5. Hayden
HAYDEN
I can’t fucking stand it. The pacing, the restlessness. My muscles are tight, my chest a goddamn knot of anger. I’ve been walking around my room for the last hour like a fucking caged animal, unable to sit still, the only thing on my mind is being with Madison. I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s okay, to feel her near me. It’s driving me to the brink of being crazed, not knowing what she’s doing, what she’s feeling.
I stare out the window, my jaw clenched. If I can’t have her, no one who can should be allowed to breathe. I can’t keep letting myself simmer with frustration. So fuck it. I head for the door and as I walk down the hallway, each step makes the tension coil tighter inside me. I reach Madison’s room for the night and pause, my hand hovering over the knob for only a moment before I try to turn it.
Locked.
Of course it is. A wave of frustration crashes over me, my chest tightening in sudden panic. What the fuck? Did she try to leave? Did she climb out the window? The thought alone makes my stomach churn with a sense of dread I can’t explain without sounding like an absolute psycho. I make my way down the grand staircase, the silence making me even more angry than I already am. Does no one else care that she might have escaped– I mean left? I do sound psychotic, but I’m too mad to care. My list. If Madison is gone, every person in this house is going on my list.
I slide my fingers over the smooth security pad by the door that leads into the backyard, inputting the code without even thinking about it. The door clicks open, and I step outside, the cold air hitting my skin like a slap in the face. I don’t even flinch. I fucking needed that.
My father has this place decked out like a fucking compound. Expansive stone patios, a goddamn pool, a hot tub. It’s all just for show, everything too perfect, too pristine. I round the corner, my eyes locking on the ivy-covered lattice that leads up to the balcony just outside her room.
This is fucking stupid. I’m not going to crawl up the side of the house like some lovesick teenager. My body disagrees with me because my feet are already moving before I can stop them.
I climb, my body working in a fluid motion, pushing up the lattice until I’m standing on the terrace outside her room, looking at the French doors adorned with lace curtains.
I tell myself I just need to make sure she’s okay. That’s all. Just check on her. But even as the words form in my head, I know it’s bullshit. I want to see her. I want to hold her. I want to make sure she knows that she belongs to me, that no one, and I mean fucking no one, will ever hurt her again.
I pull out my pocket knife and gingerly slip it between the lock and the frame, a little trick Callum taught me that works on doors like these. I open the door as quietly as I can, my pulse pounding in my ears. When I don’t see her on the bed where I expect to, I’m about to fly into a rage without checking anywhere else. Just a few more steps, and I find her there asleep slumped up against the clawfoot tub in the adjoining bathroom.
Her eyes are closed, but by her posture alone I can tell she’s not resting. It’s like she wants to be woken up if someone tries to enter. Like she doesn’t feel safe here. And the thought of that, it fucking shreds me. I’m already furious, already hating every second of this.
What happened to her? Why the hell is she like this? Why is she holding on to that box cutter like it’s the only thing that’s ever kept her safe?
I crouch down in front of her, studying her face. She’s beautiful. Even now, with her messy hair and the frown on her lips, she’s fucking stunning. But it’s not just the way she looks that drives me crazy. It’s the way she holds herself together when she’s falling apart on the inside. I hate that. I hate seeing her worry like this. It shouldn’t be her job to worry about anything. It’s mine.
I can’t explain it. I don’t know why I feel this way, why she’s all I can think about. But right now, all I can focus on is how much I fucking need to protect her.
I notice a sliver of skin showing just above the waistband of her jeans. It’s small, but it’s enough. It’s so fucking inviting, and I can’t help the way my fingers twitch at the sight of it. I know I shouldn’t do this. I know I should pull my hands away and leave. But I can’t help it.
Slowly, carefully, I move my fingers toward her exposed skin. My touch is light at first, just grazing her skin as I feel the warmth radiate off of her. It’s so fucking soft, so delicate. My breath catches in my throat. No one has ever made me want them so badly that I’m rock hard from sliding my fingers along their hip. This isn’t some casual infatuation. This is a need I’ll take to my grave long after she’s mine.
I brush my fingertips gently across her skin, the sensation making my whole body ache. She gasps softly in her sleep, and my chest tightens. I want more. I want to kiss her, to feel her beneath me, to lose myself in the pleasure of her skin on mine. But I stop myself, just for a second.
I lean down closer to her ear, my voice rough as I whisper, “Baby, you have no idea how much I want you."
