Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
CHASE
Today - Italy
I'm watching Noah watch me through the reflection of the window, and I know exactly what he's doing. He’s cataloguing and assessing threat levels with the precision of a military drone identifying targets.
It's what he always does, what he's always done since the first day he walked into my office and told me emotions were a weakness.
Now I'm his husband and the thing he watches most carefully of all.
The Venetian suite is all marble and gold, centuries of wealth soaked into every surface and a stunning view in front of me, but I barely notice it.
I'm too aware of Noah standing behind me, his presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure.
I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck and I know he is not looking like anyone else would, but seeing.
In the way a scientist sees a specimen and a collector sees a rare acquisition.
The way a hunter sees prey it's already caught.
"You're thinking," he says, and it's not a question, it never is with him.
I smile at my reflection in the window overlooking the Grand Canal. "Always."
"About?"
About how you've killed for me at least three times that I know of. About how I should be horrified but I'm not. About how every time you touch me, I feel like I'm being claimed at a cellular level. But most of all, about how the concierge greeted us earlier.
"How beautiful it is here," I say instead, giving him partial truths. I learned early that Noah can detect lies with frightening accuracy, but partial truths slip through like silk between his fingers.
His hand settles on the back of my neck and I still at the firm grip. To anyone else, it might look tender, but I know better. His thumb finds my pulse point and presses down, not hard, just there. It’s like he’s monitoring my heartbeat and checking vital signs.
"You're lying," he murmurs against my ear, his breath causing me to shiver. "You're thinking about the concierge."
My heart stutters, and I know he feels it.
Of course he noticed and I’m fucking dumb for thinking he can’t detect partial truths, the asshole notices everything.
The concierge had smiled at me when we checked in, his eyes lingering on my mouth as he described the rooftop restaurant and mentioned he would be our server while we are here.
I hadn't thought anything of it because nobody else interests me.
But Noah had.
"I wasn't..." I start, but his grip tightens fractionally.
"Don't."
I exhale and let my head fall back against his shoulder as I surrender.
It's always surrender with us now, and the fucked-up thing is how much I crave it.
How much I need it. I remember his therapy sessions, noting his inability to form genuine emotional connections, his cold calculation in every interaction.
I wrote clinical notes about his attachment style: possessive satisfaction rather than affective warmth.
Now I'm the object of that possession, and fuck I need more, always need more.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I mean it in ways that have nothing to do with the concierge.
Noah's other hand comes around my waist, pulling me back against him. In the window's reflection, I study his face, beautiful and empty, like a Renaissance angel carved from ice. No warmth in those dark eyes or softness. Just absolute, unwavering focus on me.
"You don't need to apologize for what other people do," he says in that particular tone I've learned to recognize. Detached. The voice he uses when he's making decisions about problems that need to be solved. "You only need to remember who you belong to."
"I remember." I turn in his arms, meeting those empty eyes directly. "I never forget."
Something flickers across his face. I think it’s gratification, but I’m not sure. It’s the kind of look a collector gets when admiring a particularly rare piece. That was another expression of his I used to highlight in my notes. But now I just feel it wash over me like a drug.
"We should go to dinner," Noah says, his thumb tracing my lower lip with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs. "The rooftop restaurant, you wanted to see the view."
My pulse quickens. "Noah…"
"I insist." His smile is slight, barely there. "The concierge recommended it so highly."
The rooftop restaurant is everything it promised, candlelit tables, the Venice skyline spread out like scattered diamonds, the type of romantic atmosphere that belongs in movies or on TikTok by those influencers who pretend their relationships are all romantic and happy.
We're seated at a corner table with a perfect view, and I try to focus on the menu while hyperaware of Noah's stillness across from me.
He doesn't fidget. Doesn't shift or drum his fingers or display any of the small, unconscious movements that mark normal human restlessness. He simply exists, a shadow full of complexity, his attention fixed on me with microscopic intensity.
This is how it's been since we started traveling. France, Prague, now Venice. Noah's gaze has somehow sharpened, his possessiveness crystallizing into something even more absolute. Noah is purely himself and that does not fit into every day society, but it has become my new normal.
