Page 14 of Black Heart
Next, she returns to the basics. Homemade decoys made out of her clothing shoved over pillows and mirrors clutter her living space, creating confusing reflections and movements that aim to mislead my cameras. That alone signals to me she’s aware her watcher would have installed backup, unseen surveillance. Clever girl.
She also experiments with high-frequency sound emitters, attempting to scramble any audio surveillance.
Layla’s resourcefulness is undeniable, but she underestimates her opponent at every turn.
“Persistent, isn’t she?” I murmur to Reaper as he’s winding between my legs.
Layla makes a final attempt to hack into my security system’s network again, seeking access to the controls or, at the very least, the identity of her mysterious watcher.
“Good luck with that.” I smirk, confident in the military-grade encryption protecting my system.
My fingers dance across the keyboard, ensuring the encryption is in place on the surveillance system. It’s nearly impossible for her to hack in, but I find myself silently cheering her on.
As Layla disrupts one signal, my system automatically switches to another frequency. The high-frequency emitters she uses cause a brief disturbance, but I’ve installed sound filters that quickly adapt and clear the audio interference. Despite the decoys, I use sophisticated image recognition software that can differentiate between Layla’s real movements and the false signals.
“Such tenacity, Wraithling.” I admire her skills while ensuring I remain one step ahead. “But you won’t find me that easily.”
As Layla’s attempts to outsmart me continue to prove futile, my interest in her deepens. I’m more captivated by her personality and ingenuity than I ever anticipated.
She’s quick thinking, I’ll give her that. But what impresses me the most out of all this is her outright refusal toleave.
Throughout the weekend, Layla plants herself in the lightkeeper’s house like a poisonous mushroom, ceding no ground to my new but deeply implanted roots. I had a whole plan in place if she did—access to her credit cards and bank accounts,shutting them down if she so much as attempted a hotel room or escape from town.
Yet it turns out, my efforts to block her freedom were unwarranted.
This slip of a girl wants to play.
Hours skipped by as I counter-attacked her methods, my time transgressing as quick as the fog hugging the city of Greycliff like a shroud. As time ticks by, it wraps itself around the ancient buildings with a ghostly embrace outside the iron-railed windows near my perch in an abandoned fisherman’s warehouse on the docks. The fisherman’s warehouse appears timeworn, with rickety wooden beams and the salty ocean air that seeps through the cracks, leaving its mark on the once vibrant floorboards, now a sun-faded gray. Yet it’s strategically advantageous. It offers an unimpeded view of Layla’s home and the city in general while remaining hidden from prying eyes.
When I initially broke in, I thought I’d be alone with the dust and solitude. The only signs of life were some long-forgotten fishing nets cast haphazardly aside and the soft lapping of waves against the docks outside.
I was wrong.
Plunged in the farthest corner, hidden by stacked crates, I found I wasn’t the only squatter. There in the dim light, I noticed green eyes glittering with a fierce protectiveness over a litter of kittens bundled together against the cold drafts that filtered in through the warehouse cracks.
My initial reaction was to drive them out. To eliminate any possible disruptions to my work here. But the sight of the kittens, barely a week old and so vulnerable, had stirred something in me. A flicker of compassion, a protective instinct that seemed so alien now that I’ve paved it over with ruthlessness.
I’m driven by need—an insatiable hunger for justice, orperhaps revenge—but also tethered by a code that forbids harm to the innocent. And what is more innocent than these small lives, blindly mewling for their mother’s comfort?
Their mother, with her ominous demeanor and emerald eyes promising death, immediately deserved my name.
“Good evening, Reaper,” I murmur as she returns to me and prowls around my legs, her coat an obsidian shadow against the faint glow of my machines.
I sigh through gritted teeth. “All right, I guess you’re staying.”
A soft purr reverberates from her slender throat, a begrudging acceptance of me as her kittens’ uninvited guardian.
Rising on stiff legs, I bundle her litter to my chest using the fishing nets she’d collected. I glance down to find the runt of the litter nuzzling into my chest, its tiny heart beating like a trapped bird. Its trust is immediate and without question, something so pure it stings.
I create a little corner for them in the warehouse, cordoning off a part that traps the least breeze and is warmest. At the edge of this space, I place bowls of water and tuna cans for Reaper.
Reaper carefully stalks my movements until I’ve settled the kittens in their new space and she curls around them. Her low growl reverberates through the quiet evening, but she doesn’t attack. There is an understanding between us. Two predators, different by nature but bound by a silent pact to protect the weak. Almost akin to respect.
By Sunday at midnight, I’m chastising myself for becoming so distracted. I’ve ignored one contract kill already, and from the buzzing of my encrypted phone, I’m avoiding another. But I can’t stop.
Layla is so very intriguing, and while I don’t yet need to kill her, I also don’t want to give her up.
I lean back in my chair, a mixture of admiration and frustration simmering inside me. She’s good, damn good. But I can’t afford to stay inside and battle her, not now, not when Morelli is still out there.