Page 31 of Black Heart
After leaving an open can of tuna for Reaper, I take the dilapidated staircase leading up to the loft. The old structure creaks and groans under my weight, as if protesting my intrusion into its forgotten realm. I reach the top of the stairs and enter the dimly lit room, the flickering glow of the monitors casting a spectral light.
My gaze is drawn to the screens, and there I see her, like an ethereal vision framed by the camera’s unyielding eye. I only allowed myself to leave her watch for ten minutes while I slapped together a sandwich and guzzled water from the sink.
An inexplicable longing seizes me, making it impossible to look away. I’m captivated by Layla’s every gesture, from the way she tucks a strand of wheat-blond hair behind her ear, to the soft curve of her lips as she hums a bittersweet melody while she turns in for the night. I doubt she knows she’s doing it.
I cock my head at her nighttime routine. Either Layla’s given up on destroying my electronic surveillance or the piece of the hitman I sent her has convinced her that she’s better off with a guardian shadowing her every move.
My Wraithling is sensible. She understands the need for me.
Lifting my fingers for one last, delicious inhale, I take my seat in front of the largest monitor.
I’m also a sensible man. Coldly so. And I realize that I’m not just observing a woman who’s unwittingly become entangled in my dark world; I’m witnessing the embodiment of everything I’ve lost and can never have again. Layla represents the innocence and light that have long since been extinguished within me, replaced by a void of despair and bitterness.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, the words a harsh reminder of the chasm that separates me from her.
Yet even as I berate myself for succumbing to the temptation of watching her, I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. The magnetic pull between us is undeniably powerful. She must feel it, too. Layla curved against that railing for me, the metal trembling under her orgasm, threatening to send her plunging into the ocean sixty feet below.
But she let me finger fuck her. She curved her pussy into my hand like she would gladly fall out of the sky in the throes of what I gave her.
I’d never let her fall. But I’m also never going to let herfree.
As the night unfolds, I remain rooted to my post, the flickering images on the surveillance monitors holding me captive. I know I should leave and put distance between myself and the woman who threatens to shatter my carefully constructed barriers. But as the hours slip by, I find myself unable—or unwilling—to turn away from the haunting beauty of Layla Verona.
The weight of my original directive—to kill her—stirs around me, taunting and relentless.
On the screen, Layla moves gracefully about her room. She’s wearing a short white nightgown that clings to her body,revealing every curve as she prepares for bed. My breath hitches, my heart pounding against my chest.
“Dammit all to hell,” I curse under my breath, trying to distance myself from the visceral reaction her mere pixelated presence evokes.
As Layla settles into bed, I expect her to read a little, as she always does, making it three pages before she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.
Tonight, she does no such thing.
Her brows are tensed in thought. Layla keeps her eyes hooded, but I’ve watched her so often I’m familiar with every move, tic, or habit she falls into when she thinks no one’s looking.
Her lashes flutter in a poor attempt to disguise where her focus is: on my camera. She starts chewing on her lower lip, her exquisite jawline tensing and releasing as she debates whether to unleash some sort of rebellion.
I smile.
After three days of uneventful patrols around her property, I’m looking forward to how she’ll attempt to incense me next.
My Wraithling would never simply give up.
Leaning back, I rip open a package of red licorice and stare at the screen, chewing slowly.
Her hand slides beneath the sheets. The sight sends a jolt of electricity through me, straightening my spine and dropping the candy to the floor.
My mouth goes dry when the small tent of her hand moves toward her center.
I take a deep breath. She moves her fingers in a slow, steady rhythm. I can’t look away, transfixed by the sight of her exploring her own body with a savage hunger that matches my own. I feel my restraint slipping with each passing moment.
But my resolve only lasts for so long. Eventually, I give in to temptation and engage the microphone.
“Missing my fingers, Wraithling?”
Layla’s hand freezes. She looks up, directly into the camera, her mismatched eyes locking with mine. Something passes between us, primal and powerful.
“You better be thinking of me while fucking yourself,” I warn.