Chapter 11
The Devil is Watching. And He’s Amused.
Asher
The penthouse is finally quiet, but the silence doesn’t settle the way it should.
It hangs heavy, dense, threaded with the ghost of bodies, sweat, and spilled champagne—and the faintest memory of her still clinging to my fingers.
Nights like this are supposed to leave me satisfied, smug even. Victorious.
But not tonight.
I sit in my office, the bourbon on my desk untouched, and monitors casting a cold blue glow across the glass walls. My attention is locked on one screen. One face. One problem.
Violet Cole.
The party footage flickers on the largest monitor, replaying for what feels like the hundredth time.
The living room is pure chaos—bodies tangled and desperate, pleasure thick in the air, the kind of decadence people pretend they didn’t enjoy.
But she stood apart from all of it. Still.
Quiet. Watching like she was cataloging every breath.
Her eyes didn’t glaze over. They sharpened.
Her lips parted—not innocent or shocked—curious. And that curiosity? That hunger? It hit like a punch to the sternum.
She didn’t know what she was doing to herself. Or to me.
A flush crept up her throat. Her fingers tightened on her glass. And the moment she pressed her thighs together, the smallest shift—a tell I know better than any man alive—
I feel it again. Low. Immediate. Violent.
I switch to another angle with a flick of my wrist. The hallway.
There she is, stumbling out of the room—flushed, breathless, and overwhelmed in a way she would never admit.
And then I’m there.
On screen. In the shadows. Closing the distance she thought she needed.
I hit play.
I lean back in my chair as the darkened room appears, the door slamming shut behind us in perfect, and unforgivable silence.
As the scene plays out I see it—the moment her body betrays her.
Her dress rides up, my hands forcing it higher, exposing her thick, creamy thighs, and her trembling form.
The cameras don’t have sound—something I fully intend to fix—but I don’t need it. I remember every gasp. Every shiver. The way her thighs clenched around my hand like she was begging without saying the words.
I inhale through my nose, sharp and slow, and drag my gaze back to the screen.
My cock throbs against my zipper, and I push my chair back slightly undoing the button of my slacks with one hand.
On screen, my fingers tease her, barely a touch before I dip lower. I watch as she shudders, her head falling back against my shoulder, and lips parting in silent surrender.
I push my pants down just enough, my hand slipping beneath the waistband of my briefs, and wrapping around my already aching length.
The way she moved against my hand. The way she fought, just for a moment, that last shred of defiance before I shattered it.
My grip tightens as I watch myself thrust my fingers inside her, my other hand gripping her hip, and keeping her locked against me.
She broke so beautifully.
I stroke myself slowly, my breath coming heavier as I watch the way her body responded, the way she rocked into my touch, and how she let me unravel her in the dark.
I remember how tight she was around my fingers, the way her body clenched when she came.
My jaw locks as pleasure coils low in my stomach, my movements matching the rhythm I had set for her earlier. I watch her body tremble on screen, the way she gasped, her panting.
My teeth clench, my body tensing as I chase the high. My strokes quicken, my grip firmer, and the sight of her unraveling pushes me closer.
And then, just like earlier, I shove her over the edge.
She comes apart in my hands on the screen—her thighs shaking, and her head goes back. And I follow, pleasure snapping through me, my breath ragged as I spill over my hand.
A sharp exhale. My body tightens, then slackens, satisfaction thick in my veins.
A rough exhale tears out of me. My body relaxes, but the satisfaction hits only for a second before something else twists in its place.
I left her like that.
Panting. Shaking. Alone.
I shouldn’t give a damn. I shouldn’t care how she ended the night, whether she caught her breath, or collapsed onto the floor, or crawled out into the hallway on weak knees.
But I care enough to be irritated by the fact that I care.
I reach for a napkin on my desk and wipe my hand clean, movements slow and controlled, but my jaw ticks, the muscle tightening as the footage loops again—that moment her body caved in my hands like she was made for it. For me.
I should delete it.
I don’t.
I move my attention to the second monitor—the one I shouldn’t have on her at all.
Her apartment feed glows softly in the dark.
Domestic. Ordinary. Almost painfully wholesome.
She’s in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove while Ella runs circles around her.
She laughs—the kind of laugh that hits you somewhere stupid and soft.
She leans down to kiss the top of her sister’s head before shooing her away from the oven.
She has no idea I’m watching.
Or that I’ve been watching.
For days now, I’ve memorized the tiny pieces of her life. The way she rubs her temple when she’s frustrated. The way her lips purse when she reads something she doesn’t agree with. The way she collapses onto her couch like she’s melting at the end of every long day.
I told myself it was necessary. Strategic. Smart.
Then I installed the bedroom cameras.
Not so smart anymore.
On the feed, she’s stretched on her bed, book in hand, while hair falls over one shoulder in a messy, unconscious curl. The lamp casts this soft halo across her skin, and the room feels smaller because of it—like the world narrows down to this one quiet moment.
My stomach tightens again, low and unwelcome.
She shifts, absently dragging her fingers across her collarbone, and a sharp breath punches out of me before I can stop it. She doesn’t know what she does to a room. She doesn’t know how her absence hits harder than most people’s presence.
This isn’t control. This is something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something I should crush before it crushes me.
I slam the bourbon back in one pull, the burn doing nothing to quiet the storm inside me.
My hand moves to the monitor, hovering over the pause button, but I can’t bring myself to press it.
Instead, I watch as she sets the book aside and lets her head fall back against the pillow.
Her eyes flutter shut, her breathing slow and even.
The simplicity of it twists in my chest. She looks peaceful, blissfully unaware of the storm she’s caught in—unaware of the fire she’s stoked in me.
I hate it. I hate that she’s gotten under my skin, that she’s turning my focus into something messy and uncontrolled.
I’m supposed to want her for the drug, for the money it will generate, and for the leverage she represents.
But it’s not just about that anymore. It’s about the way her lips parted at the party, the way she holds Ella close when she thinks no one’s watching, and the way her laughter echoes through that tiny apartment like it’s made of gold.
It’s about her.
And that is the most dangerous thing of all.