Chapter 11
Bastien Montclaire
There’s hunger. And then there’s whatever this is.
The clang of steel and the feral roar of “You’re Mine” by Disturbed thump through the gym’s speakers, each beat a pulse of possession. The mirrors along the wall catch my reflection—back arched, sweat glinting, every muscle coiled. I hold my gaze, watching the violence inside me take form.
I pile on more weight than usual, muscles screaming, spine taut, but it isn’t pain driving me.
It’s her.
Laurette has me wired so tightly I could grind steel between my teeth. She’s not a fixation. She’s a fuse, and I’m already lit.
I rack the bar with a grunt, chest heaving, breath jagged. My pulse slams at the base of my throat.
The song fades, but she doesn’t. Not from my head or from my blood.
I drag the towel over my skin, muscles still twitching with aftershocks. My reflection glares back—feral, coiled.
I imagine her here, watching the hunger in my eyes. I imagine the heat between us, the way she’d look when I touch her just right.
My phone interrupts my thoughts, glowing with a reminder.
11:00 a.m.
Legal consultation with Bellamy.
Right. Time to meet the man she used to fuck.
Jon David Bellamy. Defense attorney with a frat-boy face and a voice polished by private schools and debate teams. Word is, he gets clients off by charming juries and stroking judges’ egos.
I’m familiar with the type. Lifts just enough to fill out a shirt.
Slick haircut. Predator eyes. The kind who’s never had to bleed for anything.
Apparently, she used to want him.
I want to see why.
I run the trimmer along my beard, edges clean across a jaw hardened by years. Olive-toned skin, kissed by the sun, a faint scar near my left temple catching the light as I lean in. Eyes golden brown, piercing, the kind that draw attention whether I want it or not.
I comb back my thick, dark hair, clipped at the sides, longer on top, shifting with the wind. Straight nose, broken once or twice, and a strong jaw shaped by the French and Spanish blood running through my veins.
I tighten my cuffs and roll my shoulders back. Black button-down. Black slacks. Soft leather wristwatch that cost too much for someone with no real identity. Broad build. Strong profile. I look like a man who eats men like Jon David Bellamy for sport.
And I bet he’d enjoy that.
But it’s the truth in me that will make this meeting feel real. I’m not going to Jon David Bellamy for legal help. I’m going to see what kind of man I’ll have to bury.
Ten minutes before the hour, I’m behind the wheel, windows tinted black, engine low and smooth beneath my palms. Downtown rises ahead.
Bellamy & Coker gleams in the heart of downtown like something too clean to trust—glass front, white stone facade, stainless steel handles polished to a sterile shine.
Inside, a receptionist greets me with a sugared smile and ushers me toward leather chairs and curated modern art.
The kind of wealth that doesn’t whisper. It announces.
Today, I go by Andrew Black.
On paper, I’m staring down three assault charges, two counts of property damage, and one for resisting arrest. Enough to paint me as dangerous but not irredeemable. The kind of case a defense attorney like him can jerk off to. Makes him feel holy.
He makes me wait seven minutes.
I count every one.
Then he walks in.
Tall. Lean. Gym-built, but not for power—for show. The tailored shirt hugs a curated body, and his smile is the kind you’d see in a campaign ad. But his eyes—blue, cold, calculating—don’t match. They’re too sharp. Too still.
He moves through the world without ever raising his voice. Born into money, coasting on charm. Frat-boy polished, daddy’s favorite. Probably still calls him sir.
This is the man Laurette fucked?
He gestures me into his office. Sleek furniture, glass and chrome. Books arranged by color. Desk so clean it’s sterile. I drag my boot across the polished floor—loud, intentional—and don’t apologize.
“Jon David Bellamy,” he says, extending a hand.
“Andrew Black.”
His grip is firm. Not dominant. I take my time, thumb grazing the bones of his knuckles before I let go. Cufflinks. Rolex. Every detail screams old money. But his eyes flick—just once—to my mouth when I say my name.
I give him the version of the story that sounds believable: bar fight, wrong place, wrong time. Some asshole grabbed my sister, and I snapped.
Bellamy listens with smooth detachment. The look says he’s already built my psychological profile and filed it under predictable.
But his gaze drops. My jaw. My hands. The stretch of fabric across my chest.
Only for a second.
Quick. Controlled.
Still tells me everything.
Twenty minutes of polished bullshit.
