3. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Knox
I briefly take in the space, it’s dark but I’m used to the dark. I thrive in the dark. There is enough light filtering through the few small high windows that I can see. It’s an elegant photography studio, but that doesn’t come as a surprise, already feeling familiar with her after watching her for months.
I linger by her desk, letting my gaze drift over the details scattered across her workspace. It’s neat but lived-in, with a few stray papers and bills resting on top, almost like an open invitation for prying eyes. With a gloved hand, I carefully nudge a few aside, spotting a large planner lying open to the current week. It’s immediately clear she keeps her schedule meticulously by hand—every entry inked in her delicate handwriting. My name is there, newly added for Friday. The sight of it stirs something in me, a quiet thrill at being woven into her plans, even if she doesn’t fully realize what she’s invited in.
Her scent lingers faintly in the air around her desk, something soft and calming. Lavender. The subtle fragrance wraps around me, unexpectedly warm, like the comfort of falling asleep in a well-worn blanket. I take a steady breath, drawing it in as though I could hold onto this fleeting moment. But I’m not here to linger; I know her routine well by now, and she will be in bed after the day she’s had.
At the base of the staircase, I pause, listening carefully. Silence. Just as I expected. I tread lightly, each step up purposeful and soundless, one hand gliding along the railing where her fingers had traced only an hour earlier. The intimacy of the small gesture sharpens my focus, but when I reach the door to her apartment, I pause once more, listening for any sign of movement inside. Nothing. Slowly, I turn the handle, slipping inside and shutting the door soundlessly behind me.
My entrance doesn’t go unnoticed, however. A small, cautious sound draws my attention to the floor. The cat is watching me, its amber eyes narrowed with curiosity but not alarm. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a small bundle I’d prepared earlier, a little cloth pouch filled with fresh catnip. The cat’s gaze is fixed on it immediately, its attention rapt as I place the pouch on the floor. That should keep it occupied, at least for the time I need tonight.
I had learnt the hard way, several times, that unless I brought some sort of offering—otherwise called a bribe—for the little feline guardian, then I wasn't getting past her razor sharp claws.
Moving with calculated steps, I make my way down the hall. I reach the entrance of her bedroom, and there, I stop, taking in the sight before me. She’s fast asleep, her form wrapped in a loose sheet, her dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink against its soft fabric. The steady rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic, her breathing slow and deep, oblivious to my presence.
My eyes fall to the small bottle of pills next to her glass of water on the bedside table. I recognize them easily enough: pain meds that are effectively a mild sedative. A small smirk tugs at my lips—no wonder she’s so deeply under, her breathing steady and untroubled, her face softened in the haze of sleep. I let myself savor the moment, watching her chest rise and fall, a slight shift in her limbs betraying the ease and warmth of her slumber. It’s a vulnerable beauty, one that pulls at a desire I’d kept under wraps until now.
The faint light filtering in from the window barely touches her, but it’s enough. I peel off one of my gloves, wanting to feel her warmth directly against my skin. Tentatively, I reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. Her skin is smooth, warm, and as my fingertip trails down the curve of her cheek to her jaw, a quiet hum rises in my chest. Gently, I trace along her neck, savoring the softness, lingering just a moment longer to feel her pulse, strong and steady beneath my touch.
The sheet has slipped down, exposing the gentle slopes of her body, and though it covers her, it’s thin enough that the silhouette of her figure is still visible. My fingers drift lower, tracing over the sheet where her collarbone meets the swell of her breast. She sighs in her sleep, her body shifting slightly, and I pause, watching for any sign that she might awaken. But she doesn’t stir beyond that gentle sigh, and her chest rises again, the steady rhythm of her breathing undisturbed.
Beneath the sheet, her nipple hardens at the slightest graze of my finger, and I let my touch linger there, skimming over the peak. The response is immediate and delicate, a slight tremor in her body that brings a faint flush to her cheeks.
I let my hand drift lower, tracing the shape of her body, taking in every subtle line and hollow. The rise and fall of her chest is a steady, unguarded rhythm, her breath warm and sweet. Leaning down, I let myself get closer, close enough to breathe her in fully. Her scent is stronger here, filling my senses—lavender and something uniquely hers, delicate and calming, yet potent enough to pull me in further. I hover over her, my face so near that the faint brush of my lips against hers is almost inevitable, a whisper of a touch that she’ll never know happened. Her breathing remains steady, her lips soft and slightly parted, and I allow myself the faintest pressure, feeling the warmth of her breath.
I know I shouldn’t linger, that being here is already pushing too close to the edge, but I can’t tear myself away. The vulnerability of it, of her, sends a thrill through me, but I know the risk. The allure of this moment is intoxicating. She has no idea of the intensity of the attention she’s drawn, no knowledge of the dangerous shadows circling around her now, the killers that have been pulled into her orbit.
My control teeters at its edge, and with a ragged breath, I force myself to step back, dragging my glove back on with deliberate movements. My time is slipping away, and I know I must make use of it. I take a look around her space, absorbing the details now that I’m close enough to see them without the filter of distance.
This space is a stark contrast to her photography studio, a quiet refuge that serves as a distinct boundary between her work and her life. The elegance is understated, filled with touches that are deeply personal yet inviting. A small mirrored dresser catches the muted light, its surface adorned with trinkets that tell stories I’m not yet privy to. I wonder what secrets those little objects hold.
Against the wall, a bookcase stands, the bottom shelf crammed with books on art history and photography. Titles that I can only assume are filled with knowledge she cherishes and draws inspiration from. My eyes scan the other shelves, and I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips—most of the spines are dark, well-worn, hinting at stories that are anything but sweet romances. She seems drawn to tales with edges, narratives steeped in conflict or darkness, and I find myself intrigued. Perhaps she might be more receptive to my attention than I first imagined.
I drift closer to the bookcase, fingers trailing over the spines, absorbing the details, each title a small window into her soul. There’s something about the way she curates her space that resonates with me—a quiet rebellion against the sweetness that so often pervades life. It paints a picture of a woman who embraces the complexity of emotions, who finds beauty in the darker corners of existence.
Just as I’m lost in the allure of her space, a flicker of movement catches my eye. The cat, curious and emboldened, stalks back into the bedroom, its amber gaze sharp and watchful. In that instant, I know my time is up. A rush of adrenaline surges through me; I can’t afford to be caught here, not now, not when I’ve come this close to her.
With a last lingering look at the dark-haired beauty sprawled across her bed, I let my feet carry me silently from the room, each step calculated and light. I can’t help but steal one final glance back at her, the way her dark hair frames her face, how serene and unaware she is, a world apart from the dangers that hover so very close to her.
I retrace my steps back to the entrance of her apartment, moving with the precision of a dancer who knows the stage well. The soft thud of my heart mingles with the low hum of silence around me as I keep my focus sharp, every sound amplified in the stillness. I can feel the pulse of the moment—so fragile, so electric.
I lean down, retrieving the catnip pouch I’d left for the curious feline, slipping it back into my pocket. I take a moment to ensure there is no evidence of my presence left behind. I don’t want her to know just yet. Soon, though, she will. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
Soon.