24. Wolfe
WOLFE
I wake before the alarm. There’s never a need for sound. My body doesn’t sleep so much as wait. Wait for the light. For the shift in air pressure. For the next crack in my control. There’s always tension. Always breath held somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Always silence I don’t trust.
The bed is half-made.
The pillow on the right side is untouched.
Always untouched.
It never needs to be fixed.
I used to tell myself I liked it that way. Clean. Cold. Controlled. But some mornings—this morning?—
I wonder what she’d look like asleep there.
Cloe .
What her breath would sound like against the cotton. If she’d tangle her legs in the sheets. If she’d flinch when I ran my hand across her hip before she woke. Not for seduction. For reassurance. To feel the difference between restraint and surrender .
I shower without heat.
Let the cold water hit until my pulse slows.
I brush my teeth with one eye on the monitor. She hasn’t left yet. Her apartment door is closed. Hallway still dim. The lights in her building always flicker between 5:20 and 5:22 a.m.
This morning? They’re late.
So is she.
The espresso machine hisses. I don’t drink it. Not yet. I lace my shoes. Step onto the treadmill in my private gym. The screen in front of me is wall-mounted. Four-panel feed. Her building. Her front door. The side alley. The stairwell. The lobby.
No sound.
Just movement.
Just the shape of her absence. I run to the rhythm of my breath and the sight of her hallway. I don’t miss a frame. When her light flicks on at 6:42, I slow the treadmill.
When her door opens at 6:57—five minutes late— I stop completely.
She steps into the hallway like she’s being watched. Because she is. Hair in a twist. Blouse wrinkled. Purse clutched like a weapon she doesn’t know how to use.
She doesn’t wear the ring yet.
But I can feel it.
She’s thinking about it.
She touches her collarbone more lately. Taps it with her thumb like there’s already a weight there. And maybe there is. Maybe that’s what I’ve become. A phantom collar. A shadow she can’t unhook.
She hesitates at the stairwell.
Looks back.
I lean forward .
Closer to the screen.
She doesn’t see anything. But I do. The tension in her shoulders. The pulse in her throat. The quiet scream in the way her steps don’t echo the same anymore.
She’s slipping.
Sliding.
Becoming something I want more than I ever wanted to possess anything. She moves like someone who’s already been claimed. Because she has. She just hasn’t admitted it yet.
I shower fast. Steam clouds the mirror. Still, I keep the monitor lit on the sink. She pauses by the building entrance.
Looks left.
Looks up.
Looks right at the camera.
Her spine straightens.
She knows.
Not everything. Not the angles. Not the reach of my eyes. But enough. I dry off in silence. Dress in black. Always. Tailored.
Simple.
Exact.
I tuck the ring box into my coat pocket. Black velvet. Garnet center. Silk chain wrapped twice around the cushion. I won’t give it to her. Not directly. That would suggest she has a choice. And we’re long past that.
The driver doesn’t speak when I step into the car. He never does. The windows tint as we pull into traffic. Standard protocol.
The laptop is already on my seat. I open it. She’s halfway to work now. Crosses the street at the light. The intersection camera catches it—a smear of lipstick on her teeth. She doesn’t notice .
I exhale through my nose.
Not laughter.
Just… something close .
She walks like she wants to disappear. But the sidewalk doesn’t let her. She’s visible now. To more than me. That’s the part I hate. That’s the part I can’t control.
When I arrive at the building, the security team nods. I don’t return it. My eyes are on the elevator feed. She’s already inside. Fidgeting with the strap of her heel.
Left foot.
She can’t reach it.
The clasp is crooked.
I step into the elevator three floors down. Calculate the timing. When I step out, she’s just ahead. Bag slung over her shoulder. Hair twisted.
She walks three steps?—
Stops.
The strap slips .
And the hallway holds its breath.
There are at least six people watching. They say nothing. They don’t move. But they feel it. The shift. The moment. And I? I walk straight to her.
I kneel . Not quickly. Not performative. Not as if it’s routine. But slow. Intentional . A man tying his name to someone else’s body with a single flick of his fingers.
I fix the strap. Smooth the leather. Press her ankle lightly. And then I look up. Her mouth is parted. Breath caught. Everyone is watching.
But her eyes?
Only on me.
“Next time,” I murmur, just for her, “you ask me to do it before it breaks.”
She doesn’t nod .
But her knees almost buckle.
I work. Watch. But the day means nothing. Nothing but meetings I’m not interested in and men in suits I no longer see.
I only see her.
And when I can’t stand that coiling tension inside me anymore, I rise. Close my laptop and leave.
She’s working, head down, a tiny furrow of concentration between her brows. My pulse kicks at the sight and my cock grows hard. Fuck.
I leave quietly, slipping away like I wasn’t here at all. No one is going to miss me, just like they don’t see me. A ghost wrapped in darkness. One I’ve been my entire life.
The driver pulls up behind her apartment building. I issue a command and climb out. All I’m focussed on now is the door to her apartment, and the faint trace of her she left behind.
She left the window unlocked again.
Top left corner of the frame warped just slightly—enough that if I press with two fingers and lift, the latch clicks free.
The building’s cameras won’t catch me.
I had them redirected the night she first smiled at Loyal like she didn’t know what it meant.
It’s not the first time I’ve been here. She doesn’t know that.
She doesn’t know I’ve counted the steps between her bed and the bathroom.
That I know how she folds her towels—wrong, always.
That the ones she hides in the back are softer. More worn.
Her apartment smells like her skin.
Lavender soap.
Linen.
Something sweeter.
Faint. Like a secret only I know .
