Chapter 16 REICH
REICH
Iburied myself in work after the night she came back—drowning in tasks, lists, orders, distractions—anything that might keep my mind from circling the same drain it had spiraled into since the moment I met her.
But no matter how deep I buried myself, no matter how many hours I filled with precision and sweat, the truth was always there.
Waiting.
Every morning, without fail, I checked the surveillance feed surrounding my home.
The cameras I’d installed years ago, out of necessity, now served a new purpose.
I told myself it was to make sure she stayed away.
To enforce the distance, I’d created between us.
That was the lie I clung to that was splintering at the edges.
Because the truth?
I needed to know if she would come back.
If I’d left enough of a scar that she couldn’t stop herself from coming back.
And deep down—far beneath the cold logic and strategy I built my life on—I wanted her to rebel.
To defy me.
To storm right back onto my property and demand answers.
But she didn’t and I knew she wouldn’t.
I’d pushed her just far enough away to keep her alive, and just close enough that I could still feel the absence of her eyes on me.
And the hurt in them.
The betrayal that I had caused.
What happened at the festival and the drink laced with God-knows-what, the way she trusted too easily, too fully, was proof enough that she needed protection.
The kind I couldn’t give her yet.
The kind I wasn’t sure I could ever give her.
Because keeping her alive meant keeping her under control and I wasn’t in control anymore.
I told myself she was safer confined to her apartment.
Safer in isolation.
Safer haunted by her own mind than stepping out into a world filled with monsters who wouldn’t hesitate to destroy her.
Better to endure silence, loneliness—than to walk straight into the jaws of something she couldn’t even see coming.
Even if that meant she hated me.
Even if it hollowed her out.
Even if it hollowed me out, too.
But time wasn’t on my side.
And I needed more of it.
Every day I waited, it felt like I was tearing strips of flesh from my own body, piece by agonizing piece.
Eventually, I cracked.
I told myself I’d only check in from a distance.
That I’d stay detached.
That I’d only use the lens I’d hidden behind her headboard in case of emergencies.
But there I was, breaking my own rules.
Again.
Something about her made me do this.
Made me question every line I’d drawn in the sand.
Every boundary I swore I’d never cross.
And then I crossed them.
Every single one.
But the longer I watched her, the harder it became to justify what I was doing.
She wasn’t doing anything suspicious.
She wasn’t making calls to Klay.
She wasn’t plotting.
She wasn’t anything I should’ve feared.
She was just existing.
Barely.
She stayed inside, hidden away, like a ghost haunting her own skin.
The fire I’d seen in her—gone.
Snuffed out.
The woman who had walked my field with peace in her eyes, who had knelt in the wildflowers as if they were sacred—empty.
And maybe she always had been, even before she met me.
She barely left for work.
And when she did, I saw the weight dragging behind her like chains.
She was unraveling and I hated that I was the one who pulled the thread loose.
Sam tried.
I saw her in the background sometimes—her pleading by the door.
Trying to draw Sage out.
Trying to stitch her back together.
But Sage refused.
Again.
And again.
And I felt relief at her refusal because it meant she was safe inside that apartment.
But I still couldn’t bear that it was my doing that put her in that state of mind, she wasn’t living like she used to.
And she didn’t deserve this.
Hurting people like her wasn’t what I did.
It wasn’t supposed to be who I was.
And yet—here I was.
A stranger in my own skin.
The more I watched, the worse it became.
Every hour that passed made the truth about her clearer.
She was caught in this mess without knowing how deep it ran. A pawn in a game far bigger than anything she could comprehend. She just wanted to survive. Maybe even find peace.
But Klay wasn’t going to allow it.
He and his brothers.
Predators.
Men who carved out empires from flesh and fear.
It wasn’t just about business with them.
It was about power and control.
My mother’s best friend had been one of their father’s victims.
Twenty-four years old.
A wife. A mother. Manipulated into debt. Forced into submission and terrorized until there was nothing left but bone and obedience.
She’d tried to run. Tried to break free. And their father made an example of her.
I’d seen what was left and I never forgot it.
My mother told me about the call she got that night.
Her best friend sobbing, begging for help.
Telling her about Harry Ovitt—Klay’s father.
About the threats.
And the next morning, she was gone, like she’d never existed.
And my mother grieved her in silence.
But my mother’s best friend wasn’t the only one. Not by a long shot.
She was just the one I knew.
And that made me swear vengeance.
They became my mission.
Eradicate the line.
Erase them.
Every last trace.
And I’d come so far.
I’d gutted their empire.
One body at a time.
I only needed one last thing. One younger brother left in the line.
Klay was smart—and slippery.
He was always one step ahead.
But I could feel it: his time was running out.
And so was mine.
I couldn’t wait much longer. Not for him.
I couldn’t keep playing the game the way I had been.
If I wanted a chance at stopping him, I had to become the predator.
I had to outthink him. I had to outmaneuver him at every turn.
And that meant Sage…
She was my last piece.
She was the bait.
She didn’t know it, and I hated that she didn’t.
But to catch Klay, I had to play his game.
I had to make everything look real.
I had to make it believable.
If Sage suspected anything—if she even hesitated—Klay would see through it.
And she’d be dead before I ever found her again.
This was the gamble I had left.
The only one that mattered.
I had to hope I was right.
Because now, her life was in my hands.
For better or worse, she had become mine to protect.
Even if she ended up hating me for it.
Even if I had to destroy her first.
Because care and affection wasn’t what I could offer her.
Not now.
First came survival.
Then came vengeance.
And if there was anything left of us after that,
Maybe she’d forgive me in the end.