He lays it out like he’s doing me a favor—charges, consequences, strategy. Says he can help. Says I’m lucky to have him. I nod and play overwhelmed, like I didn’t script this down to the second.
Then I stand.
“Appreciate your time. But I don’t think I can afford a lawyer of your caliber.”
He leans in, lips parting, ready to offer a solution—a payment plan, deferred fees, some righteous pro bono fantasy. I cut him off before he gets a single word out.
“Unless it’s something off the books,” I add.
That stops him. His mouth stills, eyes narrowing.
I let the pause settle for a moment. “I’ll fuck you. However you want.”
He doesn’t flinch. Not really. But his gaze dips—below my belt, fast, surgical—then back to my face as if nothing happened. He wants to pretend it didn’t, but he’s already there, already picturing it.
“Top, bottom. Doesn’t matter to me.”
The smile stays, but his voice is rougher when he speaks. “Off the books isn’t off the table.”
It’s the safest thing he could say, but there’s something under it—interest, tightly leashed. A man playing it cool with a hard-on pressing against a thousand-dollar suit.
I step back slowly. “You’ve got my number.”
He doesn’t. He’s got the real Andrew Black’s contact info. Let him call it. Let him chase.
I leave him sitting there—hard, and still pretending he has the upper hand.
Back in the car, I grip the wheel and let it settle. Jon David Bellamy is soft. All shine, no threat. Laurette spent too long letting him touch her.
She needs something real.
She needs me.
I’m in my workroom, everything arranged exactly how I like it, when Matt’s knock breaks the quiet—three quick raps, always identical. He steps in with his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes already scanning.
“Silas Rourke, huh? News is calling it a pro hit. Investigation ongoing.”
“Which means they’ve got nothing.” And they won’t. I left no trace.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Another monster off the streets. Nice work, bro.”
I nod. No need to say it. We both understand what it was.
He opens his laptop. “Garden District? That’s high end. Guess this one has money.”
A pause, subtle, a hitch in his rhythm before his fingers move again.
“Full scrape,” I say. “Street cams, traffic feeds, anything residential you can reach.”
“Interior too?”
“If it’s there, I want it.”
He cracks his knuckles and gets to work. “Say no more.”
I want it all. Every room. Every pixel. Every breath she lets the Cloud collect.
He’s buried in the code when he slows again and glances over his shoulder. “Interior feeds? That’s not usually your thing.”
“She’s not usual.”
“She?”
The glow from his screen pulses across his face, casting flickers of blue across his cheekbones. His expression doesn’t shift, but I sense the change.
“Laurette Devereux. ADA.”
Might as well tell him. He’ll find out soon enough.
His hands freeze above the keyboard. Eyes snap to mine. “Assistant District Attorney?”
I don’t move.
“I doubt the ADA hired you to protect her. What the hell are we doing, Bastien?”
I drag a hand across my jaw, slow, deciding to fess up. “This one’s personal.”
He lets out a dry laugh and turns back to the keys, fingers still flying. “Yeah? Please explain why I’m hacking into the Assistant DA’s home network.”
I don’t answer, and Matt stops. He swivels to face me. “Jesus, B. Are you compromised?”
“No.”
Not compromised. Consumed.
She’s under my skin, in my blood, lodged so deeply she’ll never get out.
She’s not a mark.
She’s the line I already crossed.
Matt narrows his eyes. “What the hell is this about?”
Time to come clean.
“I was at a bar. Waiting on Silas Rourke.” I pause and meet his gaze. “There was a group of women behind me talking.”
Matt shifts. Subtle. But it’s there. “And?”
“Laurette told her friends she wanted a man who’s obsessed with her. That’s the word she used. Obsessed.”
He fixes his eyes on me, thrown for a beat. “You heard her say that, and now you’re watching her?”
“I want to know if she meant it. If she wants a man who hears something that dark and answers the call.”
Matt lets out a sharp breath. “Or maybe she was talking shit. A performance for her friends. Not laying out a blueprint for a full-blown stalker fantasy.”
He wasn’t there. He didn’t hear her voice or the heat threaded through those syllables.
It wasn’t a joke. It was a confession.
“She wasn’t pretending. She was aware of what she was asking for.”
Matt doesn’t say anything. He just watches me.
“She asked for obsession. So I’m watching. If she backs off, I’ll vanish. But if she leans in—I won’t let go.”
Matt scoffs, but he doesn’t argue.
He turns back to the screen, typing harder than he needs to. Code flashes, and the feed loads.
