Until I Break You (Dark Masked Sinners #1)

Prologue - Nathan

My penthouse office has become a shrine to her.

One wall is covered with photographs. Eve leaving her apartment in the morning, coffee in hand. Eve at her design studio, bent over a fabric table. Eve at a small gallery opening, smiling at something someone said. Eve alone in her apartment at night, working on sketches by lamplight.

But the photographs are static, frozen moments. The twelve monitors mounted on the opposite wall—those are alive. Real-time feeds from every angle of her life.

Right now, I watch three screens simultaneously.

The main monitor shows her in her office at Sinclair Designs, studying fabric samples with that small furrow between her brows that appears when she's concentrating.

Another screen captures her apartment, empty but waiting for her return.

A third shows the street view outside her building, tracking every person who passes by.

I know her routine better than she does.

Coffee at 7:15 AM, always from the shop on the corner of 8th and 22nd—I watch her walk there every morning, watch her smile at the barista, watch her add one sugar to her medium latte.

She orders the same thing every day. She's kind to the barista, asks about his day, always tips well, even though her business is still finding its footing.

She works late most nights, long after her small team has gone home.

Not because she has to, but because she's lost in the work.

On the monitor, I watch her stand from her desk now, stretching her back with a small wince.

She's been sitting too long. She does this—loses herself in her designs and forgets to move, forgets to eat.

I've watched her through these cameras for so long that I can predict her movements. She'll walk to the window next, look out at the city for a few minutes, then return to her work. She's done it a thousand times, and I've seen every single one.

There. She moves to the window, and I switch to a different camera angle, one that captures her face.

Even in profile, even pixelated slightly by the zoom, she's beautiful.

The way the late afternoon light catches in her hair.

The soft curve of her cheek. The slight sadness that never quite leaves her eyes.

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen—a number I recognize. Senator Morrison.

I answer without taking my eyes off Eve. "Senator."

"Hale." His voice is tight, strained. "We need to talk about our arrangement."

"Do we?" I lean back in my chair, still watching Eve on the monitor. She's returned to her desk, picking up her pencil. "I thought our arrangement was quite clear."

"The zoning approval you wanted—it's going to raise questions. My colleagues are already asking why I'm pushing so hard for—"

"Senator Morrison." I let my voice drop to that tone that makes men nervous. "Do you remember what we discussed? About your... extracurricular activities?"

Silence on the other end. I can practically hear him sweating.

"The photographs I have are quite comprehensive," I continue, my eyes never leaving the screen where Eve is sketching. "Your wife would find them interesting. So would the ethics committee. And the press, naturally."

"You can't—"

"I can. And I will, if necessary." I watch Eve tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, that unconscious gesture she makes when she's concentrating.

"But it won't be necessary, will it? Because you're going to approve that zoning variance.

You're going to make sure the building inspection for 428 West 42nd Street passes without issue. And you're going to do it quietly."

428 West 42nd. The building Eve's studio is in. The building I now own, though she doesn't know it yet. The building I'm ensuring meets every safety standard, has every upgrade, provides her with the perfect workspace.

"That's not how—"

"That's exactly how this works, Senator. I have what you need—discretion. You have what I need—influence. It's a simple transaction." On the screen, Eve is smiling at something she's drawn. That smile makes my chest tight. "Do we understand each other?"

A long pause. Then, defeated: "Yes. We understand each other."

"Excellent. I'll expect the approval by the end of the week." I end the call without waiting for his response.

Men like Morrison are easy. Everyone has secrets, everyone has something they're desperate to hide. I simply make it my business to know what those things are. And then I use that knowledge to shape the world the way I need it to be.

To shape Eve's world the way it should be. Safe. Protected. Perfect.

She eats lunch at her desk now—I'm watching her do it on the monitor, the sandwich she brought from home in its glass container.

She takes small bites, chewing thoughtfully, her attention still on her sketches.

She's conscious of her weight in a way that makes my chest ache.

I've watched her pause in front of mirrors through these cameras, seen the way she adjusts her clothing, tugging at fabric that doesn't need adjusting.

The fashion world has made her afraid of her own body. And I hate them for it.

On another monitor, I pull up footage from this morning—her at the gym.

She goes three times a week, not because she enjoys it—I can see the reluctance in every step—but because she thinks she should.

I've watched her on the treadmill, watched her glance at the timer every thirty seconds, counting down the minutes until she can leave.

I switch to another saved feed. Eve at the cemetery, on the 15th of last month.

She visits her parents' graves once a month, always on the 15th.

Always alone. I have a camera positioned discreetly near the grave site.

I watch her sit there for thirty minutes, and when she leaves, her eyes are red, but her face is composed.

She's so strong. So determined. So lonely.

