Chapter 25
Bastien Montclaire
Every morning starts the same—routine, precision, and control.
The scent of rich espresso drifts through my space—a luxury home carved out of stone and silence. Clean lines and high ceilings. Everything has its place. No warmth or mess. Nothing that lingers.
It’s meant to be untouchable. And for years, it has been.
But now? Things are different.
It’s been days since I’ve seen her, too long since I’ve had her beneath me, breathless and shaking.
Not because I don’t want her. Because I want her too much. And every hour I don’t touch her, the need claws deeper. It’s wild, restless, and becoming impossible to contain.
There’s something feral in me now, a desire that stolen nights and whispered needs won’t satisfy. It wants all of her—every breath, every heartbeat. This hunger-turned-addiction is dark and unquenchable.
I don’t want to leave her aching. I want to push in so deep she forgets what life was like before me.
Watching her isn’t enough. Craving her isn’t enough.
I want permanence and control.
Her. Entire. Fucking. World.
She’s not a game. She’s a necessity, and I’ll burn everything to keep her.
But I’ve stepped back to give her space, allow her to breathe… and let myself ache.
Still, I haven’t stopped watching her.
The screen flickers to life as I open the surveillance feed on my laptop, and there she is. The live footage from her living room spills across the monitor.
She’s at her laptop, hair twisted into that messy bun I love so much. Reading, typing, pacing, talking to herself in low bursts of frustration, but the words never quite make it past her lips.
She’s working a case, pouring everything into it.
Whatever the accused did, it’s keeping her focused and fierce. And I respect the hell out of it. She’s chasing justice for victims, people who learned the world would let them shatter before it would ever bleed for them.
That fire in her spine? It’s the part of her I want most.
So I’ve stayed away and been quiet. She deserves this win. But the longer I sit in this house, the more that restraint costs me. My hands itch to touch her. My jaw grinds at the memory of her moans. Every second without her coils tighter around my ribs.
Giving her space was supposed to be an act of consideration. Instead, it’s a punishment I can’t endure.
I want her.
I need a distraction—something sharp and brutal that puts control back in my hands.
By early afternoon, I’m at the firing range. Nothing but concrete and cold steel under humming industrial lights. The air smells of gun oil and cordite.
Here, in the rhythm of recoil and reload, I find precision again.
Slide. Load. Aim. Fire.
Each target is a stand-in for people who deserve to die. I don’t miss.
The rhythm soothes me. Inhale. Squeeze. Release. Again and again, until my shoulders ache and the noise in my head dulls to one thing.
Laurette—her name fires through me like a shot I keep taking.
The way she moans when I break her open, the way she reaches for more—those things have seared her into every inch of me.
The burner phone vibrates in my pocket. Short buzz. Once.
No hesitation. No doubt. The buzz is her.
I set the gun down on the shelf in front of me and pull the phone from my pocket. One new message.
It’s been 3 days.
My mouth curves, but not quite into a smile. It’s something darker and hungrier.
Satisfaction.
She broke first. I knew she would. Because I left her aching, left her wondering, left her trying to pretend this thing between us could be starved.
It can’t be. I made sure of that.
I type back fast.
Do you miss me?
The reply comes quickly.
Very much. I want to see you.
There it is, the snap of tension giving way. The moment control shifts.
She’s mine again.
Everything inside me tightens. The steel grip of restraint slips for half a second, and hunger surges through me.
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Tonight. 10:00.
How do you want me? Kneeling? Lingerie? Blindfolded?
I grin.
Fuck, she knows how to get under my skin. Knows what language to use, what questions to ask, what image will crawl inside my head and stay there.
Depends. Is this a silent surrender night?
No, not after the day I’ve had.
My smile dies, cold and instant, like a switch being flipped. My pulse spikes, but not from lust. It’s something different.
Protectiveness.
What happened?
I don’t ask. Not yet. That question comes later.
We’ll have any kind of night you want. Your choice.
I need you to make me feel safe tonight.
Something cracks open inside me. Her need cuts sharper than any scream.
What happened to her?
Someone made her feel unsafe, and that isn’t fucking acceptable. Not for her. Not ever.
You’re always safe in my arms, and you’re going to see that tonight.
I can’t wait to have your arms around me.
See you soon, Babygirl.
Her trust pulls harder than adrenaline, harder than bloodlust. It consumes everything in me.
