20. Kaden

20

KADEN

Layla has me in a chokehold.

I catch her silhouette through the kitchen's window as I stand outside, staring at her rather than the expansive view of the peninsula. I take a quick drag from my cigarette, letting it fill my lungs before exhaling slowly. It's been ten years since I quit, but this morning is an exception, and I need a fucking smoke.

The sea-sprayed fog seems to be seeping into my eyes as I study her through the glass. The soft glow of dawn illuminates her, turning her into a ghostly wisp of golden hair and pale skin.

It's a vision that sears itself into my obsession … and fuels more agony.

The nicotine calms the thrumming in my veins, numbing my senses just enough to focus on the task at hand—setting up additional surveillance around the property to further control the environment, with Layla as the main attraction.

I'm not the only one tempted by her. Once Morelli realizes his three thugs failed to acquire her, he'll want to ensure the next attempt will be a success. He did the same with my daughter, and the more difficult a mark Layla becomes, the more likely he'll want to eliminate her himself.

I grimace at the memory, crushing the half-burned cigarette under my heel before moving toward the shed housing more tools. The early morning sunlight glints off the familiar shape of my sniper rifle, stashed away for a time like this.

My fingers itch to reach for it. But that's not what I'm here for right now. I'm not hunting today, I'm fortifying. My gaze skims over the various gadgets strewn across the workbench: tiny cameras, tripwires, and packets of C-4, each instrument another layer in my plan to protect Layla from Morelli's clutches, even while I make her a target.

I set to work on rigging up an extra network of cameras over the dense forest surrounding Layla's house. Each time I drill a hole into the bark, I envision just one more eye watching over her. Beads of sweat trickle down my back as I spend hours scaling trees and rerouting wires, the physical labor a welcome distraction.

At some point, the cold morning gives way to a sunny afternoon. The salty tang of the ocean breeze clashes with the earthy scent of soil and pine. The cries of seagulls carry into the coast, mingling with the whir of my drill.

A fevered urgency to my work propels me forward, my body moving with trained precision despite the ache that begins to creep into my limbs. I ignore it, pushing myself to finish before nightfall.

As I finish installing the last camera, I glance back at the cottage, envisioning Layla inside, her soft blond hair falling around her face, those contrary eyes of hers—one as bright as the future I once had, the other as dark as the one I've chosen. I can almost hear her quiet sigh as she traces my scar with her slender fingers, her lips parted in pure fascination.

I shake my head, dispelling the image that burns too vividly against the backdrop of the darkening forest. The deep moan of a foghorn rolls in from the sea, bringing with it a wave of isolation that mirrors my emptiness within.

"I don't want you, Layla," I murmur to nobody but myself, recalling the harsh words I'd thrown at her during our heated argument.

Each syllable was a lie. Lies formed from a need for self-preservation that came easier than admitting the truth—that every time I look at her, I see what I'm not. A beacon of hope, an undeniable spark of life that hovers above the ashes of my desolate world.

The connection between us is growing, and I can't allow it to go any further. The distraction is too much. Too sweet.

You are just a means to an end, Layla .

Those words resonate in my head like a distorted carousel ride.

Leaping off the final tree, I make my way back toward the house. My feet crunch on the gravel pathway leading up to her front door. Beyond it, I hear snippets of Layla's voice carrying through.

"No, I don't think that's a good idea," Layla says, her voice strained. "I understand it's important, but I can't?—"

She falls silent, listening. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"Yes, I know it's crucial for the company, Mr. Dawson," she continues, a note of resignation creeping into her voice. "But surely someone else can handle it? I've documented everything thoroughly."

She's on a work call, trying to assert herself, trying to pierce through her own cloud of isolation. By now, I'm aware that giving up isn't in her nature.

"I appreciate the opportunity, but given my current situation..." She takes a deep breath. "No, I'm not asking for special treatment. I just need you to understand that I can't be there in person."

