34. Hunters Obsession

CHAPTER 34

Hunter's Obsession

WREN

The first photograph I take of Ileana with my new camera is through her bedroom window at dawn—the curve of her shoulder as she sleeps, unaware that I've already claimed her day as mine. The camera captures every detail perfectly. The slight furrow between her brows, how her fingers curl into the sheets.

My hands shake slightly as I lower the camera. The urge to break in, to wake her, to start the day's events early is hard to resist. But patience is part of the hunt. The most rewarding part. First, I want to document how thoroughly I'm getting to her.

She emerges from her building at eight-thirty. Something about the way she moves today sets my blood on fire. She seems different. Less a ghost, more a girl beginning to question her chains. My camera captures every subtle rebellion. Her slightly straighter spine, the way she catches her reflection in store windows, how her gaze lingers on people who dare to exist without apology.

I follow her at a distance, my camera documenting her transformation.

Click . The way her eyes watch a passing couple, curiosity clear on her face.

Click . Her hesitation at the edge of the sidewalk, as though she’s testing the boundaries of her world.

Click . The tension in her shoulders when someone knocks into her.

Every moment is mine now. Every glance, every stolen second where she tries to be more than a shadow.

In the library, I move behind her, my footsteps silent. She doesn't see me between the stacks, doesn't know how close I am—close enough to reach out, to touch .

Click . The tilt of her head as she scans a row of books.

Click . Her fingers trailing along the spines, tentative, like she’s afraid to leave a mark.

Click . The way her lips part when she says thank you to the librarian, her voice louder than usual.

She’s starting to want more—I can feel it. Each photograph tells the story of her slow rebellion, every movement a whisper of what she almost becomes before she remembers to stay invisible.

In the grocery store, she pauses at a display of party dresses. It takes every bit of control not to let her know I’m here when I see the hunger in her eyes. Three feet away, her fingers hover over blue silk. One step, and I could be there, wrapping my hand around her throat, showing her exactly what she does to me.

The urge nearly snaps me in half. Instead, I raise my camera.

Click . The tremble in her fingers as she touches the dress.

Click . Her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Is she imagining herself in something other than shapeless clothes meant to hide her?

Click . The instant her eyes darken, remembering she’s supposed to be invisible.

She moves away quickly, but I stay where I am, touching the dress where her fingers had been moments before. I’ll buy it after she leaves.

My fingers trace the spaces between aisles as I follow, staying just out of sight. She’s looking around more now, making me work harder to stay hidden—checking over her shoulder, feeling me.

Can she sense me? The perfect prey, unaware of where to look but certain a predator is near.

She fumbles with her grocery list, and I’m close enough to read it over her shoulder. The precise handwriting. Probably written by her father. Basic items. Nothing that would draw attention. Everything about their life was built to make them disappear into the background. Make them forgettable .

But she’s not forgettable to me. Not anymore.

Click . How she reaches for items with careful fingers, avoiding contact.

Click . Her head bowed at the checkout, exact change in hand.

Click . The moment she steps into the sunlight, her eyes squinting, unfamiliar with brightness.

I let her get ahead. Her shoulders are tense, and she stays close to the buildings on her way home. My eyes never leave her—can she feel the burn of my gaze?

Soon, pretty Ballerina. Soon you’ll feel more than just my eyes.

The dress is mine as soon as she disappears. The salesgirl barely glances at me—a guy buying a gift, predictable, ordinary. People see what they expect.

If only they knew.

I drive past Ileana’s apartment and check she’s inside … where else would she be? Then head home, where I spend hours in the darkroom, processing the photographs I’ve taken.

Each one reveals her growing awareness of the cage she’s been living in. It’s delicious, arousing, but not enough. I need more.

I need her to know I’ve been watching.

I’m in my car and parked at the end of her street by the time the moon rises, and that’s where I stay. Watching, and waiting for the right moment.

Her window opens easily. Amateur locks for people with so much to hide.

The camera hangs around my neck as I sneak inside, and I give my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. She’s curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, looking so fucking vulnerable it makes my blood sing.

Click. The curve of her hip beneath thin sheets.

Click. Hair like spilled ink across her pillow.

Click. My boot scraping the floorboards, making her eyes snap open.

“Hello, pretty Ballerina. Did you miss me? ”

She jerks upright, pressing against the headboard, the sheet pooling around her hips. Her tank top reveals bare skin, soft, and my fingers itch to touch.

Click . Her pulse thrumming at her throat.

Click . Her eyes darting, calculating the distance between us and the door.

"Don’t bother." I step in front of the door, blocking her escape. "We both know you’re not calling for Daddy. Too many questions you’re not ready to answer."

"How did you get in?"

"Through the window." I take a step closer. She shrinks back. "Like I have every night this week. You sleep like a princess."

The lie lands perfectly. Her eyes widen, scanning her room for signs of intrusion, trying to remember. I lift the camera, capturing her panic.

"You’re lying."

"Am I?" I turn the camera display toward her. The photograph from this morning—sunlight kissing her skin. "You look so peaceful when you sleep.”

I show her another photograph. “Sometimes you whisper my name."

