Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Two years later …
Ashland
I am hopelessly in love with a woman I’ve never touched, who doesn’t even know I exist.
I’ve watched her grow from an eighteen-year-old into a woman, and I… there’s no other word for it… I love her.
I haven’t touched a woman since that night I saved her in the alley. Not one fucking time.
My cousin Declan started calling me The Priest until I gave the lad such a thorough beating that he laid off. The subject of my celibacy is none of his fucking business.
Still, they mock me.
“Uptight as fuck. When’s the last time you got laid, Ash?”
“Come with us to the club. ”
“Half of Ballyhock would drop their knickers for you.”
And once, out of nothing but concern, my cousin Seamus, the head of the McCarthy clan, came to me to assure me that it was alright if I were of a different persuasion, that it’s not the Dark Ages anymore, and if I was into lads, I was into lads.
I cleared that up right quick.
It’s just that… the thought of touching anyone else makes me physically ill. I don’t even let myself imagine being with her because it feels too wrong, too fucked up. She’s way too young for me, and when I met her…
But one look at her innocent, beautiful curves, and I lose my fucking mind.
I didn’t mean to see her undress, but one night—fuck it—she ran into her room, late for a party, and tore off her clothes before she even shut the window.
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t expect it. And the next thing I knew, she was damn near naked, her full breasts spilling out of her too-small bra, her knickers barely covering her curves.
And fuck , does she have curves… full-figured and absolutely fucking stunning.
Christ.
I had a camera set up by her house to make sure everything was safe and that no one would harm her, because it seemed the most efficient way to keep tabs on the lass. I didn’t mean to… see her… without clothes on .
I’ve kept everything involving Bianca to myself, and even I have to admit that at this point, my obsession has become… fuck it, I don’t know. Something… darker?
Yeah. Darker.
Got a fucking shrine now. At least that’s what I call it in my head.
A little napkin she wiped her lips with at the cafe where she works. Found it crumpled in the corner when I pretended to use the restroom and snagged it. Pressed it to my lips more often than I’d care to admit.
The library book she returned that I checked out immediately after and never returned.
A pale pink ribbon that fell from her hair.
A ballpoint pen I nicked from her bag that I keep on me. When I’m nervous or stressed or angry, I click it in my pocket, and it calms me down.
And pictures. So many fucking pictures. I got a little tired of seeing them just digitally and had some printed. At first, it felt risky, but now it just feels… natural.
I love them. I fucking love them.
Tonight, she has a date. A fucking date.
Little does she know she also has a chaperone.
I park outside the pizza parlor where her loser of a date takes her. I don’t like the fucking twat. Skinny, pimple-faced loser from drama club who thinks way too fucking much of himself. Obviously, as evidenced by his thinking he deserves to breathe the same fucking air she does.
But I can’t stop her. I know I can’t.
I can protect her though.
I put on a hat and sunglasses and dress in nondescript clothing. She’s sharp as fuck, and I don’t want her to start recognizing me. Getting too close might be… dangerous.
“Hey,” Bianca says, waving to the fucking twat who didn’t even have the decency to pick her up.
The guy smiles and waves at her, but I immediately clock him for what he is because he doesn’t even know how to not stare at her chest and arse and hide the fact that he’s asked her out because he wants to fuck her.
Of all the fucking…
I walk past them, grab a slice of pizza and a drink, then sit in the far corner where I can see them, but she has her back to me. It’s awkward as fuck. The date goes downhill fast.
From my corner table, I watch the bastard lean too close when Bianca talks, his eyes dropping to her mouth, her chest, anywhere but her fucking face. The lass is nervous, twisting her hair and playing with the little paper for her straw.
I’m going to kill him.
Not tonight. Not here. But I'm going to feckin' kill him .
The bastard's been on his phone three times since they sat down. He’s checking football scores or texting his mates while she sits there across from him, smiling like she's supposed to pretend she doesn't notice.
He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.
She's nervous. I can tell by the way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, but she's trying… laughing at his jokes, even though I can see from here that they're not funny.
He doesn't even notice.
Doesn't notice the way she lights up when she talks. Doesn't notice how she leans forward when she's interested in something. Doesn't notice that he's sitting across from something precious and rare, and he's treating her like she's fucking wallpaper.