The thought of touching her while she’s peacefully dreaming excites me more than I can handle. But I want her to want it too. I want her to be into it, to trust me enough to let me make her feel good. So I pull my hand away. My fingers are burning from the absence, but I know it’s the right choice. I won’t wake her up. Not yet. Not when I can’t be sure that she’s ready for this.
Instead, I gently take the box cutter from her hand and set it on the counter. I want to throw it away because she no longer needs it, but I have a feeling she’ll come out swinging if that’s not her choice.
I scoop her up gently, trying my hardest to ignore the way my body reacts to her closeness. Her breath is warm against my neck, and for a second, I let myself just feel her. I hate that she’s not in anything comfortable, but I can’t trust myself to change her clothes.
I lay her down on the bed, the expensive sheets rustling beneath her. She’s still in that high ponytail, and I can’t resist undoing it. I pull the satin pink bow and watch her hair spill out like silk. She sighs in her sleep, and it fucking kills me.
She’s too perfect. Too beautiful. And I’m not letting anyone take her from me. Not ever. I pull the fluffy comforter up over her, tucking her in like she’s something precious. I just need to convince her of that.
“Sweet dreams, princess,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her forehead as I stand and take one last look at her.
I reach for the satin ribbon, running it between my fingers. For a second, I think about leaving it here. But then I decide against it. I slide it into my pocket. I need to keep something of hers with me even though I’m not ready to leave her quite yet.
I pull up the chair next to her bed, sliding into it with a quiet, deliberate motion. My eyes don’t leave her for a second, not even when I settle in. Her breathing is softer, steadier than when I found her in the bathroom and I’d like to think it’s because on some level she knows I’m here and feels safe enough to relax.
I can't help myself. I’m drawn to her, to the rhythm of her breathing, to the way her body shifts slightly and my mouth practically waters at the thought of what she’d feel like tucked up against my side, her body moving against mine throughout the night. Her usual walls are down right now, her defenses gone. There’s no fight in her, no hesitation. She looks... fragile.
Her hair’s a mess from the way I touched it earlier. I can still feel the way it slid through my fingers. It’s like silk, and I can’t get enough of it. The way her lips part when she sleeps is so inviting. Fuck, I want to taste them again. I want to taste every single inch of her.
I lean forward, my eyes tracing the soft rise and fall of her chest. It’s just enough to remind me that she’s still real, still here. I don’t know how I ended up in this moment, sitting in the dark watching her sleep, but it’s the only place I want to be.
The urge to touch her is stronger than I can explain. I want to run my hands over her skin, feel the warmth that radiates off of her, taste the softness of her lips again. It’s not just the sex I want. I want everything. I want her mind and her soul too. I’d do anything for her, and always will.
My mind drifts back to a few nights ago. My first kill and it was for Madison. The sleek black BMW trailing her, like a fucking predator. I could feel it in my gut. He wasn’t just driving. He was following. I couldn’t let that happen.
I side-swiped him. Hard. Watched his car spin out of control, slam into the guardrail like I’d done this a hundred times before. I was calm, and that should have been the first red flag of the evening.
I remember walking up to that car and grabbing him by the collar, ripping him halfway out of the window. His breath reeked of alcohol, but his eyes were full of defiance. This is who Madison would have had to look at, had to smell if he had the wherewithal to actually catch her.
"Why the fuck were you following her?" I demanded, but he didn’t answer. No words. Only the cocky smile of a man who thought he could get away with anything.
I reached in closer, fists clenched, voice a low growl. “Answer me.”
Nothing. Just that same smug look.
I snapped. My fist slammed into the side of his head, his skull cracking against the window trim. He went limp, unconscious in my hands. I didn’t stop. Reached into his jacket, grabbed the lighter. Then I set the fire.
I shoved something from the back seat into the gas tank, lit it, and watched it burn. The flames crackled as they spread, and I stood there, watching his car turn into a pile of fucking ash. No one is getting close to her, not while I’m still breathing.
My eyes rake over Madison. Her form is relaxed, at peace. She doesn’t know what I’ve done for her. How much I’m willing to do. How far I’ll go for her.
She shifts in her sleep, making a soft noise, and I almost lose it. The sight of her, vulnerable and perfect, tucked in this bed, like she belongs here with me.
I look at her hand resting by the side of her face, her fingers barely curled, and I can’t stop myself from wondering what they would feel like digging into the muscles of my back while I hover over her, mine wrapped around her delicate throat as I slam inside her until there’s no question who she belongs to.
I sit back, a little breathless, as I study her face, the way her features relax in sleep. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold her while she sleeps, to keep her safe, to wrap her up in my arms and never let anyone near her again. Until then, I’ll be here, watching her. Waiting.