CHAPTER ONE
DAMIEN
The night wraps around me like a shroud, thick and suffocating. I lean against the brick wall, letting the coarse texture scrape my knuckles as I tighten my grip on the chain around my wrist. The dim glow of the streetlamp cuts through the dark, but I don’t need light to see her.
She’s there—just across the street. Head down, keys clutched in her trembling hand, Raven fumbles with the lock to her door. The metal scrapes against the frame, and she swears under her breath, a soft, desperate sound that pulls a smirk from my lips.
I watch her—every movement slow, cautious. She thinks the night is just quiet, doesn’t realise it’s holding its breath, waiting. My own breath hitches as she gets the door open, stumbling inside like she’s just escaped something.
She hasn’t.
The door shuts, the faint click like a whisper of defeat. I could leave—fade back into the night, let her have this illusion of safety—but I don’t.
Instead, I wait, counting the seconds. One. Two. Ten. My heart pounds, matching the rhythm. I can see the glow through her second-storey window—dim and flickering lamplight. She likes soft light; I’ve noticed. She never leaves it too dark, like she’s afraid of what might crawl out of the shadows.
I can’t help but wonder—does she know? Does some primal part of her sense me, feel the way I’ve been circling closer, like a spider weaving its web?
A shadow moves past the window—her silhouette. I hold my breath, watching the way she pulls the curtains, fumbling with the fabric as if it’s betraying her. A soft laugh slips from my throat.
Poor little spider. Trying so hard to hide.
I move closer, crossing the cracked pavement, my boots muffled against the wet ground. A car passes, headlights flashing over me, but I don’t flinch. I’m not the kind of man who gets noticed unless I want to be.
The side gate creaks when I push it open, but the wind swallows the sound.
I slip into the narrow alley between her building and the next, leaning against the wall just beneath her window.
The faint hum of her voice carries through the thin walls—she’s singing.
Soft, broken notes, like she’s not sure if she should make noise at all.
I close my eyes, letting her voice wash over me, drowning in the way it vibrates against my skull. She doesn’t know how close I am—doesn’t know that her little sanctuary is nothing but a fragile web I could tear apart with a single pull.
A breeze catches my hair, and I run my fingers through it, pulling the chain tighter around my hand until it digs into my skin.
The sting is sharp, grounding. I picture her face—the way her lips parted in surprise the first time I brushed past her on the pavement—like she felt the cold before she saw me.
A light flickers off inside. Another shadow, this time moving toward the bed.
I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse through the tiny gap in the curtain.
She’s sitting on the edge, head bowed, fingers twisting in her lap.
I can’t see her eyes, but I know the look—haunted, like she’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit.
She shifts, pulling her legs up and hugging her knees. It would be so easy to climb, to press my palm against the glass, watch her panic before she realises it’s just me. But that’s too easy. She’s not ready for that yet.
Instead, I hum softly under my breath, just loud enough to carry on the wind.
“Incy wincy spider, climbing up your spine…”
The wind rustles through the alley, and I catch the way her head jerks up, like a rabbit sensing a predator. My smile sharpens. She can feel me. Even when she doesn’t know I’m here, her body knows.
She pulls the blanket tighter, sinking down onto the mattress, her silhouette small and vulnerable. I could watch her like this for hours. Sometimes I do—just making sure she’s safe.
A low chuckle rumbles from my chest, and I push off the wall, sliding the chain back into my pocket. I’ll let her have this night, let her think the shadows are empty.
But I’ll be back.
And next time, I’ll be closer.
I don’t leave—not really. My feet carry me down the narrow alley, but my thoughts stay wrapped around her. The way her shoulders hunched, the way she curled into herself like a scared little thing trying to make herself smaller. It’s adorable, really—how she thinks hiding will keep her safe.
I reach the end of the block, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, the leather stretched tight over my knuckles.
I stop beneath a burnt-out streetlamp, glancing back at the building.
The window’s dark now. She’s curled up in that bed, probably pulling the covers over her head like they’re armour.
Little spider, trying so hard to build her web where no one can touch it. Too bad I’m already tangled in it.
A buzzing cuts through the quiet, and I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen glows with a new message:
Tomorrow night. Club at midnight. You in?
I scoff. Midnight. It’s always midnight—the hour when creatures crawl out of the cracks and pretend they belong. I thumb a quick reply:
Maybe.
I pocket the phone and glance back at the window one more time. If she knew the kinds of things I do when I’m not watching her, would she still sleep so peacefully? Would she still hum those little songs under her breath, like she’s trying to convince herself she’s fine?
I take the long way home—through the side streets that always smell faintly of petrol and stale beer.
The night’s quiet, save for the distant rumble of a train somewhere beyond the warehouses.
I catch my reflection in a darkened shop window—a ghost, shadow wrapped around muscle, hair wild and eyes sharper than the glass.
When I finally reach my place, I pause at the heavy steel door, listening for any sound inside.
Nothing. Just as I like it. I slip in, flicking on a single lamp.
The room glows in dull amber light. The space is bare—bed in the corner, weights stacked haphazardly on the floor, and the wall of screens flickering to life as I press a button on the remote.
Her building. Her window. The alley I just left. The cameras catch every angle, every move. I zoom in on the bedroom, just in time to see her shift in her sleep, curling tighter around a pillow.
A low growl slips past my lips, and I bite down on it. She shouldn’t look that soft. She shouldn’t look so damn breakable. It makes something dark and vicious coil in my chest.
My phone buzzes again. Another message:
You coming to the club or what?
I ignore it, eyes glued to the screen. She shifts again, the strap of her tank top slipping down her shoulder, and I grip the remote tighter. The urge to go back, to knock on that door just to see her face when she realises it’s me—it thrums in my blood like a pulse.
Instead, I press another button, and the feed changes—an older video. She was at the supermarket, pausing in the frozen aisle to stare at the ice cream selection. She picked mint chocolate chip. I remember the way her fingers hovered, like she couldn’t quite decide if she deserved something sweet.
She does. I’ll make sure she knows it.
I sink into the battered armchair, drumming my fingers against the armrest. The screens flicker, cycling through the feeds—her bedroom, the alley, the front of the building. Safe. She’s safe. For now.
I run my tongue over my teeth, eyes narrowing. I could make her see me—really see me. No more lurking in the shadows, no more watching from a distance. I could force her to look right at me, force her to admit that some part of her wants the danger.
But it’s not time. Not yet.
I flick the remote again, the screen returning to her sleeping form. My lips curl into a slow, dark smile.
“Incy wincy spider…”
I murmur, my voice a rasp that fills the empty room.
I’ll make her say my name. Make her whisper it like a prayer, like an admission of defeat.
But first, I’ll keep watching. Waiting. Letting the anticipation build until it’s too much for either of us to stand.
The spider waits. The web doesn’t have to chase its prey. It just has to be patient.
I can wait as long as it takes.