4.

Lash

The moon is high, casting an eerie gleam over the bayou as I slip out of my house and cross the yard to Mega"s. The night wraps around me like a cloak, concealing my movements. The thrill of the hunt pulses through my veins, each step calculated, every breath measured. I"m careful not to make a sound as I approach her door, slipping the lock with practiced ease.

She's a good girl for locking it like I told her. It means she wants no men inside the house. Other than me.

Breaking and entering always was one of my specialties, after all.

Inside, the house is dark and silent. The air feels charged, heavy with the weight of my presence. I let my eyes adjust, the faint outlines of furniture emerging from the shadows. My gaze fixes on the staircase. She"s up there, asleep, oblivious to the danger lurking in her home.

I tread lightly up the steps, each creak of the old wood like a gunshot in the quiet. When I reach her bedroom door, I push it open just enough to slip inside. Moonlight spills through the window, bathing the room in a soft glow.

She"s there, tangled in her blankets, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her hair spreads across the pillow, framing her face. The sight of her stirs something deep within me, a mix of desire and longing that borders on obsession. Being this close to her, watching her sleep, it"s intoxicating.

I move closer, my footsteps soundless on the worn floorboards. I crouch beside her bed, studying her. In sleep, she looks so peaceful, so young. Her lips, slightly parted, beckon me closer. I reach out, my fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The contact sends a shiver through me, electrifying me.

"You"re so beautiful," I whisper, my voice barely a breath. "So perfect."

She squirms slightly at my touch, her nightgown slipping down her shoulder to reveal a scar. My eyes narrow, rage bubbling up at the sight. My fists clench, but I force myself to stay calm. Now is not the time. She needs my protection, not my anger.

I let my hand trail down her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw. She stirs but doesn't wake, her body relaxing again. I lean in, unable to resist the pull any longer, and press a soft kiss to her lips. They're warm, inviting, and I linger a moment, savoring the sweetness of the contact.

"Sleep well, my love," I whisper against her skin, then pull back.

I straighten, taking one last look at her before slipping out of the room. Every nerve is on edge as I make my way back downstairs, out the door, and into the night. The thrill of the intrusion, of being so close to her without her knowing, courses through me. But there's more than just thrill; there's a deep, unshakable need to protect her, to keep her safe from men like me.

Men like me. But not me.