You Have My Attention

Chapter 6

Laurette Devereux

The sun hits my face like she’s holding a grudge.

Bitch.

I groan and roll to my side, yanking the sheet with me, face buried in the pillow. My body aches the way it does after a night spent chasing comfort I never found—too much turning, not enough sleeping.

And the dreams…

Vivid. Vicious. Venomous.

I would dig them out of my skull and set them on fire if I could.

I throw back the covers, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood. My robe hangs off the end of the bed, and I shrug it on. A glance at the clock: 6:43.

Fuck.

“Ugh! What kind of woman ruins her own Saturday morning by waking up this damn early on her day off?”

Apparently, the universe decided I need more time to overthink—an extra hour to spiral.

The coffee machine sputters to life. Leaning on the counter, arms crossed tight, the aroma wakes me as my mind drifts back to last night.

I meant what I said.

Not wistful or half-hearted. Not some romantic fantasy meant to paper over the cracks. I want true obsession, a devotion so deep it scars. Not because I’m fragile or because I’m missing something.

Because I’m worth that kind of fire.

I’m not asking for lukewarm or halfway. I want a man who can’t look anywhere else. A man so consumed with me that the rest of the world falls away. Full throttle, all in.

A man who worships me in the dark, claims me in the light, and says my name like it’s his religion.

I deserve that kind of heat.

Let him come to me with sins and scars. I’ll match every single one.

But he better be ready to burn the fucking world down for me.

I’m not asking for too much. I’ve just been asking it of the wrong men.

From my dining-room window, the Garden District looks picture perfect—painted shutters, flowering magnolias, and brick sidewalks edged with manicured hedges. Neighbors sip morning coffee on their porches, confident their lives are safe behind black iron fences and polished facades.

It’s beautiful and perfect. And I have no one to share it with.

I might live in a picture-perfect neighborhood, but I wasn’t built for it.

Not when all I can think about is being slammed against one of those polished white columns by a man with rough hands and dark intentions.

Someone who doesn’t worship me gently but claims me like a secret he'll never confess.

Clearly, my vibrator didn’t get the job done last night.

I move to the living room and sink onto the couch, flipping on the TV. Then, I open my laptop and check my email.

Inbox. One subject line stands out.

Your package has been delivered. Left in the mailbox.

It’s the lingerie I ordered. White lace with garter straps. A thong so thin it’ll disappear the second I put it on. The bra’s unlined—soft, sheer, and made for seduction.

Bridal.

I bought it for my birthday—for him. Something he’d tear off in a rush, claiming what was his, on the night he proposed. The night I intended to be unforgettable.

It’s fucking laughable now.

I slide my feet into house slippers and head straight for the front door in my robe, not bothering to check the windows for neighbors out and about.

I walk to the mailbox and open it, sifting through the contents. Inside sit several envelopes, but on top rests a napkin stamped with a black serpent monogram, alongside the slim plastic mailer holding the lingerie.

The stamp is Leviathan’s signature.

My heart thuds once. Then again, harder—pounding as if it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.

I lift my head. The street is empty, and yet the chill winding up my spine says otherwise.

The napkin rests in my palm, edges soft against my fingers. The writing is precise, bold, slanted. Every stroke carries weight.

Careful what you wish for, Laurette.

You have my attention.

—B

My stomach knots.

Oh my God.

Someone was listening last night. Close enough to catch every word. Bold enough to follow me home.

And now, whoever he is, knows who I am.

Where I live.

What I want.

The door thuds shut behind me as I rush inside, moving too fast, my heart hurrying ahead of me. I pass the console table and drop the mail and package without thinking. My fingers tremble as I fumble unlocking my phone.

I open the app tied to my home security and curse under my breath as my thumb shakes on the screen. A few swipes later and the night plays out in muted bluish tones, lit only by porch lights and street lamps. Every motion is etched in shadow.

The timestamp is 1:14 a.m. There I am walking up the steps, unlocking the door, disappearing behind it without so much as a glance over my shoulder.

There’s movement twenty minutes later. A man steps into the frame—no hesitation or glance back—as he walks straight to the curbside mailbox.

He’s tall with broad shoulders and a trim waist. The camera doesn’t catch his face, but everything about him is confident.

He’s dressed in dark clothing. Not a drifter. Not some drunk off Bourbon Street who wandered too far. This man came with intent.

The footage is grainy, but the porch light hits his profile for a single beat—sharp jaw, straight nose, short dark hair.

I pause. Rewind. Pause again.

Not Jon David. And definitely not Callum—that venomous fuck.

This man is taller and broader.

He reaches into the mailbox, pulls out a single envelope, glances at it, then lifts his phone.

Click. He takes a photo.

My heart doesn’t race. It riots.

He slides the envelope back in and pulls something from his pocket—the napkin. He smooths it flat against his palm, then takes a pen and writes across the surface.

