CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAMIEN
The night air slices through me, but I don’t feel it.
I move like a shadow—silent, controlled, hunting.
The coordinates from the message led me to a warehouse on the edge of the shipping yard, half-buried in fog and silence. No guards. No cameras. No movement.
That alone should’ve told me it was a trap.
But I came anyway.
I always fucking would.
The lock on the front door is cut. Not forced—precisely snipped.
Whoever did this knew the building. Knew I’d follow. Knew I’d be alone.
I step inside.
The place is dark except for the faint buzz of one flickering overhead light.
It swings gently, as if someone brushed past it seconds before I arrived.
Good. Let him run. I want to see what he looks like when he realises I bite back.
But then I see it.
Centre of the room.
A chair.
An old wooden one, with a single black silk ribbon tied to the back.
And sitting on the seat—A Polaroid.
I cross the room slowly, every instinct screaming that I’m not alone.
I pick up the photo.
And my blood turns cold.
It’s Raven.
Asleep.
Taken from inside my apartment.
But it’s not from my angle.
It’s taken from the closet.
The timestamp in the corner?
Twelve hours before I ever brought her there.
My jaw locks so hard my molars ache. My grip tightens around the photo until the edges curl under my fingers.
He’s not watching her.
He’s been inside.
I spin, scanning every corner, every vent, every exit. Nothing.
Then I see the second note.
Pinned to the inside of the doorway I walked through.
Black paper. Handwritten in red ink.
My name.
Damien.
I rip it off the wall.
You think you’re the first one who wanted to keep her?
That’s cute.
Let’s see who breaks first.
Hint: it won’t be her.
—N
N.
The hand holding the note shakes.
Not with fear—With adrenaline.
With something colder than rage.
I tear the paper in half and pace back into the centre of the room.
My boots echo. The light swings again. The chair creaks.
This is a fucking performance. And I’m in it.
I pull out my knife and stab it into the wooden seat where the photo had been.
Splinters snap from the force.
“Come out,” I snarl into the dark. “You want a game? I’ll play. But understand this—” I raise my voice. “I’m not like you.” A pause. “I’m worse.”
No response. Just that creaking light, swaying like it’s laughing.
I grab the photo again and turn it over.
Another message, scrawled on the back in the same red ink:
She used to hum in her sleep.
Still does.
You hear it now because I taught her to.
My fingers curl until the photo tears in half.
I don’t scream. I don’t run. I don’t panic.
I smile.
Because now it’s not a question of if I find him.
It’s a countdown.
I leave the warehouse with the torn photo in my pocket and murder sitting heavy in my chest.
Outside, the wind cuts across the gravel like razors.
The docks are empty. Too empty. Not even the usual late-night drifters. Not even the dogs.
It’s like the whole fucking world knows something’s about to break.
I climb into the car and throw open the folder on the passenger seat—the one I keep for her. The one I’ve never let even her see.
Photos. Notes. Dates. Patterns.
But now I’m looking for something else.
Signs I missed.
I replay every camera feed. Every delivery to her door. Every time she looked over her shoulder in the dark—not when she knew I was watching. Before.
I rewind again.
And again.
Until I see it.
Three weeks before I ever followed her home.
A delivery driver buzzes her old apartment. She’s not there. He leaves the box at her door.
A plain white box. No label.
I zoom in on the freeze-frame.
Just before he turns.
Something covers his face.
But his hand—There’s a tattoo.
Small. Scripted.
One word.
Venator.
Latin for hunter.
My pulse spikes.
I don’t remember him.
Because I wasn’t there yet.
But he was.
I grab my burner phone and dial a number I haven’t touched in years.
The voice answers on the second ring—cold, precise, female.
“Damien.”
“I need a track on a tattoo. Latin script. Forearm. Might be tied to a dead case out of Devonshire—three years ago.”
A pause.
“You’re not working contracts anymore.”
“This one’s personal.”
Another pause.
“Is it her?”
I don’t answer.
That’s all she needs.
“You’ll have the name in an hour,” she says. Then, sharper: “But Damien—if this is who I think it is, you’re already too late.”
I hang up.
And that’s when I see it.
The second photo.
I don’t know how it got there.
It’s resting against my dashboard, tucked under the windshield wiper.
It wasn’t there when I got in the car.
My blood runs cold.
I open it slowly.
Another Polaroid.
Me.
Sleeping.
In the same place I just left Raven in.
She’s curled beside me.
But I’m the focus.
And scrawled across the bottom, in the same red ink:
You watch her.
I watch you.
Tick tock.