THE UNSEEN EYE

Damien

I sat at the edge of her bed, my fingers twitching against my thigh as I watched her. Amelia . Soft. Still. Completely fucking oblivious. Her breathing was steady, rhythmic, like nothing in her fragile little world had just imploded . She had no idea I was here, no clue how close she was to the darkness sitting inches away, claws itching to rip through the calm she wore like a fucking shield.

I should have felt triumphant. Jake was dealt with—his body a grotesque smear of meat and memory, buried somewhere no one would ever find. The scene was clean, tied up in a neat, bloody bow like I always did. But that victory? Hollow . Meaningless . Because even with that bastard gone, the storm inside me wouldn’t settle. All I could see was her. This perfect, breakable thing, lying there so peacefully while I burned .

My jaw tightened as I ran a hand through my hair, still sticky from Jake’s blood. I should’ve washed it off. Should’ve left. But I couldn’t . Something about her anchored me here, like a damn leash I hadn’t agreed to wear. She didn’t just worm her way under my skin; she fucking dug in . I looked at her and felt that raw, unrelenting itch to destroy —to leave my mark so deeply that no one could ever remove it. Not even her.

The worst part? She had seen me. Earlier, when her eyes locked on mine, it wasn’t just fear staring back at me. No. It was something else. Something… alive . She didn’t just see a monster. She saw the truth . And instead of breaking, she held onto it. That pissed me off even more.

My fingers curled into fists. I wanted to punish her for it, for making me feel this—this thing I couldn’t name. Rage? Lust? Fuck , maybe both. It clawed at me, begged to be unleashed, but something stopped me. That look in her eyes. That flicker of something deeper. She wasn’t afraid in the way she should’ve been. She didn’t crumble. She saw me, and instead of recoiling, she dared to reach into the abyss.

I leaned forward, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. Her scent flooded my senses—soft, tempting , a perfect contradiction to the chaos she had unleashed in me. She smelled like peace, like safety, and I hated it. Hated her . Wanted to break her until all that softness shattered beneath my hands.

But then that flicker came back, haunting me. I could almost hear her voice, the unspoken challenge in the way she had looked at me. She wasn’t just a pawn. She was something else, something dangerous . Not because she was a threat, but because she made me feel human . And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

I reached for the knife lying at the edge of the bed, its blade still smeared with blood. It felt familiar, grounding. The weight of it reminded me who I was— what I was. A killer . A fucking god in the realm of destruction. But as my fingers brushed the cold steel, my gaze drifted back to her. So peaceful. So unaware.

What the fuck are you doing to me, Millie?

The thought came unbidden, clawing at my mind. My grip on the knife tightened as I wrestled with the urge to finish this—to cut her out of my head the only way I knew how. But I didn’t. I just sat there, watching her, my mind a twisted battlefield of rage, desire, and something I couldn’t name.

She was the one thing I couldn’t predict. The one variable I couldn’t control. And that made her fucking terrifying ,

I leaned back, gripping the knife like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. The cool steel bit into my palm, the dried blood cracking on my skin, but I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hand. Trembling . What the fuck was that? I didn’t tremble. I didn’t break. Not ever.

She was breaking me.

I glanced down at the jagged slashes on my palm, the ones I’d carved there in a desperate attempt to drown out the chaos in my head. The sting was sharp, but it didn’t even scratch the surface of the mess inside me. Pain used to be my anchor—simple, controllable. Something I understood. But now? Now it was just noise. Useless fucking noise that couldn’t silence the screaming in my chest.

What the fuck was she doing to me ?

I traced the edge of the knife, watching the blood smear against the blade, dark and clotted. It should’ve grounded me. The weight of it, the precision. But every thought, every flicker of clarity, was consumed by her . Her eyes , wide and unyielding. Her lips , trembling with defiance. The way she gasped when I got too close, like she was trying so fucking hard not to show fear but couldn’t quite hide it.

God, I wanted to break her.

I wanted to shatter every last piece of her resistance, to pull her apart until there was nothing left but the raw, exposed truth of her—because only then would she be mine. Fully , completely mine. But the way she looked at me… it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t submission. It was something else entirely, something that twisted me up inside and made me feel like I was the one who was unraveling.