He slips it into the mailbox, turns, and walks away. He vanishes into the dark, erased without a trace as if he were never there at all.

My pulse thrums, not with fear but with certainty. This man didn’t stumble onto my doorstep by accident.

He came after me.

I set my phone down, slide the napkin into a clear plastic sleeve, and seal it shut—handling it with the care of evidence in an open case. Not a keepsake or something to romanticize. Proof that someone dangerous was here, acting with purpose.

I grab my laptop off the coffee table and open it, fingers flying across the keys.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Surveillance Footage of Trespass and Stalking Incident

Tobias,

Happy Saturday! Sorry to bother you on the weekend.

I’m attaching surveillance footage captured at my residence last night.

At 1:34 a.m., an unidentified male approached the property, accessed my mailbox, photographed a piece of addressed mail, and left a handwritten note inside.

There were no signs of forced entry or theft.

I’ve also included a photo of the message for reference.

Please document for the record. Let me know if you need anything else from my end.

—Laurette

I hit send and lean back, expecting silence today—Saturday, his day off. Twenty minutes later, my phone lights up with his name, and I blink in mild surprise.

“Got the footage,” he says, voice clipped, all business. “I’ll swing by and check out the mailbox myself. You home for a while?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.

“Good. Be there in an hour.”

He hangs up. No small talk. Typical Tobias.

He doesn’t have to ask for an address. This isn’t his first time at my house because of a threat to my safety.

He’s the one they send when things cross the line, when a case gets too heated or a defendant too bold.

He’s been here before, taking statements about letters and photos and messages meant to shake me.

Only this time it’s different. It’s personal. And I can feel it.

An hour later, I hear the knock. I check the camera first, of course I do, before I open the door.

“Morning,” Tobias says. Same suit as always. Same tired eyes. He’s been on the force longer than some of our junior attorneys have been alive.

I step back. “Mornin’, Mr. T. Come in.”

He crosses the threshold, giving me a an expression that’s half amusement, half exasperation. “You are always getting yourself into some kind of trouble, young lady.”

I grin. “I know, T-man. What can I say? It’s my superpower.”

“Want to look at the footage in your office?” he asks, already moving through the space he’s navigated before.

Tobias doesn’t have the best eyesight anymore. My desktop gives a bigger, sharper view. Easier for him to see the details.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?” he asks, already heading in the right direction.

“Of course,” I say, motioning down the hall.

A minute later, he reemerges with a grimace.

“I piss like a broken faucet,” he says. “Slow leak all damn night. Up more times than a preacher at a revival.”

“Sounds miserable.”

“It is. Don’t get old, Laurette. It sucks.”

“I’ll try not to.”

I click on the footage and let it roll.

“There,” I say when the figure appears on screen. “That’s him.”

Tobias leans in, eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t approach the house.”

“No. Just the mailbox. He snaps a photo of my mail, then puts it back.”

“Any threats?” Tobias asks.

“Just a note.”

I reach for the plastic sleeve and hold it up. Inside is the napkin with the serpent monogram, Leviathan’s mark. Tobias takes it from me and squints as he reads aloud.

“‘Careful what you wish for, Laurette. You have my attention. B.’”

He looks up. “No idea who B could be?”

“None.”

He grunts. “Sounds personal. Maybe he likes you.”

I half laugh. “At least this one isn’t threatening to kill me.”

“That’s an improvement,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll file it as harassment and document it. But there are no legal teeth yet.”

Yet.

“If he escalates, I’ll be here with my lead peacemaker.” He meets my eyes. “But you need to be careful, Laurette. Keep your doors locked. Cameras rolling. Always on alert.”

Tobias has known me for years. We’ve worked murders, assaults, political cases thick with corruption. He knows I don’t spook easily.

What he doesn’t know, what I’m still trying to figure out myself, is whether this is spook-worthy. Because I can’t tell if I’m dealing with danger… or foreplay.

Is it a threat dressed in temptation? Or temptation laced with a warning?

Either way, it’s crawling under my skin, and I can’t decide if I want it gone… or want more.

Tobias stays about an hour, asks the right questions, takes a few notes, snaps a photo of the napkin.

He tucks his old-school notepad back into his coat. “I’ll file the report on Monday. Nothing earth-shattering, but it’s worth having on record.”

“Appreciate it.”

“I’ll swing by a few times this week and monitor things.” He hesitates. “You should think about staying with someone. A friend or family. Just until we know more.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine here.”

“Laurette.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He studies me for a beat, then nods. “At least keep your doors locked. Cameras running. Eyes open.”

“You already said that, T-man.”

He gives a small sigh and heads for the door. “Don’t be brave when you don’t have to be.”

“Too late for that.”

He gives me a disapproving look, one I’ve seen too many times before, then steps out onto the porch.

I lock the door behind him and just stand there. My house is still. Too still.

And I don’t know what’s worse—

That this man, B, found me…

Or that some part of me—dark and breathless—hopes he does it again.