Chapter Three
Did you know your left boot scuffs the ground when exhaustion drapes over you? But only after you’ve killed someone. Or let the thought fester until you almost wish you had.
Your laughter grows louder when you lie.
You flirt with more hunger when loneliness creeps in.
And your fingers find your throat when forbidden wants flicker through your mind.
Is it me?
Am I the one you’re thinking of in those moments?
Why do you chase women who leave you numb? You vanish before they can reach the tender places you swear aren’t there. But I see you unravel, piece by piece, in ways invisible to everyone else.
I do.
I notice.
Because you’re mine.
You belong to me in all the silent ways that haunt you. In the hush between breaths. In the moments before sleep, when your face betrays how much you ache for me beside you.
I won’t hurt you.
I’ll simply linger, studying you, waiting, loving you the way monsters do once they’ve chosen their prey.
Sleep tight, my beautiful monster.
I’m closer than you think.
Another day, another love note from the shadow that clings to me.
My jaw locks as I lower the page, breath snagging in my chest until I force it free. The hunter is now the hunted. But it isn’t fear that roots me. It’s the sensation of being pinned by something invisible.
It’s thrilling in a way that shouldn’t be erotic, but it is.
This note is more intimate than the rest. Obsession seeps from every line, raw and unrepentant. My thumb drifts over the paper, catching on a ghost of a scent I almost recognize each time I unfold it. My mind refuses to name it, too crowded by the words pressing in from all sides.
The note tangles my thoughts, twisting them into knots.
A tight pull coils low in my gut, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. Then guilt slices in, Marigold’s name flaring through me like a warning siren, as if wanting this is its own kind of betrayal.
Ridiculous, considering there’s nothing more between us than friendship.
Friends.
The word is flavorless on my tongue. It barely hints at what we are, or what I crave us to become. If I had my way, she’d already be beneath me, my name etched into her skin before doubt could catch up.
I’m emotionally avoidant by design.
People see my mouth, slick enough to charm the habit off a nun, and think I’m easy to read.
They see the silver tongue, the endless parade of women, and believe they know me.
They’re wrong. The flirting, the smiles, the polished veneer, it’s all machinery for control.
As long as I’m pulling the strings, no one gets close enough to spot where I’m coming undone.
Detachment is a superpower in this lifestyle.
If you didn’t care, you couldn’t be leveraged.
If you didn’t love, you couldn’t be broken.
My fingers curl tighter around the worn paper.
With Marigold, it’s different.
There’s no distance with her. No clean lines.
Every wall I put up after she labeled us just friends comes down anyway, knocked loose by a heated look, by an adorable fucking smile she gives me like she knows exactly where to aim.
Her eyes catch me every time. Golden flecks flashing even when her face goes blank.
There’s always something restless behind them, a vibration I can feel even when she’s across the room.
It’s all a facade.
I know it is.
A way to keep people from seeing too far past the mask she’s worn since she showed up in Coral Cay.
I see past it. I always have because I see her.
Not the persona she shares with the world.
But the one she tries to keep the world from seeing.
If there’s anyone who knows about masks, it’s me. I wear one every fucking day.
You learn early in the system. Show people what they want to see, and they won’t look too hard at what’s broken underneath. You can be anyone if you learn which mask fits.
My birth parents gave me up before I ever knew who they were.
The memory presses down on me as I lean back, the note spinning between my fingers. Years shuffled through the system. Foster homes blurring together—some kind, some cruel, most just cold. I learned fast who cared and who just wanted a check. The caring ones were rare.
I was six when I was adopted.
They arrived with blinding smiles and money to burn, their eyes always sliding past me. A lawyer with a reputation, a wife polished to perfection. I gripped my toy motorcycle like it was a lifeline. Even then, I knew not to trust first impressions.
They were great for about a year. Fed me.
Clothed me. Private school. A roof over my head so I didn’t have to worry about being sent away again.
For a little while, I let myself believe their care was genuine, feeling a hope I’d never had before.
Then, slowly, their attention faded. The warmth I felt got replaced by a familiar cold, and I caught myself tensing every time I stepped through the door.
It was more than most kids received, so I convinced myself it was love. Indifference felt familiar. I clung to it, believing it was normal. Only later did I realize love was meant to feel different—warmer, not distant.
My biggest lesson landed on my twelfth birthday.
Everyone’s the same. People only want you for what you can give them, not for who you are.
For my parents, I was a prop. Proof they were doing good. I asked once why they chose me. Why our family didn’t look like anyone else’s. My mother didn’t hesitate to answer.
She wanted her sleep and her figure. She didn’t want a screaming baby. Just the idea of motherhood made her body shudder with disgust.
The memory still makes my stomach tighten.
My parents were vain. Narcissistic. They were rich-ass snobs who were convinced their money made them untouchable.
But cash means nothing when you defend monsters for a living.
Sooner or later, someone wants payback. Dad’s past caught up with both of them just before my seventeenth birthday.
One of his client’s victims found them, walked up in public, and ended it all with a gun before turning it on herself.
No way in hell was I going back into the system.
I’d had enough of being passed around, enough of that helplessness pressing on my chest. After their funeral, I packed my bags and drained the account they left me.
The trust fund was locked until I turned twenty-five, but I’d survived on less before.
No amount of money was worth being a fucking prisoner to the system again.
I bought a Honda Rebel for a steal and chased pavement until my birthday. Slept in shitty motels. Fixed what broke on the bike. Kept moving.
I rolled into Coral Cay the night before I turned eighteen.
There was a dive bar on the outskirts back then called The Broken Compass. Flickering neon. Cold drinks. Salvation for a man running on fumes. My bike barely made it into the lot before dying under me.
It felt like fate, ending up in a place I’d one day call home, surrounded by brothers who became family.
Crafting the persona that earned me my road name was easy when I didn’t give a fuck about anyone except my brothers and myself.
I fuck, then leave. No promises. No regrets.
We both enjoy ourselves, we both get off.
No need to overthink it. Honestly, finding someone willing to let me between their legs is easy once they see the patch on my kutte.
At least, it was easy before her.
My little Greek goddess best friend.
Fuck. That title still rubs me raw.
I sink back in my chair, the note still warm in my palm, eyes locked on the ceiling like it might offer answers.
A wave of frustration washes over me. Maybe it’s time to admit she’ll never cross that line.
I swallow the disappointment, telling myself I shouldn’t keep chasing someone who’s drawn her boundaries in stone, but a part of me resists letting go.
The thought sits wrong.
My gaze drifts back to the note.
This one sees me.
They’re not shy in their obsession. There’s no shame in their want. They claim me proudly without hesitation. In the dark, at least.
My pulse ticks louder as the questions creep in.
What would they do if I answered? If I left something behind for them to find? Would they finally show themselves?
Would they finally show themselves?
Dropping my feet to the floor, I carefully unfold their letter and spread it out on my desk. I reach for my notebook. My pen hesitates in my grip, fingers tightening before I force them to move.
There’s only one way to find out.