The Art of Watching
Nightshade
I had to let her go. I had to walk away. She needed to get back to her retreat before people start questioning her whereabouts. Her emotions were a battlefield—raw, tangled, and relentless. She was still unraveling, haunted by the confession of what Liam did to her that night, and then there was that kiss .
That kiss. It wasn’t the first I’d ever shared with her, but it would forever be etched into me as my favorite. She wanted it, just like she did back then. But this time, she wasn’t kissing that naive boy. She was kissing me—the one who would protect her, obsess over her, be her undoing and her salvation all at once.
She was fighting me, and God, how I love the fight. But I couldn’t let it push her back into that shadowy corner of her mind, the place where fear and shame festered, where she couldn’t feel safe. She has to know she can trust me. I know it. Deep down, I can feel that she knows it too. But if I force her, if I press even one step too far, I’ll cross the line. I’ll become just like the monsters who broke her. No better than my own fucking brother. And I won’t let that happen. I’d rather burn for eternity than see her flinch away from me.
From where I stand, I watch her through the window of her cabin. She’s finally asleep, her face soft and peaceful. God, I hope the nightmares stay away tonight. It takes everything in me not to storm through that door, scoop her into my arms, and shield her even from the smallest shred of pain—a bad dream, a flicker of unease. She deserves peace. I want to be her peace.
I slip off my hoodie and mask, leaning back against the tree behind her cabin. From this spot, I can still see her through the thin curtain, her body shifting slightly under the blankets. Her lips part, and for a second, I think I see her smile in her sleep. Not a bad dream then. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s dreaming about that kiss—the one that’s been burning through me all night. The things I wanted to do to her tonight will have to wait for another time. I’ll wait as long as it takes.
My eyelids grow heavy, and before I know it, I’ve drifted off.
***
Past ??
Age 18
Two days since Halloween, and the space between us had become unbearable. It wasn’t just distance—it was a void, a silent rejection that scraped at my insides like nails against bone. She wouldn’t look at me the same way. Wouldn’t meet my eyes without flinching, like I had become something to be wary of. Like she was afraid of me.
I didn’t know what I’d done. And not knowing was worse than anything else.
She was shutting me out, building walls I couldn’t tear down, and I was suffocating in the cold of it. I tried—God, I tried—to get her to talk, to tell me what was wrong. But she gave me nothing. No explanation. No accusation. Just silence.
I couldn’t take it.
“Come on, Aviana,” I said, my voice strained, rougher than I intended. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Her gaze flicked over me, hesitant, uncertain. There was a pause, long enough that I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Then, finally, a small nod. She followed, but it didn’t feel like trust. It felt like reluctance. And that realization stung deep, carving out something ugly inside me.
I wanted to give her space—I really did—but keeping my distance felt impossible. She was right there, yet it felt like she was slipping through my fingers. I could feel the chasm between us, widening with every step. The silence gnawed at my sanity, eating away at the fragile thread of control I had left.
I needed to touch her. To feel that she was still mine, still here.
Slowly, I reached out, fingers brushing against hers—testing, waiting, bracing for the sting of rejection. She stiffened at first, and I felt my breath hitch, my heart slamming against my ribs. But then, she softened. Her fingers didn’t pull away. Didn’t push me aside.
I latched onto that moment like a dying man gasping for air.
My grip on her hand was firm—maybe too firm—but I couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go.
The wind was sharp against my skin, the autumn chill settling into my bones, but I barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was the warmth of her palm pressed against mine. She wasn’t speaking, wasn’t opening up, but she wasn’t running either.
That had to mean something.
“You’re not alone, Aviana,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, but thick with something raw, desperate. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She didn’t reply. Didn’t squeeze my hand back. But she didn’t pull away. And right now, that was the only thing keeping me sane.
I had to fix this. Had to bring her back to me. Because the way she was looking at me now—like I was something to fear—was a wound deeper than any blade could carve.
