Chapter 9
Bastien Montclaire
Morning comes—early, quiet, cold.
And lonely. Always lonely.
But today, the world is better because Silas Rourke is gone. I sent him to hell—gift-wrapped and screaming—right where he belongs. That chapter is filed, sealed, and finished.
I did what I was paid to do. And I did it perfectly.
For Grant Holloway.
But more than that, for Lila Holloway.
The gloves are gone. My favorite knife is back in its drawer, the blade stripped clean and sterilized, waiting for its next assignment. My clothes are ashes, and the car has been scoured. No trace of last night remains—only silence and the satisfaction that comes with precision.
The coffee brews. Black—that’s how I take it. Dark as my soul.
I drink it on the back porch and watch the sun crawl over the horizon, but not for the light. For the silence and stillness.
It’s my post-kill ritual. The only thing that comes close to cleansing whatever is left of a conscience. Or maybe it just keeps the moral rot from spreading.
Either way, I need it.
Six weeks of planning and forty-eight hours to strike. Now there’s space to breathe.
I earned this downtime between jobs. Between blood.
And this time, I refuse to waste it. No scanning burner phone messages. No diving into the dark web.
That world can wait.
Because I’m thinking about her.
Laurette.
She is an undertow, and I’m already being dragged deeper with every breath. Today, I stop resisting.
I don’t step outside again. Instead, I let my favorite songs loop through the house while I feed myself more fragments. Press releases. Trial footage. Court transcripts. Tagged photos.
Her name becomes a drum in my skull. Every mention cataloged, every photo opened, every frame combed.
Seether’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” plays while I drag every scrap I can find into desktop folders.
Screenshots. Archives. Nothing escapes.
Eventually, I print—matte—because I fucking hate fingerprints.
One by one, four-by-sixes with clean, sharp edges go up.
Laurette at a press conference, shoulders squared, narrow hips set in defiance.
Another catches her mid-argument in court, a navy linen suit slicing through the blur of bodies.
And another laughing with friends, head tipped back, completely unguarded.
That one I had to work for. I poached it from a friend’s account since Laurette’s profile is set to private.
Smart girl.
The collection isn’t complete, but it’s a start. Enough to study and memorize.
My pulse hammers as I lean in, fingers hovering—then closing the distance. I drag the pad of my finger along her jaw and imagine her taste, the warmth of her breath, the way she’d flinch… or melt.
This isn’t enough. I need more.
My favorite photo is a press conference shot. Her face is turned just enough to bare the clean line of her throat, mouth, and a fire in her eyes.
I reach into my gray sweats and take out my cock, already hard, already leaking.
I drag the tip across her lips in the photo, smearing pre-cum over matte paper. “Look at those lips. That mouth. I bet it’d look even better stretched around my cock, drooling while I fuck your throat.”
Her image bends under the weight.
“I want you choking on my dick, tears streaming down your cheeks, while I call you my good little girl.”
My fist tightens around the base, my thumb dragging through the slick fluid at the tip before I stroke again. Slow at first, while I savor the thought.
“I’d spend all night filling you up—mouth, cunt, ass—until you’re leaking me from every hole.”
I pump harder, faster now, the sound obscene in the quiet room. My grip turns punishing, knuckles whitening as I imagine her mouth opening, her breath hitching, her body yielding the way I want it to.
“I’ll fuck you with your legs over my shoulders while I spit in your mouth and call you daddy’s favorite toy.”
The words tear out of me as pleasure coils tight and violent in my gut. My hips jerk into my fist, every stroke fueled by the image of her losing control, wanting me as much as I want her.
My breath goes ragged, and my vision narrows. Everything about her pulls me closer to the edge.
“Beautiful Laurette. You don’t know it yet, but you’re mine.”
My head falls back, breath ragged. I explode with a groan, cum streaking her image.
“You want obsession?” I say, voice rough with release. “You’ll get it.”
