wins.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell my empty office.
The empty office does not argue.
I step in front of the mirror I hung on the closet door. The one I use to check my appearance before heading to meetings.
But this time, I barely recognize myself.
I’m all in black. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Sneakers. Gloves.
I slide my hand inside the pocket and put on the mask.
The mirror reflects someone I don’t recognize—tall, broad, anonymous. Dangerous looking, if you don’t know me. Which I don’t love.
But this isn’t about intimidation. This is about observation.
I remove the mask and stuff it back inside my pocket. Then I slip out of my office—quiet, controlled, practiced in a way that makes me pause for half a second before locking the door. Apparently, I’ve been learning from Ivy without realizing it.
The irony is not lost on me.
I drive past her house and park down the street. Then I exit my car, slipping beneath the cover of darkness.
This time, I pay attention to how different it feels approaching it from the outside. How exposed the hedges are, how easy the shadows make it to disappear if you know where to stand.
I stop short of the property line. I’m not trespassing. I’m researching. That matters.
The lights are on in her bedroom.
I wait.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
This is how people end up on watch lists, I think distantly.
The light goes off, and then I see the kitchen light turn on.
A few beats pass before the back door opens. Ivy steps outside, her phone pressed to her ear, laughter spilling freely into the quiet night air. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater, dark hair pulled into a loose knot that makes my chest ache in a way I resent.
She paces the small patio as she talks.
“No, I’m serious,” she says. “You cannot text me at midnight asking if you can ‘borrow my vibe.’”
A pause.
“Yes, I know I’m delightful. That’s not the point.”
Ivy laughs again, warm and bright, completely unaware that I’m standing in the shadows like a cautionary tale.
My hands clench in my pockets.
Who is she talking to?
Please don’t let it be Aaron.
My jaw tightens.
It better not be him.
Not at midnight.
A wave of irritation rolls through me.
She should be climbing over my balcony, not on the phone with that Aaron punk.
I slow my breathing. I’m not entitled to her time and attention. I’m not that creep, Silas. I don’t own her. I don’t.
I just—
I slow my breathing.
I’m losing control.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
She hangs up, slipping the phone into her pocket. For a moment, she just stands there, arms folded loosely across her chest, gazing out into the yard like she’s thinking about something else entirely.
Like she’s thinking about me.
My pulse kicks.
She exhales, then murmurs, “You’re being stubborn, Sebastian.”
I freeze.
She tilts her head slightly, eyes lifting—not directly at me, but close enough that my body goes tight anyway.
“…and it’s not attractive,” she adds.
I almost laugh out loud.
She turns and heads back inside, leaving the door unlocked.
I wait a full minute, scanning the yard from the shadows. Then I move, circling the side of the house, keeping to the shadows, heart pounding harder with every step.
The kitchen light spills through the window, and there she is—moving easily through the space, barefoot, humming softly as she pours herself a glass of water.
She pauses and looks directly toward the window.
Oh, shit. She sees me. And she’s going to freak out and call the cops.
Her fingers tighten around the glass. “You are not going over there,” she says, her tone low.
I tense. Oh, shit. What if she heads to my house? I’d need to get out of here without her seeing me and high-tail it home before she arrives.
She stares into the glass of water, as if it can give her the answers she seeks. “Go to bed. Don’t give in to the urge, or Sebastian wins.”
With a sigh, she turns off the light and heads down the hallway.
I watch her until she disappears, feeling something in my chest loosen.
I stand there, masked and breathless, my heart pounding. This is exhilarating. No wonder she stalks me.
Which is how I know I’m already past the point of pretending this is harmless. In fact, I’m well aware this is how men end up needing court-ordered therapy.
I back away slowly, not willing to press my luck tonight. It was risky enough sneaking into her house the last time. If she spotted me wearing a ski mask… yeah, I’d definitely make the Hollow Creek Facebook page.
I retreat into the night with a quiet laugh that I don’t bother stopping, certainty coursing through my veins.
I don’t want distance.
I don’t want boundaries.
I want Ivy.
And nothing is going to stop me from getting what I want.