Her fingers drum against her thigh as she listens, her frustration palpable. I pause at the threshold, listening to her steady voice and the measured way she speaks, even when she's frustrated. It's a stubbornness that keeps her pushing forward despite the hazards.

Through the mudroom, I catch sight of Layla pacing back and forth in front of her couch. She throws a hand up in exasperation, almost knocking over a lampshade that casts long shadows on the floorboards.

"Did you just ask me on a date?" she asks into the phone.

I want to rip that man apart.

Layla says, her voice ice cold, "My personal life is not up for discussion. Now, about the remote access?—"

She's cut off again, and I can see the tension in her jaw as she clenches her teeth.

"Fine," she says finally, defeat evident in her tone. "Goodbye, Mr. Dawson."

Layla ends the call and tosses her phone onto the couch.

An acrid taste swirls in my mouth as rage bubbles, at the thought of her so-called supervisor.

I've read up on him—Emmett Dawson—and I don't like what I've found. He's not just a sleazy boss who can't keep his hands off Layla; he's also deep in the pockets of Morelli.

Swallowing down the rancor, I step over the threshold. Layla spins around at the deliberate creak of the floorboard under my shoe. Her gaze narrows, her plush mouth settling into a thin line. With her hands on her hips, she takes me in from head-to-toe, noting the sweat glistening on my brow.

"You're back," she says.

"Yes."

"Is everything … secure?" she asks, not entirely meeting my stare.

"As secure as it can be," I reply.

I drop my drill on a nearby table and unlace my boots, pretending ignorance. "Who was that?"

Layla sighs. "That was Emmett Dawson. He's insisting I attend this corporate event tonight. Some kind of tech showcase the company's hosting."

She moves to the kitchen, busying herself with pouring water into a kettle. "It's just a glorified PR stunt, really. Showing off our latest security protocols to potential clients. Normally, I'd be all over it. It's a chance to present my work, network, that sort of thing. But given that I'm not allowed to leave my house ... are you going to say anything?"

I blink, realizing I've fallen into the soothing cadence of her voice and was unintentionally mesmerized by her graceful movements as she goes about her nightly routine of hot tea and a book.

She asks over her shoulder, "No disapproving grunts? No snippy orders reminding me to stay put?"

"Isn't that understood?" I say, my voice gruff even to my own ears.

"Right," she whispers after a while over the low rumble of the boiling water.

Layla turns when she notices me crossing the room, tracking my movements with a steady intensity that makes my trigger finger twitch, a reflex I can't quite control. It itches to eliminate anyone who dares to threaten her .

I stop at the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.

"Did he say anything else?" I ask.

She diverts her attention to the steaming kettle.

"No," she says too quickly, her voice a notch higher than usual.

"Are you sure, Wraithling?"

My question is as musical as ice cracking under heated pressure.

"He asked me to be his date to the conference," she admits, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Something snaps inside me. In two strides, I'm across the kitchen, crowding her against the counter. My hands slam down on either side of her, caging her in.

"If he ever asks you that again, I'll peel the skin from his fingers. I'll carve out his tongue and feed it to him. I'll make him beg for death long before I grant it."

Layla stops breathing, the whites of her eyes visible. But there's no trepidation in them, only a fervor that matches the inferno raging inside me.

"You are not his to pursue," I continue, lowering my head. Her scent—coconut and sea salt—fills my senses. "You are under my protection. My ... care."

My focus drops to her open mouth, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to claim it, not to hoist her onto the counter and show her exactly who she belongs to.

Instead, I force myself to step back, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

"Do you understand?" I ask, my voice rough.

Layla nods, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I understand," she whispers, a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher flitting across her face.

I give her the cold shoulder, needing to put distance between us before I lose what little control I have left.

"Good," I mutter.

"Where are you going?" she asks behind me.

"I still have work to do."

The lie slips out smoothly.

As I stalk out of the kitchen, I can feel Layla's eyes burning into my back.

And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that this woman will be my undoing.