Chapter Six #2
I take his hand and step out of the car, the night air brushing against my skin as if it is trying to cool the heat still lingering in my chest. He stands beside me, tall and sharp under the streetlights, his fitted shirt stretched across his shoulders, the tattoos on his forearms catching the faint glow.
There is something steady about him in this moment, something grounded, something that makes the chaos inside me quiet for a breath.
He does not rush me. He does not speak. He just waits, letting me decide how close I want him.
I start walking toward the building, my heels clicking against the pavement, and he falls into step beside me without hesitation.
His presence is a weight at my side, not heavy, but impossible to ignore.
I can feel the warmth of him even without touching him, the way he matches my pace, the way he watches the shadows around us as if he is prepared to intercept anything that comes too close.
It is protective in a way that unsettles me, because it feels natural, as if he has always walked with me like this.
The closer we get to the entrance, the quieter the world feels.
The street noise fades. The hum of the city softens.
It is just the two of us, moving through the dim light, his hand still loosely holding mine, not gripping, not claiming, just there.
I glance up at him once, and he meets my eyes with a look that makes my pulse stumble.
There is something fierce in it, something unspoken, something that tells me he is thinking far more than he is saying.
I unlock the door with a soft click, stepping into the familiar space that suddenly feels unfamiliar because I have never willingly invited him into it.
The thought hits me as I move aside, as I open the doorway wider, as I say the words I never expected to say to him.
“Come in.” His eyes change at the sound of it.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But I see it. A flicker of something warm, something relieved, something that feels far too close to gratitude.
He crosses the threshold and the shift in him is immediate.
His shoulders loosen. His posture softens.
His eyes flutter for a brief second as he takes in the room, as if stepping into my space untangles something tight inside him.
The tension leaves his body in a way that makes my chest ache.
He turns to face me, taking my hand with a gentleness that feels at odds with everything else about him.
He coaxes me toward him, not pulling, just guiding, giving me the choice to step closer.
I glance up at him, and the look he gives me is steady, patient, waiting.
I move toward him because I want to, because something in me responds to him before I can think better of it.
“Tell me something,” I say, letting the words fall into the quiet between us.
“Tell me when you first saw me.” I walk to the couch and sit down, patting the space beside me.
It feels strange to invite him closer in a place that has always been mine alone, but I do it anyway.
I want to hear him. I want to know what he will say.
I want to understand the way he looks at me, the way he follows me, the way he reacts as if I am something he cannot turn away from.
He stands there for a moment, watching me, deciding how much of himself he is willing to give. And I wait, heart steady, breath quiet, ready to hear the truth he has never spoken aloud.
“It was the bookstore on Fifth,” he says, and there is nothing calm in his voice now.
“You were arguing with the owner about a missing order. A book I had come to look up.” His mouth twists into a smirk that is not amused so much as haunted.
“You were seconds from launching that hardback at his skull. I could see it in your eyes. But you held it together. You swallowed it. You walked away.” His gaze sharpens, almost feverish.
“That restraint. That fire under the surface. It did something to me.”
He leans forward, and the obsession in his eyes is no longer subtle.
It is a storm. “I watched you walk away that day. I watched the way you moved. Controlled. Contained. As if you were built from quiet strength and old wounds. I knew I had to know more. I knew it in a way that felt wrong. In a way that felt inevitable.”
His voice drops, rougher now, stripped of any attempt at composure.
“I followed you. I did not even think about it. My feet moved before my mind caught up. I watched your routine. The one you repeat without fail. I saw the things you tried to hide. The way your shoulders locked when certain men passed you. The way you froze when they turned to stare. The way you guarded yourself because someone taught you to be afraid.”
He shifts closer, eyes burning into mine. “I tried to forget you. I swear I tried. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was imagining it. But every time I pushed you out of my head, you came back stronger. You were everywhere. In every quiet moment. In every thought I tried to bury.”
His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale. “I found you on social media. I saw the version of you that you let the world see. Polished, controlled, safe. And it made me want the parts you hid even more. The parts you never show. The parts you think no one notices.”
His voice fractures, not loudly, but enough that I hear the truth in it.
“So I watched. From the shadows. In places you never thought to look. The coffee shop where you sit with your headphones in, pretending you do not feel the world watching you. The supermarket where you buy those drinks that will probably kill you someday. I saw everything. Every habit. Every tell, every crack in the Armour you pretend is impenetrable.”
He looks at me as if the confession is tearing him open. “I became obsessed. Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. You hit me like a blow to the chest and I have not been the same since.”
“That night I saw you at the bar, you were wearing that little cocktail dress. You thought you were invisible, but that asshole caught you in his grip, didn’t he.
The one that I pinned outside against the wall.
” He looks at me with hardly contained anger at the memory, remembering how close I was to being hurt my arms instinctively wrap around my torso.
“I had to make sure you were okay, that he didn’t hurt you. I followed you home that night, and after I made sure you were safe I went back for him.” His eyes darken, a psychotic glimpse as he recalls what he did to him.
“I made him suffer for making you feel that way, that little gift I left for you was only scratching the surface at the depravity I subjected him to. He won’t ever be able to hurt anyone again.
” His words solidify a fear that I have harbored since he left the gift for me, this man, this beautiful, clearly psychotic man killed for me, and I know that wasn’t the first time he’s done it, and certainly wasn’t the last.
“You killed for me?” I whisper
I shift in my seat, my eyes still carefully trained on his face, waiting for a shift in emotions, any reason to put some space between us, but I’m frozen.
Amongst the words that strike me with fear there is more to it, something that sends my stomach into a twirl, that forces my head to feel elated.
This is fucked, truly fucked. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
His words settle over me slowly, sinking into my skin, into my ribs, into the parts of me I pretend are untouchable. I take his hand, and the confusion that flashes across his face is almost boyish, almost human, almost enough to make me forget the darkness he just confessed. Almost.
“Bunny,” he murmurs, and the sound of it is rough, frayed at the edges. “I am not a kind man. I will not pretend otherwise.” His thumb brushes my knuckles, a touch so gentle it contradicts every violent truth he has ever told me. “But you make me believe I could be. For you.”
Something in my chest tightens. Something I do not want to name.
“I will not promise good decisions,” he continues, voice low, steady, unflinching.
“I will not promise mercy for people who deserve none. But I will care for you. I will make you feel that you are the center of my universe.” His eyes burn into mine, unguarded, unhinged, terrifyingly sincere. “Because you are.”
The room feels smaller. The air feels heavier. My pulse stumbles, then races, then stumbles again.
He watches every flicker of emotion on my face, his expression shifting into something hungry and reverent all at once. He lifts our joined hands slowly, as if giving me time to pull away. I do not.
His forehead touches mine, barely there, a whisper of contact that feels louder than any kiss could. His breath mingles with mine, warm and uneven.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, “what you do to me.”
My breath catches. His eyes flick down, then back up, and the restraint in him is a living thing, trembling, fraying, ready to snap.
I feel it. I feel him. I feel the moment tipping.
I swallow, my voice barely steady. “Kade.”
He closes his eyes for a second, as if the sound of his name from my mouth is something he has to brace himself against. When he opens them again, the last of his control is hanging by a thread.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice raw. “Tell me to walk out that door.”
His jaw tightens. His hand tightens around mine. His breath shudders.
And then he exhales, slow and broken, as if he already knows what comes next.
The space between us collapses. The room shifts. The air changes.
And the moment breaks open leaving us both vulnerable.