She draws her knees to her chest, trying to make herself smaller. But I’ve seen too much. I own too much of her to let her hide now.

"I saw you today." I sit on her bed, the mattress dipping, drawing her closer. "Watching that couple. Touching that dress." My eyes find hers. "Realizing how suffocating it is to be invisible?"

"Stop—"

"Stop what? Telling the truth?" My fingers catch her chin, tilting her face to mine. "Aren’t you tired? Tired of staying hidden? Tired of being nothing?"

She stops breathing.

Click . Confusion frozen in her gaze.

"You don’t know anything about my family. "

"Don’t I?" I lean in, brushing my nose against hers. Her breath shudders, warmth mingling with mine.

“I know how your father checks the locks three times every night,” I whisper. “How your mother only shops at stores without security cameras. That’s getting harder by the day, isn’t it? Which is why you’ve been assigned to do the grocery shopping now. How every bill is paid in cash, on time, leaving no trace.”

“That’s not … you can’t …”

I brace one arm against the headboard, leaning closer. "Can’t what? Watch you? Follow you? Know you? I’ve been doing it far longer than you think. Since before that spilled drink."

It’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter. It gives me the reaction I want. Her breath catches, a soft little exhale that fuels me. I lift the camera hanging from my neck and snap the moment.

Click . Her pupils dilating, wide with disbelief.

Click . Her lips part, ready to deny my claim.

"The dress." I trace the strap against her shoulder. "You’d look beautiful in it. It’s mine now. Like the photographs. Like all your secrets I’ve uncovered." My fingers explore lower, brushing over the swell of her breast. "Like you."

"I’m not yours." Her voice is a threadbare whisper.

"No?" I snap another photograph, capturing her parted lips, the flush creeping up her neck. "Then why aren’t you screaming? Why do you keep looking at my mouth?"

Her face flushes deeper, eyes darting away. My hand captures her jaw, tilting her face back to mine, forcing her to look at me.

"The rules are suffocating you." My thumb drags over her lower lip. "You want more. You want what I keep promising you. You want to be touched. You want to be wanted .”

I lean in, my lips kissing the mark I left on her throat. "I can give you that. Make you feel alive in ways your father never dreamed. I could show you everything you’ve been missing.”

“Stop saying things like that.” Her whispered words carry an edge of desperation. It turns my blood to molten lava, and my dick to stone.

"Why? Because you don’t want to think of him while I’m touching you?" My fingers move down her arm, smiling as she shivers. "Or because you’re afraid of wanting this?"

Click . Her internal war plays out in her eyes. Fear battling with need. Need clawing against denial.

Click . The way her body shifts closer.

"You were alive when you danced for me." I catch her wrist, thumb pressing the frantic pulse beneath her skin. "Free. Not hiding. Not pretending."

"You forced …"

"Did I? Or did I just give you permission to be more?" I release her wrist so I can thread my fingers through her hair, nails dragging lightly against her scalp. She shudders as I tighten my grip, tilting her head back to bare the delicate line of her throat. "You don’t know how to want things for yourself."

"You don’t know what I want."

"I do." My voice drops, firm and sure, while my fingers curl tighter into her hair. "I know everything you try to hide."

Click. Her lips press together, quivering as I lower my mouth to her throat.

Click. Her hands clutch my shirt, refusing to push me away.

"Tell me to stop." My tongue grazes her pulse. "Tell me you don’t want this."

A whimper escapes her lips, fingers tightening. I smile against her skin.

“Let me show you what happens when you stop hiding.” My mouth finds her jaw, teeth grazing her skin before I claim her lips. She gasps, her body arching toward mine, and I capture the moment, my camera snapping in time with her surrender.

Click . Her conflict laid bare, her need rising to the surface.

"That’s it,” I whisper. My hand moves under her top, fingers tracing the soft curve of her stomach. "Let go."

Her breath comes in short, uneven whimpers as my hand strokes higher, fingers brushing over her nipple.

"Please—"

"Please what?” I arch an eyebrow. “Stop? Stay? Show you?" My camera captures her expression—conflicted, uncertain. "Say yes. One word, and I’ll give you everything."

My tongue licks over the pulse fluttering like a trapped bird at the base of her throat. “Tell me that you don’t want to know what it feels like to be truly seen by me.”

Instead of answering, she gives a small whimper, turning my dick even harder. My lips travel down. Her top lifts, breasts bare beneath the thin material, my camera ready to capture her realization—her surrender.

“All you have to do is ask.”

Her breath comes in short gasps, her teeth sink into her bottom lip when my thumb brushes over her nipple. And my camera documents every moment of her surrender. How she arches into my hand, the way her resistance crumbles with every touch, every kiss against her skin.

I kiss my way down her throat, over her shoulder and down, while my fingers tease and stroke her nipple. I pull back just enough to watch her face as she realizes what I’m doing. How completely she’s giving in to what she’s fought so hard against.

“Open your eyes. Look at me, Ballerina. See what you’re doing to me.”

Click. Acceptance .

Click. Need .

Click. Her lips parting as I claim them.

“You’re mine now. And I’m never letting you go.”