I slammed the knife into the mattress, the blade sinking deep into the fabric with a dull thud. My chest heaved, my breath ragged, the firestorm inside me refusing to die down. She was in my fucking head , crawling under my skin like a parasite I couldn’t rip out .

And I hated her for it.

No. That wasn’t true.

I hated myself for wanting her the way I did—for craving her in a way that wasn’t just about control or power, but something darker. Something I couldn’t even put a name to. She wasn’t just a game. She wasn’t just another body to mold, to shape, to destroy .

She was dangerous .

Not because she could see through me—but because she made me want things I wasn’t supposed to want. Because she made me weak in ways I couldn’t afford to be. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Not bleeding, not screaming, but smiling . Trusting. Like she could fix me. Like she could see something worth saving.

I didn’t want to be saved.

I wanted to fucking destroy her .

But I couldn’t. Not yet . Maybe not ever. Because the truth was, the more I tried to break her, the more I was breaking myself .

And I couldn’t stop.

I wouldn’t stop.

I knew her game. She thought she could fix me, patch me up like I was some cracked vase waiting for her soft little hands to glue me back together. But she didn’t fucking get it. She didn’t see the jagged edges or the venom that seeped from the cracks. She didn’t understand what I was, what I was capable of.

And it didn’t matter. Even if she did—especially if she did—I wasn’t letting her go. She was mine. Mine to ruin, mine to keep, mine to destroy .

Her tear-streaked face flickered in my mind, the way her lips trembled as I pressed too far, too hard. That delicious little shiver when the edge of my blade danced across her skin, carving promises I hadn’t even begun to fulfill. It wasn’t fear in her eyes; it was something far worse. And it made me fucking furious .

She thought I could be saved . She thought I wanted saving.

I didn’t.

Breaking her wasn’t the goal. Not really. Breaking her would be too easy. I didn’t want her shattered on the floor, discarded and lifeless . No, I wanted her in pieces, sure—but pieces I could rebuild . Pieces I could twist into something unrecognizable , something only I could hold together.

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, the pain sharp enough to ground me for a second. Just a second. Then the pull hit again, like gravity with its claws sunk deep into my chest. The urge to take her in my hands and ruin her all over again, was almost too much .

But not yet.

I needed to figure out this sickness in me first, this gnawing, rotting thing that made my heart beat too fast whenever I looked at her. That made my chest feel tight , like it was going to explode from the weight of wanting her.

It wasn’t love. I can’t feel love. And I didn’t want to .

She stirred in her sleep, peaceful, innocent, her breathing soft in the quiet. That face … it made the things I’d done feel wrong . But it also made me want to ruin her again. To tear her apart piece by piece and make her mine.

Because that’s what this was really about. Control . Obsession . I didn’t just want her body—I wanted her fucking soul . I wanted to own her in a way no one else ever had.

And she’d hate me for it. She’d fight me. But that was fine. That was how I knew she was worth it.

Because no one else ever mattered. No one ever got close.

Until her .

I forced myself to stand, every step dragging me further into the nightmare I’d built for us. I paused at the door, glancing back one last time.

She was mine.

And one day, she’d fucking understand that. Even if I had to burn us both to ashes to make her see it.

???????? ?

The day had started like any other. I’d gotten dressed in my a dark, tailored suit, the one that made people take me seriously, made them understand that I was a force to be reckoned with. Claire had reached out earlier, her voice calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. Another job. Another contract to fulfill. Simple. Precise. A clean hit .

But as I adjusted the tie around my neck, the doorbell rang, interrupting the quiet.

I knew who it was before I even reached the door.

I glanced at the camera feed. A group of officers stood on the other side. Detective Mark Lawson—no surprise there. That damn cop had been sniffing around my business for too long, but this was different. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. The suspicion , the assumption that Amelia had given him a lead. I smirked at the thought .

She wasn’t done with me. Not by a long shot. She was scared. But she was also confused —unsure of how deep this all went, of what I was truly capable of. She was fighting to hold onto whatever version of herself she thought she had left.