And whoever rattled her sense of safety will pay for it. They’ll never get near her again.
I raise the gun, breathe in, then out. My last shot is clean, sharp, surgical. Dead center.
Laurette needs safety.
She’ll get my devotion and protection. Also my worship and ownership.
She’ll get me.
I swing by the florist after the range, grabbing a bundle of deep burgundy roses. Their dark velvet petals are nearly black, sin pressed into bloom. Fitting.
Next stop is the bakery. I pick up a box of her favorite pastries from the best bakery in New Orleans. Croissants. Danishes. Something glazed and sticky. Sweet things for my sweet girl.
At home, I reach for a pen and scrawl a note in my best handwriting:
For my sweet babygirl.
—B
I tuck the note inside the bakery box and head to the bathroom. The shower’s quick. Hot water pounding down, washing off the gunpowder and the tension that’s been building for days. I dry off and dress in jeans and a black tee.
Back in the living room, I flick on the TV. Something mindless, violent, and loud. But I don’t hear a damn word. My body’s still, but my mind isn’t. Every minute stretches, strung tightly with the promise of her.
I watch the clock more than the screen, counting down.
It’s go-time.
The warm night air is still. I step out, bakery box in one hand, roses in the other, skeleton mask tucked into my back pocket.
She doesn’t need the blindfold tonight. I won’t put her in the dark.
She needs light, clarity, and control.
So I’ll give it to her. I’ll wear the mask so she doesn’t have to wear the blindfold.
Something made her uneasy, and I won’t be another shadow in the dark. Not tonight.
The engine thrums beneath me as I slip through the quieter streets, routes only locals know, the ones that avoid traffic. Wet pavement gleams under scattered lights. Red signals bleed through the dark.
It’s not far.
Her street is still when I ease to a stop. Dim porch lights. Drawn curtains. That late-night hush that settles over everything.
I don’t move like a ghost tonight. No dodging cameras or calculated approach.
The knob turns beneath my hand. I step inside and ease the door shut behind me.
I slip the mask on. A predator’s face, worn for the girl who craves the hunt.
I don’t lock the front door out of fear. I lock it because I already know I’m staying overnight.
The house is quiet. Still. Only the kitchen light glows. Low and soft above the stove, casting long shadows down the hall.
I set the pastries on the counter beside the roses, propping the note against the box.
She’ll find my gifts in the morning.
Every step down the hall winds me tighter. I reach her door, and my hand hovers for a moment.
It’s quiet inside, that charged silence before something shatters. And fuck, I’m ready to splinter into a thousand jagged pieces.
The door glides open on silent hinges. Only a smooth swing as I enter, every breath in me going still.
She’s kneeling in the center of the bed, back straight, hands resting on her thighs.
Her lingerie is pale pink, the color of innocence. It clings to every curve like a second skin. The neckline is low enough to tempt but high enough to tease. A matching blindfold covers her eyes.
Her dark hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, baring her neck.
She doesn’t speak or flinch. Just breathes—slow, steady, and composed—like she’s not afraid. Like she’s ready.
She waits—soft, trusting, and open. It knocks the air out of me, the way she gives herself over with no hesitation or fear.
She’s not a game tonight, not a conquest. She’s something fragile.
I close the distance. It’s only a few steps, but they seem long. The mattress dips as I climb onto the bed, moving forward until I’m right behind her.
My arms slide around her waist, firm but gentle, pulling her back into me. She radiates a calm thrum I crave.
She’s blindfolded and facing forward. I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in—vanilla, cherry, and something floral underneath it. Jasmine, maybe. Or whatever temptation smells like when it’s wrapped in warm skin.
She sighs, soft and content against my chest. And I stay like that for a moment. Holding her, breathing her in, letting her scent thread through every jagged, fractured piece of me.
“Why did you stay away from me so long?”
I lean in, my breath brushing the shell of her ear. “I held back because I didn’t want to push too far, too fast. You’ve been under a lot of pressure at work. I see it.”
Her spine loosens, and her shoulders ease against me.
“I appreciate that. Really, I do. But I need to turn my brain off from work sometimes. Tonight is one of those times.”
Something in me locks into place and settles. My fingers lace around hers, pulling her closer into my arms.
“Then that’s what I’ll give you. You asked for safety tonight, and I’ll make damn sure you have it.”
Tonight isn’t about shadows or hunger or limits. It’s not about control or the chase.
This is about being her safe place.