Chapter 4
Leo
I shouldn’t have followed her.
I shouldn’t have spoken to her.
But something made me. Something deeper than orders, deeper than loyalty to my uncle. Curiosity, maybe. Or instinct.
She’s not what I expected.
Short honey-blonde hair, all soft waves and subtle gold. Thin. A little too thin. Wears oversized sweaters like armor. Always hugging herself, like she’s holding in more than just the cold. Studious, quiet. Hides in corners of the library like she wants to disappear.
Not a trace of her father in her and thank fuck for that.
She doesn’t dress like someone trying to catch attention. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t even notice when men look at her—like Mike, the idiot coworker practically panting after her like a kicked dog. She’s polite but distant. Self-contained. Controlled.
But she cracked, a little, when she saw me. Fear in her eyes. Sharp and instinctual. She knows danger when she sees it.
I’m not proud of what I’ve done. Not even sure when the line blurred.
At first, it was surveillance. I watched. Catalogued her habits. She always stops at the same grocery store after work, always takes the long way home unless it’s raining. She double-checks every door she locks, twice. Sometimes three times.
She lives like someone who’s afraid to be found.
And maybe that’s what hooked me first—that recognition. I know what it means to run. I know what it means to carry secrets like weapons.
I’ve been in her apartment.
Just once at first. She left a window cracked, and I was fast. Precise. Didn’t take anything. Just needed to see .
Then I cut a key. Now I can come and go freely. When she’s at work. When she’s out. When I know there’s time.
I’ve met her cat. He scratched me the first time, then decided I was tolerable. Slept on my foot while I sat on her couch and tried to figure out why the hell I was still there.
She feeds him seafood Fancy Feast. Has a cupboard under the sink where she keeps the cans. I noticed last week she was down to one. So I bought more. Slid the cans to the back of the cupboard.
She probably thought she forgot buying them.
I shouldn’t feel satisfied by that. But I do.
She’s meticulous, in a way. No clutter. Drawers organized. Everything has a place. But when I open them—carefully, always carefully—there’s something missing.
No condoms. No oral contraceptives. No sign of a boyfriend. No men’s clothes. No toothbrush by the sink that isn’t hers. No messages on her phone left open, no late-night calls in her logs.
She’s alone.
Too alone.
It should make her the perfect candidate. My uncle would love her. Virginal, hidden away, scared. A blank canvas. Just like he said.
But the thought of her with him turns my stomach.
He’d ruin her. He ruins everything. I try to tell myself this is still about duty.
That I’m doing my job. That I’m just gathering evidence, compiling a report.
But the truth is, I stopped reporting back days ago.
I don’t want him to know her. Not even a detail.
I want to know her first.
Completely.
I want to see the face she hides when no one’s watching. I want to know why she flinches at sudden noises, why her voice trembles when she’s scared, but she doesn’t run. Why she hasn’t left this city when it’s so clear she doesn’t feel safe.
I want to know why I can’t stop thinking about her.
Maybe I’ve crossed the line. I should know better, but something about Norelle Quinn—or Nora Adams as she goes by here—has captured my attention.
I’m not leaving.
Not yet.