I wipe sweat from my jaw and glance down at the photo. It’s ruined.
Probably won’t be the last time.
I dress with purpose. Black hoodie and dark joggers. Sneakers that grip pavement without a sound.
The note’s already written. Intimate. Laced with promise.
I can’t get you out of my fucking head.
See you soon, Laurette.
—B
I fold the note, linen and monogrammed with a subtle black B, and slip it into a crisp envelope. I don’t seal it. No spit. No glue. Only clean edges and quiet control. Then I tuck it into the front pocket of my hoodie. Not quite over my heart but close enough.
Outside, the night is humid and still as I cross town. Streetlights smear gold across the windshield. The city’s noise and neon fade behind me as I slip into Laurette’s neighborhood.
A hush hangs over the Garden District. Spanish moss trembles in the live oaks. A breeze rustles through the iron balconies like breath caught between clenched teeth.
I drive slowly and park two doors down. Her house is dark, the curtains drawn. She’s sleeping. Or pretending to.
I move through the dark, a shadow stretched thinly across the sidewalk. I stop at her mailbox and slide the note in. But I don’t leave. Not yet. I want to feel her nearness.
I study the windows, the slope of the porch, the lines of the house, searching for her bedroom. I think it would be on the ground floor, toward the rear.
“I’m coming, Laurette—not to hurt or scare you—but to be the very thing you’ve been waiting for.”
I’m gone in an instant, as though I were never there. But she’ll know.
My car door shuts with a soft click. One deep breath, and I dial Matthieu. He picks up before the third ring.
“What do you want, fucker? I’m busy.”
Neither of us bothers with greetings. Never have.
He knows I don’t call without a reason. “I need your help.”
“Of course you do. What now?”
“Security cameras. Garden District.”
“Hold up.” A pause. “Next time you call, wait till I’m not balls deep. I was mid-thrust and you cost me a finish.”
I huff a laugh. “My bad. How was I supposed to know you had company?”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s Friday night, asshole. I always have company.”
“You really wanna go there? I’ve seen your company.”
“Yeah? And she was still too good for you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
A beat.
“The address?”
I give him Laurette’s street number and name. “Be clean. No traces.”
“Is there any other way? Have I ever let you down?”
“Never.”
“Damn right and I won’t this time either.”
The line goes quiet for a second. Then, softer. “Everything okay, B?”
I pause. “Yeah. All good.”
There’s a rustle. A grunt. The unmistakable slap of skin on skin.
I pull the phone away, stare at it, then bring it back to my ear. “Are you fucking while you’re talking to me?”
A low, breathless laugh. Another slap. “Multitasking, my guy.”
A moan filters through the line. Definitely not his.
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice comes out rough, distracted, broken by a sharp exhale. “I’ll work on it… swing by tomorrow… or the next day… get you access.”
“Finish your business first.”
“Intend to.”
“Thanks, Matt. Appreciate it.”
“You owe me,” he says. “Again… and I’m thinking… this one’s gonna… cost you big.”
“Sure, whatever you want, bro.”
There’s a pause. Then a grunt. “You serious… might ask… for a Porsche… Ugh.”
“I can’t do any of this without you. So yeah, I’m serious. The Porsche is yours if you want it.”
Matt laughs. “Fine. I forgive you… for fucking up… my night.”
There’s another muffled sound through the phone. Not an apology or a concession. It’s the kind of sound a man makes when he’s right there, strung out on the edge of coming.
I could’ve lived my whole life without hearing that noise from my brother.
I clench my jaw. “From the way you’re grunting, I don’t think I fucked up anything.”
Matt doesn’t deny it. He just chuckles.
“Sick fuck.” I hang up.
I sit in the dark, the engine’s low hum vibrating beneath me. The weight of what I just did sinks deep, cold and wrong. Matthieu thinks this is a job. Another target. Another monster to erase.
But this isn’t about justice.
This is something else.
Obsession.