14. Wraith
Chapter 14
Wraith
S he’s two minutes late.
Almost three.
My jaw ticks once.
I know her schedule better than she does.
Every step of her walk home.
Every crack in the sidewalk she skips over.
Every storefront she lingers by as she hums to herself, lost in her head.
She should’ve been through that door already.
Even the cat’s waiting—sitting, staring at the entrance, tail twitching in agitation.
I hate the little beast.
But even he’s smart enough to know she’s late.
And is not pleased about it.
Neither am I.
Before I can pull up the cams to track her, the door swings open and she appears .
She kicks her shoes off the moment she’s through the door.
Drops her bag without looking.
Stretches her arms overhead, spine arching in a way that has my blood heating instantly.
She bends and picks up the cat. I know the bastard is looking smug as she cuddles him in her arms.
Fucking cat thinks she belongs to him.
She doesn’t.
She belongs to me.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
Even if she should.
Nothing I’ve done has made it clear to her.
Nothing I’ve done has made her see me.
She drifts toward the bedroom, humming softly under her breath.
I lean in closer to the monitor.
And when she peels her sweater up over her head, my fingers tighten against the desk, the muscles in my arms straining to hold back the hunger clawing through me.
The fabric glides over her skin—pure, untouched, fucking perfect.
Mine.
All of her.
And she has no fucking idea.
She peels her sweater higher.
Soft light spills over her bare skin.
The fabric catches against her ribs, tugging at her curves before sliding free—slow, thoughtless, fucking lethal.
My cock throbs hard behind the desk.
She undresses like she knows I’m here .
Like she feels my eyes on her, worshiping every inch she reveals.
The bra follows.
Thin straps fall down her shoulders, kissing her skin in a slow, reverent descent.
Her breasts bounce free—soft, perfect, obscene in their innocence.
The way they move?—
The way they settle?—
My fingers twitch again.
My nails dig into the wood, scraping shallow grooves.
My breath slows. Deepens. Tightens.
I should look away.
Give her the privacy she thinks she has.
Give her the respect she thinks she’s owed.
I do neither.
Because she’s already mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
She turns, hips swaying with that natural, dangerous grace, and hooks her thumbs into her panties.
Slides them down.
Slow. Torturous. Thoughtless.
She’s not putting on a show.
She’s not even thinking about it.
She’s feeding my obsession with every accidental brush of her fingers over her own thighs.
Every inch of bare, untouched skin she reveals.
Like there isn’t a monster breathing through the screens.
Like there isn’t a man losing his fucking mind just to stay on this side of the glass.
I fist my cock through my jeans, jaw locked tight.
No bruises. No marks.
No proof that another man has ever claimed her.
Good.
If there had been?—
If some fucker had laid a hand on what’s mine?—
I would’ve hunted him down.
Carved the memory of her out of his body.
Erased the proof he ever existed.
Just like I did with Ethan.
But there’s nothing to erase here.
Nothing to destroy.
Only pure, untouched skin.
Mine.
She tugs on a pair of loose shorts, the soft cotton riding low on her hips.
A t-shirt slips over her head, falling off one shoulder like it was made for me to bite.
Then she pads barefoot into the kitchen.
Oblivious.
Unburdened.
Moving through her little world like she isn’t being hunted by the man who already owns her.
The fridge opens. Ingredients spill out onto the counter.
Pasta.
Garlic.
A jar of sauce.
I stare at the jar in her hand, blood drumming in my ears.
She sets a pot on the stove. Fills it with water.
Moves with the kind of lazy, unbothered grace that tightens the screws inside my chest .
She hums under her breath, some soft, mindless melody that seems to live in her head.
She twists the cap off the sauce jar.
Tips it.
Pours it into the pot.
The thick, crimson sauce slides free.
The world cracks.
And memory swallows me whole.
I hate shopping for groceries. I usually go to one of the twenty-four hour places in the middle of the night. Less people. Less drama. Less noise.
But somehow I forgot what today was. For the first time in decades.