Noah is a creature of singular, terrifying devotion.
"The risotto looks good," I offer, desperate to fill the silence.
"Order whatever you want,” he says, and his eyes haven't left my face as I swallow hard. "You barely ate on the train."
That’s only because he'd spent the entire journey with his hand on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns that were simultaneously soothing and arousing, and I'd been too wound up to think about food. But I don't say that.
Our waiter appears, the guy from earlier, he is a young and handsome guy, with dark curls and an easy smile.
My hands start to fidget in my lap, because this guy has no idea who Noah is and what he is capable of.
He sets down water glasses with practiced grace, his movements confident as he has performed this move hundreds of times.
"Good evening, signori," he says, his English lightly accented and charming.
"Welcome to Osteria della Luna. My name is Luca, and I'll be taking care of you tonight." His eyes linger on me for just a moment too long, his smile widening. "You have chosen the most romantic table. The view is spectacular, no?"
"It's beautiful," I say, because it would be rude not to respond.
"Like you, signore." Luca's smile is playful, flirtatious. "You are on your honeymoon, perhaps?"
I feel Noah's attention sharpen like a blade being drawn. I’m not sure how Luca thinks this is appropriate considering my husband is right here.
"Yes," Noah says, his voice perfectly pleasant, perfectly empty. "We're married."
"Ah, congratulations!" Luca doesn't seem to notice the danger, which either makes him dumb or another psychopath.
"Then you must try our special tasting menu.
Seven courses, each paired with wine. Very romantic.
I will take excellent care of you both." But his eyes are still on me, warm and appreciative.
"That sounds perfect," I say quickly, trying to defuse whatever is building in the air between us. "We'll have that."
"Wonderful choice." Luca writes something on his pad, then looks up at me again. "And may I say, your husband is very lucky. You have beautiful blue eyes."
The temperature drops ten degrees, and I feel like I have stepped inside the movie Inception, where everything pauses around us. If only this was a dream I could awake from.
"Thank you," Noah says, his smile not reaching his eyes. "I'm very aware of how lucky I am."
Luca finally seems to sense something, his smile faltering slightly as he looks at Noah.
"I'll... I'll bring your first course shortly,” he says, before retreating, and I watch him go with my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Noah," I say quietly.
"He touched your hand when he set down your water glass." Noah's fingers drum once against the table, the only sign of anything resembling emotion. "Did you notice?"
I hadn't because I’m too aware of Noah.
"It was nothing," I say, trying to play off the situation.
"It wasn't nothing." His eyes are fixed on me, dark and empty like a demon that’s been woken from the dead. "He's interested in you. He made that very fucking clear."
"He's just being friendly. It's his job, he flirts with everyone for tips. It’s not a big deal."
"It's not his job to tell my husband he has beautiful eyes." Noah's voice is perfectly even but frosty.
Throughout dinner, Luca returns to our table multiple times, refilling water glasses that are still half-full, asking if the food is satisfactory, recommending desserts with his hand resting on the back of my chair, his body angled toward me in a way that excludes Noah entirely.
I try to be polite but distant, but Luca is persistent, his charm unwavering, and his attention focused solely on me as if Noah doesn't exist.
And Noah…Noah is perfectly still, like a stone statue. He eats his food with disinterest, responding to Luca's questions with monosyllabic courtesy, his face an empty mask. But I know him. I know what’s coming, so why don’t I stop it?
We finish dinner in relative silence. Noah pays the bill with cash, tips generously, and guides me out of the restaurant with his hand at the small of my back.
I think back to Prague, there was a bartender who slipped me his phone number. I didn't even realize it was in my pocket until Noah found it that night. Three days later, the bartender was found in the Vltava River. Accidental drowning, they said.
I knew better. Wrote about it in my private journal, detailing the timeline, the method, the total absence of remorse in Noah's eyes when I mentioned the news report.
He'd simply kissed my forehead and said, "You're safe now."
And I'd felt grateful.
What is happening to me?