14. Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Alex
Running is the only thing that quiets my head. The streets are empty, the air crisp. My breath stays steady beneath the hood of my black sweat suit. Hands loose. Every step measured. My pace is easy, even as my thoughts refuse to settle.
I tell myself I’m out here to burn off restless energy.
It’s a lie.
I’m trying to outrun the image of Lina with EJ.
The way he looked at her. The easy familiarity between them. I know better than to let my imagination fill in the spaces I didn’t witness, but it does anyway, conjuring possibilities I have no business entertaining.
I don’t like what it stirs in me.
So I run harder, letting the rhythm of my feet pound those thoughts into the pavement.
It doesn’t work.
It’s only been six weeks since I got here.
I didn’t start showing up at her shop until three weeks ago. The first stretch was all set up—phones, cameras, and sightlines. Redundancies layered over redundancies.
Order and procedure.
Six weeks shouldn’t be enough time to care like this. It’s barely enough time to map routines, learn habits, and build patterns.
It should be clinical. Observational. Detached.
I shouldn’t be aware of which mornings she arrives earlier than usual because of sleepless nights. I shouldn’t recognize the way she sits in her car staring at her shop, daydreaming. I shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between her distracted focus and her peaceful one from across the street.
That wasn’t the plan.
Redwood was supposed to be a vantage point, not a fucking temptation. A place to track entrances and exits. To notice who lingered and who didn’t belong. To find the threat so we can get to the bottom of something much bigger.
Somewhere between the second week and the third, distance was no longer adequate.
Something inconvenient wanted proximity. Closeness. Like the camera picture wouldn’t focus unless I was inside the room.
That’s when I started going in.
Black coffee. One of their delicious Mexican Conchas and a seat with my laptop, pretending to work. I was close enough to observe without being obvious. Far enough to be seen as another regular who likes regimen.
I convinced myself it was refinement. Better intel.
The truth was simpler. I stopped watching the room and started watching her.
The way she listens—fully, generously—whether someone deserves it or not.
The way she moves with quiet competence.
The way she laughs, head tips back briefly before she reins it in.
I catalog all of it. I shouldn’t. But I do.
And now she’s gone. She went to his place.
Fucking EJ.
The thought lands wrong. Piercing. Unwelcome.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t imagine what kind of man he is with her.
I shouldn’t wonder whether he understands how rare her attention actually is.
This is still surveillance. Still an assignment.
But this doesn’t seem like I’m only watching anymore. It seems as if I’m waiting.
In six weeks, I’ve seen more of her life than I ever intended—morning routines, gym sessions, long workdays that bleed into longer nights.
And the dates. God. The fucking dates. And with absolute pricks.
Watching her get ready was bad enough—choosing clothes, fixing her hair, checking her reflection like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want, to be wanted.
But it was the waiting that carved into me. The not knowing. Whether the night would end with a polite goodbye or with her disappearing into someone else’s space. Whether the man across from her understood what it meant to be trusted with her time—or try to take more than she offered.
I heard the conversations. Laughter drifting through patios. Men talking over her, leaning too close, mistaking warmth for invitation. Each word pressed against my chest, dull and insistent.
I stayed distant. Invisible. A shadow where a shadow belonged. Something The Wraith is good at.
But distance didn’t stop the ache. Didn’t stop my jaw tightening when a hand brushed her arm. Didn’t stop the calculations. Is this the night she doesn’t come home alone?
None of them mattered. This dipshit EJ doesn’t either. At least, he shouldn’t.
He’s a distraction from what she keeps telling her friend Val. A known variable. He’s predictable. Harmless in the ways that matter.
And still. I saw her leave her house. Heels that change the way she moves—makes her tone calves and thighs flex. A short black coat tied at the waist, framing her curves. Hair done. Glossed lips.
She looked fucking stunning.
Nothing flashy or trying too hard. Completely conscious of herself. Of her body. Of the fact that tonight, she wants to be desired.
That kind of effort isn’t for the world at large. It’s for one set of eyes. And it had to be his.
Fuck!
If that present had been intended for me—I’m uncertain how long my self-control would have lasted. The sensation sinks low in my stomach.
She’s a grown, independent woman—allowed to want, to choose, to be seen by whomever she decides.
Watching her walk away—knowing I had no claim, no right to stop her—was like a blade lodged under my ribs.
I reasoned it was none of my business. That her nights are hers. That wondering who else’s fucking bed she was lying in that wasn’t mine was irrational and dangerously close to crossing a line.
But the image follows me block after block—her silhouette disappearing into his home. The echo of his laughter. The sound she made—soft, unguarded as pleasure began to tease her.
Something inside me snapped taut. Heat flooded my chest. My hands curl into fists, the strain biting into my palms. In that instant, the world narrowed to distance and force.
I thought about how fast I could turn back, how easily a door could give.
Training screamed at me to stand down. I barely listened.
I force myself forward now, every step of restraint dragged back from the brink. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift. It condenses.
That’s when I understand the real danger isn’t him. It’s how close I came to losing myself. The realization sinks in, carrying a weight I can’t ignore. Logic doesn’t help. Discipline doesn’t either.
I need movement. Noise in my lungs. Burn in my muscles.
So I run.
I push harder, burning off the urge to break down a door and take back what was never mine.
My Airbnb is only a few blocks away—around the corner from her shop. Close enough to watch and respond when needed.
That’s the job. Watch. Wait. Stay out of the way.
I’ve done this before. Never cared who they slept with. Never cared who made them laugh.
That’s what unsettles me. The line between assignment and attachment is thinner than it should be. And part of me doesn’t want it to stop.
As I run to feel the burn in my lungs, I hear it. A scream—shrill, panicked, and unmistakably hers.
My body moves before my brain does.