It hits me the second I step inside. Settles into my chest. Makes me walk slower. I don’t touch much. Not because I couldn’t.
But because I don’t need to anymore. She’s already mine. She just hasn’t said it out loud. I walk through the kitchen. Check the drawers.
There’s a black box of tea she hides behind the coffee. The cheap kind. The kind she drinks only when she’s overwhelmed. It’s half empty. The second drawer in her dresser is open a crack.
That’s where I slide the ring box. Black velvet. Folded. Simple. The garnet is cold when I place it inside. It catches the light like a heartbeat cut from stone. I don’t leave a note. But I think about it. I think about writing:
This is yours. But you wear it for me.
I don’t. She’ll know.
I walk to the side table beside her bed.
There’s a book she’s only halfway through.
The bookmark is a torn receipt. The last chapter she read is underlined in pencil—something about secrets and survival. I don’t read further. Because she doesn’t survive this. She doesn’t survive me.
The curtains are half drawn. She always leaves them that way.
Like she’s daring the night to watch. Like she wants to be seen.
I don’t need permission. I run my hand along the headboard.
Not because I’m imagining her bent there.
I’ve seen that. I’ve made her feel it. What I’m imagining now? Is her asleep here. Wearing the ring.
Wearing nothing else.
I fix the latch on the window before I leave. Let her believe she’s safe. Let her believe she’s alone. Let her dream she’s in control. She’ll find the ring in the morning. Slip it on with trembling fingers. And when she does? She won’ t take it off.
I don’t sleep well. Haven’t in years. Not since Camille. Not since Selene smiled like she meant it and took everything we gave her straight to a lawyer.
Not since I started watching Cloe breathe through a four-panel feed like it was the only prayer I still remembered the words to.
She doesn’t know what I’ve done for her.
How many threats I’ve intercepted before she ever stepped into this building. How many men I’ve paid off. How many names I’ve erased. How many lines I’ve crossed. And I don’t want her to know.
Not yet. Because the moment she finds out she’s not just protected—but caged?
She’ll hate me.
And I’ll let her.
So long as she keeps wearing the ring.
11:34 p.m.
Her building lights dim.
The camera feed shifts to grayscale. I see her outline in the stairwell—tiny, alone, carrying too many bags. She doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t check the corners. She forgets she’s prey. But I don’t.
Midnight. The hallway outside her apartment is still. No motion. No sound. Just her door. Closed. Unmarked. But behind it?
The drawer.
The ring.
I send the first message at 12:03 a.m.
You left the ring in the drawer.
I saw it.
I don’t need her to read it now.
She’ll see it when she wakes. She’ll feel it when she brushes her fingers over the silk chain and thinks about me slipping it over her head.
12:07.
You don’t lock your window.
Next time, I won’t ask to come in.
12:11.
I delete a draft before I send it.
It said:
I almost stayed tonight.
I erase it because that’s not how this works.
Not with her.
Not with me.
12:15.
Last one.
Over your heart.
Or not at all.
I set my phone down. Turn off the lights. Stretch out on the couch—not the bed. Never the bed.
And I watch the glow of her apartment door on my screen until my eyes blur. The plant in the corner is dying. Again. I water it anyway. Because sometimes, even things that won’t live deserve a little care before they give up.
She walks into the office at 9:03 a.m.
Three minutes late.
I don’t care.
Because when she passes my glass wall, she’s wearing it. The blouse is silk again. Blush-colored. Fitted. Too sheer to hide what matters.
The ring hangs just beneath the neckline—garnet catching faint light like it knows I’m watching.
She doesn’t look up. But she knows. I wait until lunchtime. Let her sweat. Let her shift in her chair, legs crossed too tight, fingers tapping the desk like she can drum her nerves away.
At 12:04, I send the message.
Office. Now.
No subject.
No punctuation.
She replies in less than ten seconds.
Yes .
She knocks once before entering.
Doesn’t speak.
Closes the door behind her. Stands in front of me like she’s already learned how to breathe quiet. Like she’s ready to obey.
Good girl.
“Undo the top two buttons,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then does.
One.
Two.
The chain gleams.
Thin.
Dark.
Delicate against her throat.
The garnet rests just above her sternum, like it was made to press against the beat of her heart. Because it was.
I step forward.
Reach.
Hook one finger under the chain.
Lift.
Not hard.
Just enough to make her tilt her chin.
“You wore it.”
She nods once. Eyes wide. Unblinking. I circle her slowly. My hand never leaves the chain. It moves with her. Across her shoulder. Down her back. Like a leash she hasn’t been trained to pull against .
“Why?”
Her breath catches.
“I…”
She swallows. Because she doesn’t know how to say it. Because there’s no good answer. Only the truth.
“Say it.”
“I wanted to.”
“Louder.”
“I wanted to wear it for you.”
I hum softly.
Good girl.
I tug the chain gently.
She follows.
I press her back against the glass wall.
Lift her skirt.
Push her panties to the side.
Slide two fingers along her slit— slow .
She gasps.
But she doesn’t move.
Her eyes close. Her head falls back against the glass. I wrap the chain around my fist.
Tighten.
“Say thank you.”
She shudders.
“Thank you.”
“Again.”
“Thank you.”
I curl my fingers. Watch her unravel. One breath at a time. She’s soaked. Wrecked. Almost silent. Until she breaks.
When she comes, I don’t speak. I just let go of the chain. Let it fall back against her chest. Tuck the ring beneath her blouse. Button the top slowly.
One .
Two.
Step back.
“You hide it again…”
I pause.
Wait for her eyes to open.
“…and I’ll make you wear it naked.”