That’s how I found myself at the store late afternoon with what felt like every other person in the city.
It was supposed to be quick.
Get in. Get the ingredients. Get out.
It wasn’t.
Every year, like clockwork, I make the same meal.
Spaghetti.
The exact way my parents made it.
Dad handled the sauce. Mom handled the pasta and garlic bread.
Someone made salad I never touched.
It’s what we were supposed to eat that night.
The night they never came home.
Family dinner. They’d always made sure we sat down for dinner together every night no matter how busy any of us were.
Stupid, simple traditions woven straight into the blood-soaked history of who I am.
I could let it go. I almost did once I realized what I’d forgotten.
But then the guilt set in and I hauled myself to the fucking store.
I weave down the aisle in between carts with my basket, teeth clenched, scanning the shelves without seeing them.
The fluorescent lights blur at the edges.
My chest feels too tight.
The weight between my ribs—a familiar, poisonous ache—winding tighter with every breath.
I fucking hate this day.
I hate the way the world keeps turning like it didn’t shatter.
I hate the people who smile, who laugh, who live like they’ve never had anything ripped away.
I hate that I still do this.
Still pick out the same goddamn jar of sauce.
The one dad used as his “base.”
The one mom teased him relentlessly over calling “homemade.”
I grab the jar without looking. I don’t need to. I could find it in my sleep.
The glass rattles against the metal frame of the basket, loud enough to scrape my nerves raw.
It’s to fucking bright in here. Too loud.
I rake a hand through my hair, tugging the strands at the crown of my head. Anything to ground myself.
Focus.
Get it done.
My eyes flick down one side of the aisle. Clear.
I turn the other way, still half in my head? —
—and slam into something small. Soft.
“Oh,” a light voice says in surprise. And then?—
CRASH.
Glass explodes around me.
Fuck.
I jerk back instinctively, adrenaline flooding my system, ready for a fight. Ready for anger.
Instead—
I freeze.
Sauce streaks across the tile, thick and red against sterile white.
A white dress.
A girl.
No. A woman.
She’s kneeling in the middle of the disaster like the epicenter of a slow-motion explosion.
Thick, crimson sauce smears her legs, her hands.
Splashes paint her dress like a crime scene.
My heart kicks against my ribs—hard.
It looks like carnage.
Like a massacre.
But somehow she makes it look beatific.
Holy. Sacred. Transcendent.
She smells like flowers and sugar and something warmer—something that doesn’t belong in a world like this.
Something divine. Celestial.
My fingers twitch.
My mouth dries out.
Her eyes lift.
Like rain-drenched emeralds.
Bright. Wide. Unafraid.
Her lips part?—
And she smiles.
She fucking smiles.
The Earth and time itself stand still.
She lets out a breathy laugh.
Light. Sweet. Twinkling. Like we’re standing in a goddamn meadow instead of a massacre.
“Oh. Oops.”
What the fuck?
I blink.
Try to reset my brain.
Fail.
The ruined dress clings to her in patches, stained deep red, molding to delicate curves I shouldn’t notice.
My heart pounds. My blood races through my veins.
Her voice—a soft lilt in the static haze buzzing behind my ears—cuts through me sharper than any knife.
“Are you okay?”
She asks me.
Me.
I wrecked her dress. Wrecked the aisle. Wrecked everything?—
And she’s worried about me.
I breathe. Calm my racing pulse. It thuds once. Twice.
Slow. Measured. Control.
Surrender.
I step back, tension locked through every line of my body.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
The words rasp out, rough and unfamiliar.
I reach a hand down to help her back up.
I’m not used to apologizing .
I’m not used to feeling guilty.
She blinks up at me, still smiling.
Her small hand slides into mine.
Warm. Delicate. Perfect.
“Why? It’s not your fault,” she says as I pull her to her feet.
What. The. Fuck.
I stare.
It’s entirely my fault.
She glances down at herself—the ruined dress, the sauce dripping onto the floor—and still doesn’t flinch.
Fuck.
