Chapter 3
NASH
Midnight changes the house in ways daylight can’t quite conceal, stripping it back to what it was always meant to be…something private, something watchful…not built for living but for keeping things contained.
During the day, the clean lines of glass, stone, and the illusion of openness pass for neutral.
But at night the truth seeps back in through every seam, gathering in the corners, thickening in the shadows, while the ocean grows louder as if it remembers the conversations that once took place here and refuses to let them disappear completely.
I take the mask from the shelf where I left it and turn it once in my hands, feeling the familiar weight of it and the quiet promise of anonymity it still offers.
There was a time this was necessary, when men sat across from me at polished tables and spoke in careful half-truths, pretending not to recognize the voice behind the mask because it served them not to. Back then, it was leverage based on controlled distance.
Now, it’s not protection from them anymore, but more from myself. I slide it into place, and the shift inside is subtle but immediate.
Behind me, the safe room seals itself with a soft, mechanical click, the hidden door disappearing seamlessly into the wall as if it had never existed, as if I had never been inside it, as if this house still belonged to silence alone.
It doesn’t, not anymore, and it took less than a day to confirm what I suspected.
There was no official report, no police involvement, and no grand appeal.
Her father doesn’t operate that way—not when something belongs to him.
Everything is contained and handled quietly before it ever has the chance to become public.
Blair Russo is missing, but only to the people who matter.
He doesn’t want her frightened into running further. Doesn’t want attention drawn to something that should already be resolved. So he’s keeping it close, moving his men in careful circles, tightening the perimeter without letting it show.
Even so, I hear about it. Men with egos like his don’t know how to move without leaving an echo, and I’ve spent too long understanding exactly where to listen for it.
His precious daughter is gone, and she’s here…in my house.
The thought settles into something dark and steady, something that doesn’t disturb me nearly as much as it should. If anything, it sharpens the situation into something far more appealing.
I move through the concealed passage and step silently into the library; the house opening around me again, wide and exposed and deceptively calm. But it doesn’t feel empty anymore. Not the way it used to.
Her presence lingers in the air, in the very fabric of the place. Like something warm has been threaded through what was once sterile and untouched.
She has changed it, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
Upstairs, I feel it before I hear it—the faint rhythm of her breathing drifting down the hallway, soft and steady, the sound of someone completely unaware of the world beyond her own body.
She’s asleep.
Of course she is. Waiting until midnight guarantees it. She goes to bed at 8pm sharp, trusting the solitude and the quiet, trusting that no one is watching.
But I’m watching. I’ve been monitoring it all from the safe room, the feeds crisp and silent on the wall of screens. I also took the liberty of pulling archived footage to check her patterns.
And she sleeps like someone who has never had reason to fear the dark—deep and motionless, the kind of rest that pulls her under completely and refuses to let go until morning.
Ten hours, sometimes eleven, her body demanding it the way a plant demands sun.
I’ve timed it. I’ve counted the slow rise and fall of her chest on the infrared feed.
I know how long it takes for her breathing to even out, how her limbs loosen, how the tension she carries in her shoulders during the day melts away the moment her head touches the pillow.
I take the stairs slowly, each step measured, my weight placed with the kind of precision that once mattered for very different reasons.
At the top, I pause and listen, not because I expect anything to change, but because part of me still respects the line I’m about to cross.
Nothing shifts. There’s no break in her breathing, no tension in the air. Except tonight, the door is pushed shut. Interesting.
I listen, then turn the handle and push it open.
The light reaches her immediately, pale and cold, as if it’s been waiting to find her like this, laid out and unguarded in a place that was never meant to hold something so…vibrant.
She’s sound asleep.
She lies on her front, with her face turned to the side on the pillow, one cheek pressed into the cool linen. The sheet has slipped down to mid-thigh, leaving the small of her back bare and the gentle swell of her ass exposed in pale pink lace panties that ride high and thin across her hips.
The fabric clings, outlining the perfect divide between her cheeks, the lace edges digging softly into her skin. Moonlight catches the curve, turning it silver, making the whole sight feel almost unreal—like something painted rather than living.
She’s beautifully exposed and unaware.
I step inside and the room seems to tighten, the air thickening around her body as though gravity itself has shifted toward her. My gaze settles without permission, drawn inexorably to that pale triangle of lace framed by shadow and skin.
This time it doesn’t move.
The tank top she wore to bed has ridden up, bunched just below her shoulder blades, revealing the long, clean line of her spine and the faint dimples above her ass. Heat coils low in my gut, immediate and brutal, but I don’t look away.
What was previously observation, kept at a controlled distance, now lingers at the forefront.