I could feel the edge of something sharp digging at the back of my mind. An urge to reach out, to twist her even more. But that wasn’t necessary right now.

I’d made sure to clean every trace of my presence, every trace of what had happened. The blood , the mess… all of it had been wiped away. No evidence. No nothing. I had even been thorough with the cameras. The ones in her place? Gone. I replaced them all with new ones that wouldn’t be traced back to me. The police had no idea. Millie had no idea how far I’d gone to make sure I remained untouchable .

I adjusted my cufflinks, the metallic glint of the silver shining under the soft light of my foyer. Taking a slow, measured breath, I walked toward the door.

The doorbell rang again. Impatient little bastards . They had no idea what they were walking into .

I slid my hand over the handle, feeling the weight of it for a moment before turning it. I opened the door, standing in the doorway with the kind of calm composure I’d perfected over years of walking through the shadows.

Detective Lawson looked at me first, his eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge me, trying to size up a man he still couldn’t figure out. The other officers stood behind him, uncertain, ready for whatever they thought they might find. They had no idea.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Lawson said, his voice tight but authoritative. “We need to talk.”

Detective Lawson’s gaze was piercing, scanning me for any sign of guilt , any twitch , any crack in the cool facade I’d built. I’d been in this game too long to let a man like him get under my skin

“Talk?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly is it you think we need to talk about, Detective?”

Lawson’s eyes flicked to the other officers, then back to me. He wasn’t as confident as he liked to pretend. He was treading carefully, just like the rest of them. I could smell the fear in the air, thick and unspoken.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Blackwell,” Lawson said, his voice steady but laced with a false sense of finality.

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms, letting the weight of his words sink in. I watched him carefully. I wanted to see if he would falter, if there was any moment of weakness in his declaration.

“Under arrest?” I repeated slowly, tasting the words as if they were a joke. “For what exactly, Detective? Do you have an arrest warrant?”

Lawson’s eyes tightened. He wasn’t prepared for this. His jaw tightened, and I saw the smallest flicker of annoyance. His voice was clipped now, almost forced.

“We’ve got a warrant, Mr. Blackwell,” he said, his hand reaching inside his jacket, pulling out a small envelope and presenting it with the kind of satisfaction that only a man who thinks he’s winning could have .

I glanced at the envelope, then back at him. I didn’t move. Not even a flinch. I already knew what was coming.

“So, this is it then,” I said, a hint of dark amusement in my voice. “You think you’ve got enough to take me down? You think a piece of paper with your precious signatures is going to change the fact that you have nothing ?”

Lawson’s eyes narrowed, but his grip on the envelope tightened. I could see he was trying to mask his growing irritation. He expected me to be rattled, to crumble under the pressure. But that wasn’t who I was. That would never be me.

“That’s exactly why we need to talk, Mr. Blackwell. It’s not just a warrant,” Lawson said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “It’s for the murder of Jake Turner.”

I felt something stir inside me at the mention of Jake’s name. A sharp, cold satisfaction bubbled to the surface, threatening to break through my calm exterior. Jake had been a problem. A loose end. But now? Now it didn’t matter .

I studied Lawson’s face, allowing a brief, cold smirk to curl at the corners of my lips. His satisfaction was premature, as I was far from worried.

“You must think I’m stupid,” I said, my voice low, laced with venom. “You don’t have a body. You don’t have a motive. And you sure as hell don’t have any proof .”

Lawson’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward. The smugness that had once colored his voice was now gone, replaced by something colder, more calculated.

“You’re wrong, Blackwell,” he said, his voice steady but edged with a dangerous certainty . “We have proof.”

I paused, the words hitting me harder than I expected. Proof?

“Do you?” I asked, my voice now sharper, more controlled, though the muscles in my jaw tightened involuntarily. “What kind of proof? The kind you think you’ve pieced together from your little investigation? ”

Lawson’s eyes flickered, a hint of satisfaction in his expression, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he said, his tone a mix of quiet triumph and veiled threat. “For now, you’re coming with us.”