Still fucking smiling. Her hand still in mine.
“I was probably standing in the way.”
Something sharp and violent scrapes down my spine.
My hands curl into fists.
This isn’t right.
People don’t react like this.
Not in my world.
Not in any world.
Not after what I’ve seen.
Not after what I’ve lost.
She’s wrong. Wrong for me.
Soft in all the ways I’m not.
Breakable in ways I fucking hate.
And I can’t stop staring.
Can’t stop feeling the weight of her bright green eyes pinning me in place.
Can’t stop the way my cock stirs, throbbing with hot, unwanted interest.
Can’t stop wanting.
My shame burns hotter than my hunger.
She let go of my hand and turns, bending to grab a broken jar?—
—I reach it first.
“Don’t. You might cut yourself,” my voice rasps out. The gentleness surprising me.
A flicker. A crack in the mask.
A flash of something brittle, broken.
Gone before I can name it.
But it was there.
I straighten, jaw tight.
“Your dress. I’ll replace it. Or pay for it to be cleaned.”
The words come out rougher than intended.
“Whichever you prefer.”
She shakes her head immediately. Soft, heavy hair the color of fallen leaves, dances lightly around her shoulders.
“Don’t be silly. I can handle it.”
My fingers twitch.
The urge to grab her. Take care of her. Make her see, claws at my skin.
She walks through like nothing bad could ever happen.
Like the world isn’t inherently dangerous.
Like I’m not a fucking monster.
She hums under her breath again.
Turns to walk away.
From me.
Like I’m nothing.
I reach for her before I even realize it—fingers brushing her wrist, feeling the soft pulse there.
She freezes.
Breath hitching. So faint I almost miss it.
I tighten my grip, anchoring her to me .
“I insist.”
The words grind out between my teeth.
She freezes for half a second.
Another crack.
Another glimpse of something underneath.
Something real.
Then—
That goddamn smile again.
“Whatever you want.”
The words hit me like a bullet.
Whatever you want.
Soft. Automatic. No thought. No fear.
No calculation.
Just pure, instinctive submission.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I go hard so fast it hurts.
The image of her on her knees, sauce-streaked and smiling up at me, detonates behind my eyes.
I hate it.
I hate her.
I hate myself more.
If she only knew what I wanted.
Before I can move—before I can think—someone else steps in.
A store employee rushes over. My eyes flick to the mop in her hands.
“Don’t worry about the mess, miss. We’ll take care of it.”
I look back to the real life angel.
And just like that?—
She’s gone.
Soft steps fading away.
Sauce stained dress clinging to her thighs.
Humming.
Like she hadn’t just gutted me.
I stand there.
Frozen.
Ruined.
My hands clench at my sides.
The anger simmers under my skin.
Not at her.
At myself.
At the way something inside me shifts, cracks, breaks—and I can’t put it back.
By the time I leave the store, it’s already too late.
I’m a man obsessed.
I get home, realize too late I never got what I needed for spaghetti.
I sit at my rig and search.
Within minutes I know her address.
Her name.
Her job.
Her schedule.
But the deeper I dig, the more frustrated I get.
No birth certificate.
No social security number.
No medical history.
No parents listed.
Nothing.
Like she never fucking existed before college.
I hack deeper.
Government files.
Private servers .
Buried backdoors.
Still—
Nothing.
Just a void.
A ghost.
A girl who’s not supposed to exist.
And that’s the final hook sinking into my ribs.
Because I don’t believe in ghosts.
Someone made her disappear.
Someone erased her past.
Just like I did to myself.
And now?—
She’s mine.
And no one will ever fucking take her from me.
The sauce hisses in the pan.
I blink once.
The memory claws at my throat, raw and fresh and endless.
She ruined me that day.
Smiling through wreckage.
Slipping away without ever knowing the kind of monster she’d made.
Like she didn’t gut me in a grocery store aisle and leave me to rot in the wreckage she smiled through.
My fingers flex against the desk.
Mine.
Even if I have to burn the fucking world down to make her feel it.