I move closer without conscious decision until I’m standing at the side of the bed, close enough to hear the slow, even rhythm of her breathing, close enough to feel the faint warmth rising from her skin in the cool night air.
She doesn’t stir. I’ve learned that from the footage: the way sleep claims her completely, drags her under so deep that nothing short of deliberate violence would pull her out.
Even now, with the mattress dipping under my weight as I sit on the edge, with my shadow falling across her back, she remains suspended in that unreachable place.
Then, something changes. It’s subtle at first. A shift in her breathing, dragging deeper and more uneven for a heartbeat.
Then her hips move.
Not much. Just a slow, unconscious roll forward, pressing her pelvis into the mattress.
The motion is small, almost innocent, but unmistakable.
She does it again, longer this time, a languid grind that makes the lace stretch tighter across her ass, the fabric pulling into the cleft.
A soft exhale escapes her parted lips, barely audible, but it lands like a spark in dry grass.
I go rigid and watch.
The rocking happens again, slower and more deliberate in its unconsciousness.
Her thighs part a fraction, knees sliding outward on the sheet, opening her stance just enough that I can see the shadowed space between them, the damp spot already darkening the lace at the center.
Her fingers curl into the pillow, and I watch in awe as her knuckles whiten briefly before relaxing again.
She’s not restless or afraid. No, it’s something far more intimate than that…she’s dreaming.
The idea settles in my mind with dangerous weight, and my jaw locks as I stare, unable to look away, as something dark and possessive uncoils in my chest.
What is she dreaming about? Who is she fucking in her sleep? Is it a faceless stranger? Some boy from her past?
Or…a thought slices through me like a blade.
Is it me? Could she sense me? Was my presence enough to enter her subconscious?
Her hips roll again, a little harder now, her ass lifting slightly off the mattress before pressing back down in a slow, needy grind.
A faint moan slips from her throat, soft and broken, the sound of someone chasing pleasure they can’t quite reach.
The damp patch on her panties grows darker, the lace clinging transparently to swollen folds beneath.
I can’t breathe. The line between watching and participating is so faint it’s almost invisible. She has no idea that I’m here. No idea her body is betraying every secret she keeps locked behind waking shame.
My enemy’s daughter…hiding in my house and dreaming of being fucked while I loom silently over her, hard and burning.
A slow, controlled breath leaves me, fogging the inside of the mask. My cock strains painfully against my jeans, the sight of her rocking with her ass up, thighs parted and lace soaked, is almost enough to make me lose the last thread of restraint.
I wonder what she sees in the dream.
Does she feel gloved hands spreading her wider?
Does she hear a masked voice telling her she’s mine?
Does she imagine the thick head of a cock nudging her entrance, sliding in slowly while she’s still asleep, waking her with the stretch and fullness of the inevitable claim?
Her rhythm falters, her hips stuttering for a second, then picks up again, faster and more desperate. The mattress creaks faintly under the motion and her fingers twist in the pillow, as her ass lifts higher as though offering herself to whatever phantom lover is fucking her in that hidden place.
I swallow hard, my throat dry and every muscle locked against the urge to touch her. To replace her dream with reality. Peel the lace aside and slide into her while she’s still rocking, still whimpering, still lost in whatever fantasy has her this close to the edge.
Her father is looking for her, I remind myself, and he will be relentless in his search. If he finds her here—
I don’t finish the thought. Enzo Russo can be ruthless when he wants to be. I’m not worried about me, but what he will do to her if he finds out she’s under my roof.
I stand up and step back slowly, dragging air into lungs that feel too tight. Distance returns, cold and necessary, and the room exhales around her as though nothing has happened.
But everything has.
Her rocking has slowed to a languid, hypnotic roll, her hips circling against the mattress in drowsy, needy pulses that make the lace stretch taut across her ass, the damp fabric clinging transparently to swollen lips beneath.
Still asleep, still dreaming. And only I carry the knowledge now. I’m the only one who knows what she looks like when she fucks in her sleep, her body chasing a phantom cock with slow, greedy grinds that leave me so hard it hurts.
My dick throbs painfully against the zipper of my jeans, thick and leaking, every heartbeat sending fresh heat straight to the swollen head.
The pressure is unbearable, raw and demanding release I won’t allow myself here.
I need a drink. Something cold and sharp to drown the fire before I do something unforgivable.
At the door, I pause and turn for one last look.
She’s still moving, grinding in slow, rhythmic movements, her tight ass rising and falling in a lazy, obscene rhythm against the mattress, blissfully unaware.
I walk out, but the image is seared into me, branded behind my eyes, vivid and merciless, and I know for a fact I will never unsee it. And part of me…most of me…doesn’t want to.