She deserves better than this.
Better than some arsehole who can't put his phone down for an hour. Better than a boy who doesn't see what's right in front of him. Better than someone who makes her feel like she's not enough.
If she were mine, I'd never look away. Not for a second. I'd memorize every expression, every laugh, every goddamn breath. She'd never have to wonder if I was interested, if I was listening, if I cared.
She'd know.
Because I'd make damn sure she knew .
My knuckles ache from gripping my cup.
She laughs at something he says, but it's the wrong laugh. I know her laughs by now—the real ones that light up her whole face, the shy ones when she's pleased, and the nervous ones when she's trying to be kind to someone who doesn't deserve it.
And this fucker doesn't deserve it.
He reaches across the table and takes her hand. I go still. Blood pumps hot and furious in my veins when she stops moving but doesn’t pull away because she’s way too fucking polite. But I see her shoulders tense, and that’s enough.
I'm halfway out of my seat when he leans in even closer and says something that makes her face go red.
Bianca pushes up from the table. “I have to use the restroom,” she says in a rush.
Perfect.
I give it thirty seconds after she disappears down the hallway, then I'm moving. The bastard's checking his phone, smirking to himself, when I slide into Bianca's empty seat.
He looks up, his eyes wide and afraid. I slide off my sunglasses and give the same look I give my opponents before I beat their fucking arses.
“Uh, do I know you? ”
“No.” I lean forward, keeping my voice low and even. “But I know you. Know you've been staring at her arse since she walked in. Know you just said something that made her want to run away from you.”
He fidgets, pushing himself away from the table, but a pink flush creeps up his neck.“Look, mate, I don't know what your problem is or who you are?—”
“My problem,” I say, letting the edge show in my voice, “is that you asked that girl out, thinking she'd spread her legs for you after one fucking mediocre date. That you're sitting here calculating how much cheap pizza and soda it'll take before you cop a feel and get in her knickers.”
“Christ.” He tries to laugh it off, glancing around. “Are you her brother or something?”
I don’t know how long I have before she returns. “You're gonna finish this date, and you’re gonna be perfectly fucking polite. You’ll drive her home, walk her to her door, and you will never contact her again.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” He's trying for brave, but his voice wavers. Good. Fuck, how it would feel to break his jaw.
I lean across the table, not touching him, just close enough that he leans back.
“You'll do what I said. And if I ever see you near her again, if I ever hear you've so much as texted her, I'll find you. I’ll hurt you. And you’ll wish you never met the girl.” I lean in closer. “I’ve cut the heart out of men twice your age for less. And I would do it fucking again. ”
His face has gone pale.
Good.
I stand, smooth my shirt, and walk away just as Bianca comes back.
But I don't go far.
I wait in the car park, watching as the bastard awkwardly keeps his hands to himself, barely talks, and finally heads to his piece-of-shite car with a dented bumper and rust spots.
Bianca looks confused but relieved.
Of course the fucker doesn’t know enough to keep her on the inside of the street, to open the door for her, or treat her like the princess she is.
I memorize his license plate.
The drive to her apartment takes twelve minutes. I follow at a distance, keeping my headlights off until I need them. He parks, and she exits.
I follow him to his apartment building across town, then watch him park in the cramped lot behind a dumpster.
He goes inside.
I give it an hour. Long enough for him to settle in, think he's safe, and maybe even convince himself the whole thing was just some random psycho, not something he needs to worry about .
Nah. I’m not playing around. I want him to fucking know I mean it.
I pull on gloves, grab the knife from my glovebox, and get to work.
All four tires. Deep, clean slashes that'll cost him a fortune to replace. I take my time with it, methodical and thorough. The hiss of air is satisfying. Not as satisfying as slicing through flesh, but it’ll do.
When I'm done, I stand back and admire my work.
I leave a strip of paper tucked under his windshield wiper.
STAY AWAY.
He'll see it tomorrow morning when he finds his tires shredded. He'll remember the man in the pizza place, the threat, the look in my eyes.
He’ll never call her again.
She deserves better than him.
She deserves better than me too.
But at least I'll make sure no one unworthy ever gets close enough to hurt her.
At least I can do that much.