And I couldn’t live with that.
***
“Excuse me, are you lost?”
The sharp voice jolts me awake, panic searing through me as I scramble to gather my things. “Shit. I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to keep my cool.
“I said, are you lost?”
Looking up, my breath hitches in my chest as recognition hits me like a brick wall. It’s him . Dr. Cade Brenner .
What the fuck is he doing near her cabin? My stomach twists in knots. Did she have another nightmare? Did Scarlet call him to help her? The thought of him— him —holding her, comforting her, makes my blood boil. My fists clench at my sides as the rage bubbles to the surface. If he so much as touched her, I swear to God, nothing will stop me from crushing him. Nothing.
“No, I’m not lost,” I say quickly, forcing a casual grin. “Guess I hiked myself to sleep last night. Never made it back to my cabin.”
Dr. Brenner studies me, his expression unreadable. “Do you need help getting there?”
“I don’t, but thanks for asking,” I reply, standing and brushing the dirt off my pants. “Actually, I just need to splash some water on my face and get to group therapy first thing this morning.” My words are smooth, rehearsed even. I’ve been prepared for a moment like this. I’m not a camper here, but I registered under the radar just in case I got caught. Nobody knows why I’m really here. For her .
Cade nods slowly, clearly not convinced but not calling me out either. “Better get on then. But next time I find you sleeping outside another camper’s cabin, I’ll have to call the police as that is a safety issue for our campers.”
I nod, starting to turn away, but pause, forcing what I hope looks like harmless curiosity. “Is she alright? I didn’t scare her or anything, did I?”
“She?” His head tilts, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Who?”
“Whoever’s cabin this belongs to.” I keep my tone light, nonchalant, though my insides are coiled tight.
“And who do you think it belongs to?” he asks, his tone sharp, laced with suspicion. Twenty questions now, is it?
I shrug, shaking my head like it’s no big deal. “I really should get going. Just let whoever’s in there know it wasn’t my intention to cause any harm.” I move to walk away, my heart pounding harder with every step.
“Hey, hey,” he calls after me. “I didn’t catch your name. ”
I glance back over my shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “You’ll get it later. During our session.” I keep walking, leaving him standing there in the dirt.
I don’t have a session with him, but I will make sure to stop by later so he gets the message loud and clear. Stay the hell away from my girl. The only reason I’ll tolerate his presence is for his job as her therapist. Nothing more. Not one damn thing more.
***
Standing in the far corner of the group therapy room, I keep my distance, a ghost among the living. The dim light catches her hair as she sits in a chair across the room, her face a perfect mask of calm as the others laugh and chatter around her. They’re playing some ridiculous trust-building game, Two Truths and a Lie . A person shares three statements, and the group guesses which one is false. Trust exercise or not, it feels like a game for children. But I’m not the therapist. I stay silent in the shadows.
My focus is on her. My Little Bird. She’s up next, and I can see her eyes flicker with hesitation as she considers her answers. Even from here, I can tell her mind is working overtime, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Aviana?” Dr. Carter’s voice cuts through the room, urging her forward. “I believe it’s your turn.”
I shift further into the shadows, the spot I’ve claimed deliberately chosen so she won’t see me. Not without my mask. Not like this. If her eyes catch mine, she’ll know immediately. And I’m not ready for that moment. Not yet.
She exhales, finally speaking. “Okay,” she begins, her voice steady but soft, “my facts are… I can speak fluent French, I had a pet horse named Blaze, and I can bake an extremely flaky scone to perfection.”
The room murmurs with interest, guesses already forming as people lean forward, intrigued. I don’t join in. I just watch, noting every flicker of her expression, every word she chooses, every movement she makes.
It’s not about the game. It’s about her . And she doesn’t even realize that her biggest lie isn’t among the facts she’s offered. It’s in the way she sits, the way she smiles, the way she pretends to be fine when she’s anything but.
She has no idea I’m here. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.