Page 15 of Black Heart

I watch Layla through the feed—her determined expression as she stalks into her bedroom and the way her brow furrows in concentration. She’s become more than just a mission; she’s under my skin, in my head. And that’s dangerous.

I type a quick command, pausing the feed.

But as I continue to stare at the monitor, I can’t shake the feeling of regret. What am I doing? This isn’t just surveillance anymore. It’s bordering on obsession.

I stand, pacing the length of my hideout. I need to refocus and remember why I’m here. Morelli is the target; Layla is just the bait. But the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I glance back at the screens, Layla’s image frozen.

My brows tighten the longer I stare.

She has one hand up to her shoulder as if she’s about to lower the strap to her tank top, a move I have yet to log in my growing spreadsheet of her activities.

Usually, she goes into her attached bathroom to change, and while I installed cameras behind her mirrors and it takes all my manpower to turn away when she undresses, I’m not into the fetish of watching someone relieve themselves, so I give her the privacy and dignity of walking away from my monitors when the need arises.

This time, it’s different.

She’s not walking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut, not-so-subtly informing me to stop looking.

I prowl back to the computer. My hand hovers over the mouse. I’d like to fucking look.

Click.

The video plays, revealing her bedroom in high-definition clarity. This camera is behind her jewelry box on her vanity and is directly centered on her bed.

I watched her sleep last night. It was soothing. I’ve always been in the dark, and the silence is welcome. I return to my seat and type rapidly on the keys, bringing up security footage from multiple angles, all trained on Layla’s bedroom. Her movements are mesmerizing, like a dance only for me. Every breath, every glance, every flick of her hair or sip of wine is captured.

This night, however, she’s dressed in pink satin.

My eye twitches at the sight. I didn’t notice that before, and I notice everything.

I’m glued to the screen as she lets her hair down slowly, savoring the moment. Her lips part in a slight smile that sends a shiver into my groin. A rustle of cloth fills my ears, her body moving fluidly under the thin fabric. She runs her fingers along the hemline suggestively, daring me.

My heart pounds, my breaths shallow. Layla’s taunting me, that much is obvious, but if someone were to sneak up behind me and shoot me in the head, I still wouldn’t look away.

Suddenly, she looks directly into the camera, our gazes locking. A smirk curves her lush lips upward.

“I know you’re there,” she whispers, her voice a low purr that sends an ecstatic shudder down my spine.

“Wraithling.”

My palm sweats as I grip the mouse tighter. Her nickname rolls over the tongue like a whiskey burn, a name she can’t truly understand, but I croon it like she’s mine.

Yet her bicolored eyes flash. Layla’s still so defiant, so unafraid.

She could be my undoing.

“You would taste so sweet,” I say, my voice a husk of itself.

I clench my jaw, trying to focus on priorities but finding it impossible.

Layla purses her lips and begins to dance—a sultry waltz to silent music that makes the air heavy around me. Each undulation accentuates her hips, breasts, the curve of her neck. She’s too tempting, both spectral and tangible, like I could reach out and stroke my screen, able to touch her skin.

I struggle to breathe as she leans closer, palming her vanity and putting the tops of her breasts on display. My fingers twitch in reflex, longing to trace the outlines of those curves. Her eyes lock on mine once more, rolling her lips in an invitation.

“You like what you see?” she purrs, her voice a low rumble that makes me swallow hard. “I thought you might.”

She trails a fingertip over her collarbone, down to where her breast peeks through the lace fabric. Her other hand slides beneath the thin material, cupping herself intimately. She moans softly, and it’s like a knife to the gut. The sound of her arousal rings in my barren warehouse, mixing with the grinding of my teeth.