5. Marcus
MARCUS
The alarm never wakes me anymore.
Six AM, every morning, my eyes open on their own. Internal clock set by decades of discipline. Today's no different—except for the girl sleeping beside me.
Maisie's sprawled across my pillow, brunette hair fanned out in waves. One arm thrown over her head, the other curled against her chest. The sheet's tangled around her waist, leaving her upper body bare. Morning light through the curtains catches on her skin.
I don't move yet. Just watch.
This has become my routine over the past week. Wake before her. Study the rise and fall of her breathing. Count the freckles on her shoulder. Memorize the curve of her neck.
Stalker behavior. I'm aware. Don't particularly care.
She's mine to watch. Mine to protect. Mine to possess.
Her lips part slightly as she exhales. A soft sound escapes—not quite a snore, more like a contented sigh. She shifts, rolling toward me, and her hand lands on my chest. Fingers splayed over my tattoos.
Even in sleep, she reaches for me.
The possessive satisfaction that floods through me is almost painful in its intensity. She's here. In my bed. Where she belongs.
I carefully extract myself without disturbing her. She makes a small noise of protest but doesn't wake. Just burrows deeper into the pillow, claiming the warm spot I left behind.
The en-suite bathroom is dark and cool. I shower quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the constant low-grade arousal that's been my baseline since Maisie moved in. Get dressed in charcoal slacks and a black button-down. Check my phone—no urgent messages.
When I return to the bedroom, she hasn't moved.
I approach the bed, unable to resist. My hand reaches out, brushing her hair back from her face. Soft strands slip through my fingers. My touch trails down her neck, feeling her pulse flutter under my fingertips. Over her shoulder. Down her arm.
She stirs. A sleepy murmur that might be my name.
But her eyes stay closed. Lost in whatever dream holds her.
The trust implicit in that deep sleep feeds something dark and hungry in my chest. She feels safe enough with me to be completely vulnerable. Unguarded. Mine for the taking.
I lean down, press a kiss to her temple.
"Sleep, baby. I'll be back tonight."
She doesn't respond. Just breathes steadily, peacefully.
I force myself to leave before I climb back into bed with her.
My office downtown occupies the top floor of a steel and glass building. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Minimalist furniture. Everything designed for efficiency and control.
I settle behind my desk, pull up the day's schedule. Conference calls. Contract reviews. Nothing that requires my full attention.
Which leaves plenty of focus for the tracking app on my phone.
The small green dot shows Maisie's location—still at the villa. Still in bed, most likely. I installed the app four days ago while she was in the shower. Simple process. She never locks her phone around me.
She trusts me completely.
Doesn't know I'm monitoring her every movement.
Nine AM, the dot starts moving. She's awake. I watch it travel through the villa—probably to the kitchen for coffee. Then it stops for twenty minutes. Breakfast.
Nine-forty, the dot leaves the villa. Heads toward Westbridge University.
I know her schedule by heart now. American Literature at ten. Then a break. Sociology at one. Library time between classes.
Ten-fifteen, the dot stops moving. She's in class.
I return to work, but check the app every fifteen minutes. A compulsion I don't bother fighting. Need to know where she is. Need to confirm she's safe.
Eleven-thirty, she's moving between buildings. Probably getting coffee from that place near the humanities building. She mentioned it yesterday—overpriced lattes but close to her classes.
One PM, she's stationary again. Second class of the day.
My phone buzzes with an actual call. Unknown number.
I ignore it. Probably spam.
A minute later, voicemail notification appears. I almost delete it unheard, but something makes me check.
Dorothy's voice fills my ear, sharp and brittle.
"I know you're keeping her in your house. This is kidnapping. Return her or I will call the police."
I delete the message without much reaction. This is the third such call this week. Dorothy's harassment has been consistent but impotent. She has no legal standing. Maisie's an adult who chose to leave.
Still, the calls are escalating in frequency.
Three PM, Maisie's dot moves again. Last class finished. She's heading back to the villa.
I give it another hour, then leave the office myself.
I arrive home at five-thirty to find Maisie already there. She's in the kitchen wearing one of my dress shirts—navy blue, hanging to mid-thigh on her smaller frame—and a pair of shorts underneath.
The sight triggers that now-familiar possessive satisfaction. She's marked herself with my clothes. Claimed my space as hers.
She looks up as I enter, her face lighting up.
"Hey."
I cross to her in three strides. Cup her face in both hands. Kiss her deeply.