I didn’t flinch. They could think they had me, but I knew the game better than anyone . I’d played this game for years —anticipating every move, calculating every risk.

Lawson’s eyes narrowed, and a cold smile spread across his face. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jake Turner and for your involvement in other criminal activities we’re still investigating. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Blackwell.”

I allowed a thin smile to curl on my lips as I met his gaze, unwavering. “I’m sure you have all the evidence you need to make your case. I’ll be happy to speak with my lawyer.”

The officers behind him began to move toward me, but I didn’t let them touch me—not yet. I stepped back, carefully, just enough to maintain a sense of control, letting them think I was about to comply. And when they moved, I went willingly. I knew their eyes were on me, but the truth was, I’d already calculated the entire situation.

They didn’t know what they were walking into.

As I passed through the door, the weight of their hands on my arms was almost laughable . They thought they had me. They thought this was the end. They had no idea how easily I could slip out of their grasp.

I walked to the car with a measured pace, my thoughts already calculating how I would turn the tables. They had no body. No witnesses. No real proof of anything I’d done. And even if they had something—some thread they thought they could pull on—I’d tear it apart in the blink of an eye.

They threw me in the back of the police car, and I leaned back against the seat, my mind a thousand miles away, already plotting my next move. The city passed by in a blur, but I was calm. As always.

Lawson sat in the front, his voice steady, but I could hear the faintest edge of excitement in his tone. He thought he had me cornered, but it was nothing more than a small victory in a much larger game.

I would find my way out. I always did.

?????????

In the stark, fluorescent light of the interrogation room, I sat across from Lawson, calm and composed, hands cuffed and resting on the cold metal table. The detective positioned himself opposite me, pressing play on a screen between us with a look of barely concealed satisfaction. I raised a brow, curiosity flaring as the video began to play.

The footage was grainy, the angle slightly askew, but the scene was unmistakable. It was me —in Amelia’s room, Jake’s lifeless body on the floor, blood staining her carpet in dark, visceral streaks.

A fucking teddy bear ?

My Millie , my clever, clever girl. She had caught me in the act. She had been playing her own game all along, more cunning than I had given her credit for.

An amused smirk tugged at my lips. “ Clever ,” I murmured, not even bothering to mask the spark of excitement coursing through me. A part of me wanted to laugh—she had set this trap so fucking perfectly, had hidden this little eye in her sanctuary where I never thought to look.

Lawson’s eyes narrowed, clearly disturbed by my reaction. “Something funny to you, Blackwell?” he growled, his voice barely masking the hatred he harbored.

“Funny? No, Detective,” I said, allowing the smirk to spread fully now. “Fascinating? Absolutely .” My voice was low, tinged with genuine admiration.

The detective looked thrown, confusion flickering in his gaze, as if he couldn’t fucking understand why I’d be impressed by my own incrimination. But he didn’t understand Millie—not like I did. She wasn’t just my obsession; she was my equal , a worthy adversary in a game only the two of us understood .

He leaned forward, the hard edge of his voice returning. “Doesn’t matter how you feel about it, Blackwell. What matters is that we have you—on tape, committing murder. There’s no talking your way out of this.”

But as he spoke, all I could think of was her face, her eyes when she looked at me that last night—a mixture of fear, defiance, and something that bordered on understanding. She had seen me for what I was, had anticipated my every move. And she had left this trap waiting, knowing I’d walk right into it.

The cuffs around my wrists felt tight, grounding me in the moment, but my mind was elsewhere. I was already planning, scheming, envisioning how I would get out of this—and how I’d see her again.

“Detective,” I said, leaning back, relaxing as if we were two old friends sharing drinks, “you’re playing a part in a game you don’t understand. You’re nothing more than a pawn.”

Lawson’s face hardened, his frustration palpable. But his anger was nothing more than white noise, a distraction from the thrill coursing through me .

She wanted me to see this. She wanted me to feel this—to know I wasn’t as in control as I’d thought. I would find her. When this was all over, I’d return to her, and she’d see what a masterpiece she’d created by pushing me to the edge.