12. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Knox
Leaning against the cool brick wall, I let the shadows swallow me whole. From this vantage point, I've become just another piece of the city's forgotten architecture. It's a skill born from necessity—being invisible—and it comes in handy in this part of town, where the industrial gives way to the residential in a patchwork of gentrification.
I watch as Rayne steps out of her studio, locks the door with an absent flick of her wrist, and starts down the block. She doesn't see me; she never does. My gaze follows her every move, intense and unwavering. The desire to be near her pulls at me like a relentless current. It's not my first time standing here, consumed by the sight of her, and it won't be the last. There's a compulsion in my veins that sings to the dark tune of obsession.
I saw her client leave in tears. Satisfaction twisted inside me. That raw emotional response meant Rayne had done her job well, as always. But those clients don't know her like I do; they haven't felt her warmth envelop them, the taste of her skin lingering like a promise. The memory alone sends a surge of hunger through me, but I push it down. Patience is a virtue, even for men like me.
Keeping to the shadows, I start to follow, maintaining enough distance to remain unseen but close enough to keep her within my line of sight. My raven-haired beauty moves with a grace that belies her oblivion, narrowly avoiding a street sign, then a discarded box. Her black dress plays against her contours, simple and unassuming, yet it's the red lipstick that captures my attention—it screams to be smudged, to be worn by more than just her lips.
A growl builds in my throat but remains caged behind clenched teeth. I've waited too long, plotted with a meticulousness that rivals my need for her, to ruin everything with impatience.
The streets fill with people as we approach a more populated area. It affords me the chance to close in a little—until she suddenly turns, pushing through the door of a bar. My hands flex involuntarily, ready for violence if she's meeting a man. If anyone else dares touch what's ours, I'd take pleasure in peeling their skin from muscle, in gouging out their eyes so they'd never again see what they can't have.
Inside the bar, the crowd swarms, and I watch—always watch—as someone's arms wrap around Rayne. Fire licks through my veins, a visceral blaze until I see it's a woman who holds her briefly before letting go. Relief crashes into me, swift and cold. Yet, it doesn't quell the drive to follow her inside, to continue watching her. The patrons provide enough cover for me to stay hidden, to observe without being observed.
Because I can't stop watching her. Because she is, undeniably, irrevocably, ours.