The kiss is claiming. Possessive. A daily reassertion of ownership that I need the way other men need air.
When I pull back, she's flushed and breathless.
"How were classes?"
"Long. I couldn't focus. Kept thinking about you."
The confession pleases me more than it should.
"What were you thinking about?"
Her cheeks darken further.
"This morning. Waking up in your bed. Knowing you'd been watching me sleep."
I hadn't realized she'd noticed that. My hand slides to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling her pulse jump.
"You like knowing I watch you?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No shame.
"Good girl."
She melts slightly at the praise. Leans into me.
We stand there for a moment, wrapped in each other. Then her stomach growls audibly.
I smile against her hair.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
We move through the kitchen together, preparing dinner. It's become a routine—her chopping vegetables while I handle the protein. Comfortable domesticity that shouldn't work but does.
Her phone rings.
She glances at the screen, then sighs.
"It's my mom. Again. That's the fifth call today."
I look at her carefully.
"Have you answered any of them?"
She shakes her head.
"No. I don't know what to say to her."
The phone continues ringing, shrill and insistent.
"You should answer. Get it over with."
Maisie looks uncertain but nods. Takes a breath. Answers the call and puts it on speaker.
"Hello?"
Dorothy's voice cuts through immediately, sharp with anger.
"Finally. I've been calling you all week!"
"Mom, I?—"
"When are you coming home?"
Maisie's jaw tightens.
"I am home."
"Don't be ridiculous. You're living with your stepfather. This is inappropriate, Maisie. Can't you see he's manipulating you?"
I watch Maisie's knuckles go white around the phone.
"Mom, I'm an adult. I can live where I want?—"
"You're living with your stepfather! Do you understand how sick that is?"
Maisie's voice hardens. Good.
"He's your ex-husband. You divorced five years ago. He's not my father."
"I'm your mother, and you're choosing him over me?"
The emotional manipulation in that question is textbook Dorothy. I see Maisie flinch.
I take the phone from her.
"That's enough, Dorothy."
Silence on the other end, then Dorothy's voice returns colder.
"Marcus. I should have known you'd be listening."
"You need to stop harassing her. And stop calling my phone."
"I'll call whoever I want. She's my daughter?—"
"She's twenty years old. An adult who's made her choice. Respect that choice or I'll take legal action for harassment."
Dorothy's laugh is bitter and ugly.
"Legal action? You're the one who should be worried about legal action, harboring a minor?—"
"She's an adult. There's nothing illegal here, and you know it."
Dorothy's voice turns venomous.
"Maybe not illegal, but definitely wrong. And everyone will see it that way when I tell them. Your colleagues. Your friends. I'll make sure everyone knows what kind of man you really are."
"Do what you need to do. But leave Maisie alone."
I end the call.
Maisie's trembling slightly, the conversation having clearly affected her. I pull her into my arms.
"She's trying to manipulate you. Don't let her."
Her voice is muffled against my chest.
"What if she's right? What if people think we're disgusting?"
I tilt her face up to meet my eyes.
"Do you care what strangers think?"
She considers that, then shakes her head slowly.
"No. But I care what she thinks. She's my mother."
My expression softens slightly.
"I know. But she doesn't get to control your life anymore."
Maisie nods, taking a shaky breath.
"You're right. I just... I need to not answer her calls anymore."
"Block her number if you need to."
"No. I'll just ignore her. But I can't talk to her right now."
We finish preparing dinner in silence. Eat at the island counter, my hand resting possessively on her thigh throughout the meal.
Afterward, we migrate to the couch. Maisie curls into my side, her head on my shoulder. The TV plays something neither of us watches.
She speaks quietly.
"You know why I spent so much time at your place even after the divorce?"
I look down at her.
"I assumed you wanted to see me."
"I did. But also... being with her was hard. It got worse after you left."
Something in her tone makes me tense.
"What do you mean?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then begins talking, slowly at first, then faster as the words pour out.
Dorothy's emotional manipulation started when Maisie was young. Constant criticism. Impossible standards. Conditional affection that had to be earned daily. Nothing Maisie did was ever good enough.
The marriage to me provided a buffer—Dorothy was on better behavior with me around. Played the role of devoted mother and wife.
After the divorce, without me as a witness, Dorothy's control intensified. She monitored Maisie's every move. Demanded detailed accounts of where she went, who she saw. Used guilt and emotional manipulation as weapons.
Made Maisie feel like she owed her everything. Like any independence was betrayal.