“Fuck it,” he says. “Let’s see if your fantasy girl can take the heat.”
Matt’s in within minutes—satellite pings, local routers sniffed, encryptions cracked. One by one, the feeds light up: street view, porch, foyer, living room.
My pulse kicks.
Matt tilts the laptop closed, just enough to break the spell. “Are you going to tell her she’s being watched?”
“I’ll tell her at some point. Let her get off on knowing I see everything.”
“Fuck, Bash.” His jaw locks, fingers hovering. “Of course you’d find a woman who’s into this shit. Can’t you ever do normal?”
“No. Who wants normal?”
Normal is dinner and a movie with sex after the third date. It’s missionary under soft sheets that barely move, two to three times a week. Blowjobs on birthdays and anniversaries.
I want cum-slicked sheets and her on all fours.
Her face buried in the mattress while I fuck every sound out of her.
Bruises in places only I’ll see. Teeth on skin.
Nails down my back. I want to own her breath, her cunt, her ass.
I want to wake her with my cock already inside her.
I want her wrecked and still reaching for more.
I want her craving me like a sickness with no cure.
I want obsession in return.
Normal is dead weight.
Matt exhales, shakes his head, and finishes the hack. “If she runs… you’ll let her go?”
“I will.”
But she won’t. She said obsessed and savored it, the word rolling off her tongue with intent. She didn’t flinch—she welcomed it. Struck the match with a smile. Now she gets the fire.
“She has full surveillance on the whole house, including her bedroom.”
My pulse spikes, and a slow smile spreads across my face. “Lucky me.”
Matt hesitates. “You want her bedroom feed too?”
I don’t blink. “Of course I want the bedroom camera. That’s the one that matters most.”
Matt shakes his head. “This is fucked up. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
And still, he keeps typing.
The screen flickers, and the feed stabilizes.
There she is—live. Real. Now. Barefoot. Curled into the corner of her couch, her robe slipping off one shoulder, laptop balanced on her thighs. The blue light flickers across her skin, her face slack with focus.
“Zoom in. I want to see what she’s looking at.”
Matt leans in, fingers flying across the keys, and the image sharpens—cleaner, tighter.
She’s playing back the moment I slipped the second note into her mailbox.
“She’s trying to see who I am.”
Matt raises a brow. “Or trying to ID the guy stalking her.”
I keep my eyes on her face—focused, composed, devouring the footage.
There’s no fear. Only heat. Curiosity.
She’s not backing away. She wants to play.
“Remember what you said, brother—if she runs, you let her. Don’t force this, Bastien. No good comes from that.”
I nod once. “I hear you.”
Matt checks his watch and stands, stretching. “I’ve got to head out. Got someone coming over.”
“A date?” I ask, brow raised.
He smirks. “Something like that. Try not to look so shocked.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “Hope she knows what she’s in for.”
“She doesn’t,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “That’s the fun part.”
At the door, he pauses. “Good luck with your fantasy girl, B. Hope she’s everything you think she is.”
“Me too,” I say.
But I’m not hoping. I already know.
Once the door clicks shut behind him, I turn back to the monitors. No audience. No interruptions. It’s me, the screens, and her.
I rewind to Monday morning. The second note.
She enters the frame, and every step is deliberate. She scans the street, then reaches for the mailbox. No panic or rush. Her movements speak of control, not caution.
Her fingers close around the envelope. She pauses, looks left, then right. That subtle shift in her shoulder isn’t fear. It’s something else.
Curiosity.
The timestamp reads 6:43 a.m. The mail hadn’t run—nothing ever comes that early. She checked before leaving for work because she wanted to know if it was there. She came out expecting it. Or hoping for it.
She lifts the flap and pulls out the note, reading it right there on the curb. No hesitation. No retreat. She doesn’t flinch or crumble. She absorbs it, turns it over in that brilliant mind of hers, and I already know that whatever path she chooses will lead straight to me.
I scrub back to Saturday. The first note. Just a napkin.
She comes out in her robe, coffee in hand, hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way that makes my pulse jump. She moves with the ease of someone who never expects the world to surprise her.
Until it does.
Her hand brushes the napkin, half-tucked beneath the mail. She stills. Picks it up.
There’s no panic. Only that spark of curiosity, tinged with something darker.
She scans the street, sees nothing, and walks back inside. Measured. Composed. Thinking.
And that’s how I know she’s not backing away.
She’s in.