Watch Me Break (Watched in Darkness #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter one
Damien
The amber liquid burns as it slides down my throat, but the heat pales against the fire building in my chest. My heart pounds as I face the massive stone fireplace, watching the flames writhe over blackened wood. The thirty-year Macallan tastes different tonight. Sharper.
Beside me, Athena stretches in her sleep, her blue-gray coat painted silver by moonlight creeping through the cracked transom above. She’s the only creature on this earth that sees gentleness from these hands.
I flex my fingers, studying them in the firelight. Two hours ago, these same hands dragged Dale Nash out of his truck at that shithole puppy mill in Fort Lupton. Hundreds of dogs crammed into wire cages, living in their own filth.
Not anymore.
The look on his face when I stepped out of the shadows…
Fuck, that was beautiful.
I drain the glass and let my gaze drift across the room. What was once a grand Victorian study now lies half-shrouded in dust and shadows, its carved mahogany panels warped and water-stained from four decades of neglect.
This place called to me the moment I saw the listing. Five hundred acres of Colorado wilderness, far from prying eyes and closer to God’s judgment than man’s law. The real estate agent kept dancing around the property’s history, but that history is the reason I bought it.
I chose this place because isolation breeds opportunity.
No neighbors to hear screams, no streetlights to cast unwanted shadows, and no city noise to mask the sounds of justice.
The nearest house, a wildlife sanctuary tucked in the valley to the west, is a mile down a winding mountain road that becomes almost impassable in winter.
The empty whiskey glass sits heavy in my palm, each facet sharp against my skin.
The cut crystal belonged to my grandfather and is one of the few possessions I kept when I shed my old life.
Everything else about Damien Wolfe is carefully constructed theater.
But here, surrounded by decay and darkness, I can stop pretending and be what I am.
The monster they created.
A log shifts in the grate, sending sparks spiraling up the dark throat of the chimney.
Athena’s ear twitches, though her eyes remain closed.
The scars along her muzzle have faded to thin white lines, souvenirs from the fighting ring I saved her from two years ago.
She was scheduled to be bait for a champion fighter, thrown into the pit to be torn apart for entertainment.
Instead, she found her way to my home and is the only living thing I let close.
I set the empty glass on the mantel and reach for my mask. I catch my reflection in its polished surface. Eyes burning bright. Pupils dilated. The face of a man ready to christen his new killing ground.
The silver titanium wolf mask covers half my face, spanning from the top of my head to just above my upper lip.
Cade calls it my death wish, a calling card that will eventually hang me.
But the moment that metal touches my flesh, I shed my human limitations.
The mask doesn’t just hide my identity; it reveals my true nature.
The floorboards protest under my boots as I move toward the office door. This mansion settles and sighs like a living thing, its bones creaking with the weight of accumulated sins.
Athena lifts her head as I pass, dark eyes following my movement. She yawns, and I stop to scratch behind her ears. Her fur is warm from the fire, soft against my palm.
“Sleep, girl. This part isn’t for you.”
She settles back into the warmth with a satisfied grunt.
Beyond my office, the hallway fades to shadow, wallpaper peeling in curling strips, exposing layers of faded florals and the gray plaster beneath. Most of the mansion has remained untouched since I bought it. The decay serves as a testament to what happens when evil takes root.
The door to the basement sits at the end of the hall, heavy oak that’s absorbed decades of secrets. I pause before it, savoring the anticipation clawing at my chest. This moment, crossing from hunter to executioner, never loses its power over me.
The ancient wooden planks creak and shift as I descend the stairs. Good. I want Nash to hear me coming, to count each footstep like the slow beats of a dying heart.
The cool basement air is heavy with moisture that seeps through the stone foundation. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the smell hits me. Earth and the lingering copper scent that never quite faded from this place.
The single bulb above throws sharp shadows around the room, lighting up the cold metal table in the center.
The kind used in morgues. It came with the property, along with the rickety wooden workbench rotting in the corner, both abandoned by the previous owner, a serial killer from almost forty years ago.
Jeremiah Morrison carved his name into local legend with the blood of seven teenage girls before they caught him in 1984.
Their deaths left this place cursed and untouchable.
Until I came along.
Nash lies strapped to its surface, awake now, his eyes wild and bloodshot. They snap to me as I step into the pool of harsh light. His chest strains against the restraints. Tendons stand out in his neck, and sweat beads on his forehead despite the basement’s chill.
Behind the duct tape, Nash’s breathing turns to panicked snorts through his nose. The sound makes something warm unfurl behind my ribs. He jerks against the straps, his wrists already raw and bleeding where they cut into his skin.
I step closer. The mask gleams in the bulb’s glare, and Nash’s eyes widen with terror.
I move to the workbench against the wall. The serrated blade is still there, reflecting the faint light. My fingers wrap around the handle, leather worn smooth from use, molded to my grip like it belongs there.
“Do you know what separates us from animals, Dale?” I turn the knife, watching light dance along its edge. Each syllable hangs in the air, carrying the weight of coming judgment. “It’s not intelligence. Not morality.”
Nash thrashes against the leather straps binding him, the metal table legs scraping concrete in a rhythm that matches my pulse.
“It’s our capacity to understand suffering before it arrives.”
The blade hovers above his chest, not quite touching. Nash freezes, every muscle locked. Even his breathing stops.
The tip touches his skin just below his collarbone.
Cold metal against warm flesh. I press down—just enough.
The skin parts in a clean, shallow line.
Blood wells, a perfect crimson thread against his flesh.
Nash’s body arches off the table, his muffled scream vibrating through the duct tape.
The sound echoes off stone walls that have heard worse. Much worse.
The cut throbs with his heartbeat, weeping fresh drops with each pulse. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, like an artist’s first brushstroke on virgin canvas.
Outside, wind rattles the basement’s single barred window. The storm that’s been brewing all night finally breaks, the rain hammering against the glass like desperate fingers trying to get in. Perfect weather for what comes next. Nature’s fury will swallow any noise that might escape this tomb.
The scent of urine assaults my nose as a dark stain spreads across the front of his jeans.
“Already?” Disappointment colors my voice. “We’ve barely started.”
Nash’s eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the corners. His whole body shakes—fear, adrenaline, or maybe just the cold seeping into his bones.
I select a different knife from my array of tools, smaller and more precise. The handle fits between my thumb and forefinger like it was crafted for my grip. I test its edge against my thumb. A thin line of blood appears.
I press the tip against Nash’s shoulder, just above where the first cut weeps crimson. His entire body goes rigid as the metal bites through his skin, opening a parallel line that mirrors the first, only deeper. Blood flows in twin streams down his chest.
His scream tears through the duct tape, his body convulsing against the restraints. The straps creak under the strain but hold. They always hold.
I walk back to the workbench and lean against it. Nash’s frantic eyes track my every movement. Time to let anticipation do its work. Let him marinate in the knowledge that those two cuts are only the beginning of a very long night.
His muffled cries, a prayer for mercy, will go unanswered.
Justice has no ears for the pleas of monsters.