I want to go to her. Want to introduce myself, explain who I am, tell her about what Alex meant to me. But how do I explain that I'm the reason her brother is dead? That I'm the monster who destroyed her family?

I can't. So I watch instead.

On the main monitor, she's returned to her desk. I zoom in slightly, watching her hands as she sketches. Those elegant fingers, the way she holds the pencil, the small satisfied smile when she gets a line exactly right. I've memorized every expression, every gesture, every habit.

I've had my people ensure her apartment building is secure—better locks, cameras in the common areas that feed directly to my system here, a more reliable superintendent on my payroll who actually fixes things.

When that investor tried to back out of funding her spring line last month, I quietly bought his debt and made him understand that keeping his commitments was in his best interest.

Just like I made Senator Morrison understand today.

The world is full of leverage points. People with secrets, with weaknesses, with things they value more than their integrity. I find those points, and I press on them, gently but firmly, until everything aligns the way I need it to.

For her. It's all for her.

She doesn't know any of this. She thinks she's making it on her own. And she is, mostly. I'm just... removing obstacles. Smoothing the path.

"Sir." Bjorn's voice interrupts my observation. "The surveillance equipment for Miss Sinclair's apartment has been upgraded as requested. The new cameras are completely undetectable."

I don't look away from the screens. On the monitor, Eve is gathering her things, preparing to leave for the day. "Show me."

He pulls up the new feeds on a separate monitor. Six different angles of her apartment now, including one in the closet that I requested specifically. High definition. Night vision capable. Audio so clear I'll be able to hear her breathe.

"Good," I say, watching her lock up her office on another screen. She'll be home in twenty minutes. "And the audio?"

"Fully operational. Though I should mention, sir—" He hesitates, which is unlike him. "The level of surveillance we're conducting is illegal. If discovered—"

"It won't be discovered," I interrupt. "You're too good at your job for that."

"Of course, sir." He pauses again. "May I speak freely?"

I nod, though I already know what he's going to say. I track Eve's progress on the street view camera, watching her hail a taxi.

"This has gone beyond protection, sir. What you're doing... It's an obsession."

"I'm aware." I turn to look at him, finally pulling my eyes from the screens. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Bjorn holds my gaze for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, sir. Just wanted to make sure you knew."

When he leaves, I turn back to the monitors.

Eve is in the taxi now—I can't see inside, so I switch to the camera outside her apartment building, waiting for her to arrive.

While I wait, I pull up footage from last night.

Eve in her apartment, curled up on her sofa with a sketchbook, her hair loose around her shoulders.

She's wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, no makeup, just her natural beauty.

I've watched this clip dozens of times. It's one of my favorites. She looks so peaceful, so utterly herself.

The live feed alerts me—she's arriving home.

I watch her pay the taxi driver, watch her walk to her building entrance.

She pauses to check her mailbox—nothing today—then heads upstairs.

I track her progress through the building's cameras until she reaches her floor, then switch to the apartment feeds.

The door opens, and she enters. I lean forward, watching her kick off her heels with that small sigh of relief she always makes. She hangs her coat on the hook by the door, sets her bag down, and I follow her with my eyes as she moves through her apartment.

She doesn't know I'm here. Doesn't know that every moment of her life is captured, recorded, studied. Doesn't know her brother's killer watches over her every moment.

And she never will.

I'm just the shadow in her life. The guardian she'll never see.

That's enough. It has to be.

Except it's not. Not anymore.

Watching used to be enough. The knowing used to satisfy. But somewhere over the past months, something has shifted. The distance I've maintained has started to feel like torture rather than penance.

On the screen, Eve moves to her bedroom.

I switch to the bedroom camera, watching her change out of her work clothes.

I should look away—should give her this privacy.

But I don't. I can't. Every inch of her is precious to me, sacred.

The soft curve of her stomach as she pulls her dress over her head.

The weight of her breasts in her bra. The thickness of her thighs.

She's perfect. And she has no idea I'm watching her most intimate moments.

But I don't just want to watch anymore. I want her to know I'm here. Want her to feel my presence in her life. Want her to understand that someone sees her, knows her, cherishes every detail of her existence.

I've been planning it for weeks. I will do small things at first. Just enough to let her know someone is paying attention. Moving a book slightly out of place—I will wait until she is at work, use my key to her apartment, move it exactly one inch. I want to watch the confusion flicker across her face. It’s intoxicating.

And her perfume—I've had an exact replica made, with just one small change. A note of sandalwood. My scent. I'll swap the bottles, and then I'll come back here and watch through the cameras as she discovers it.

It's possessive. It's wrong. It's crossing a line I swore I'd never cross.

But I've realized something in these years of constant watching: I don't want to be her silent guardian anymore.

I want to be her everything.

Because she is mine.

Mine alone.