6. Kaden

6

KADEN

I'm slowly, delightfully driving Layla mad.

She's been working tirelessly to outsmart her mysterious watcher.

First, Layla covers all the cameras—that she can find. I'm nothing if not meticulous and choosy on where to install my backup surveillance. Using the hidden lenses she'll never find around her modest home, I watch her carefully assemble a homemade signal jammer, hoping to disrupt my wireless communications.

She fails, of course, but she uses up a good amount of my time in stopping her.

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 to leave.

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, or perhaps 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.

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.

But I lose myself in the image, hypnotized by her every move.

Her fingers move faster, her nails dragging lightly across sensitive skin. My own palm presses against the cool glass surface of the monitor, my dormant heart reawakened. I bite back a groan as she arches her back, her breast rising to meet her seeking hand. When she closes her eyes and throws her head back in modest ecstasy, I can't bear it anymore.

Pushing away from the desk so violently it nearly topples, I flick off the monitors, the room plunging into darkness again. I can still feel her, though—her presence permeating every pore of my being.

This isn't right. She shouldn't be doing this.

But I can't deny that I want her.

I spin, pressing myself against the cold wall behind me, trying to find some semblance of calm amid the havoc she's created. My hand fists, knuckles white from the strain. I know I should stop, but I can't.

My mind races, imagining what she's doing, what I could be doing to her. The softness of her skin against my rough grip, the slick, wet sounds of her pleasure echoing through the empty room. I close my eyes tightly as I try to picture it, try to feel it.

It's not enough.

An ache grows deep inside, a hunger only she can satiate. And so I succumb, dropping to my knees before the blacked-out monitors.

I stroke myself, imagining her hand instead, guiding me with those delicate fingers. Her gasps of pleasure become my gasps for breath, and soon, they mingle together in a symphony of need and longing. My hips jerk forward, faster and faster, my entire being consumed by this forbidden fantasy.

I roar, my orgasm overwhelming in one powerful release, my back curving as if hit by lightning. Cum splatters against the cool glass screen, warmth spreading between my fingers.

I fall forward, trembling, panting like a beast unleashed.

This shouldn't be happening—no one should feel this way about their captor or stalker or whatever she thinks I am or what she is to me.

I wipe my hand on my pants, still unsteady from the intensity of my release. When I finally gather enough strength to stand, I glance at the blank screen, wondering if she's done with her performance.

The screen flickers to life, and there she is—Layla near the side of her bed, sipping her wine, setting it down, then guiding one strap down her shoulder.

My blood runs cold.

"Wraithling," I say, low and feral as I lean closer to the screen. "What have you done?"

Layla must have set up some sort of loop, taunting me with an endless replay of her undressing to incapacitate me and give her time to escape my watch.

I growl under my breath, snatching my phone from the desk and storming out of the warehouse. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment, but I decide against sending Layla any threatening messages.

Words are unnecessary. Punishment is what matters now.