Chapter 4

Chapter Four

RHETT

I watch her as she sleeps, sprawled out on the bed, handcuffed, lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. My little nightmare is completely vulnerable, utterly mine, and fuck if she doesn't look goddamn beautiful. I let out a slow breath, the urge to stay and watch her squirm beneath me again burning in the back of my mind. But I can't. I have to leave.

She'll be fine for a little while. I've taken care of her every need, fed her, cleaned her wounds, and even given her space, though I can see it driving her mad. As much as my girl acts like she hates this shit, she loves it. She's just not ready to admit it yet.

The struggle to balance between giving her time and claiming her again is a battle I've been losing these past few days.

I stand by the bed, looking down at her as she stirs slightly, but I've drugged her enough to keep her under for hours. Versed was the perfect choice. She'll feel groggy when she wakes, maybe a little disoriented, but she won't remember much. She'll never know I left.

I tuck a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her skin. Soft, warm, and bruised in all the places I've marked her. My cock twitches, and I smirk to myself, pulling away before my desires get the better of me.

There's work to do.

Taking one last lingering look, I turn away, careful not to make a sound. The door creaks softly as I pull it closed behind me. I pause, listening to the stillness of the house. Nothing. Good .

Moving through the hallway, I double-check every lock, turning the deadbolts with a satisfying click. The windows, too—each one checked and secured. I don't leave anything to chance. I know her better than she knows herself. She's resourceful and cunning, but there's no way she's getting out without me, and while the drugs should keep her knocked out until long after I get back, I'm taking no chances with my girl.

The house is dim, shadows crawling up the walls as I pass by, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to the air. It makes my pulse quicken, a low, gnawing hunger in my gut that I've been feeding since I first laid eyes on her. The keys jingle in my hand as I make my way through the house.

Once I'm sure everything's locked up tight, I head to the front door. I reach for my jacket hanging on the hook on the wall—black leather, worn in all the right places. It smells like the road, like gasoline and asphalt, and as I slip it on, the familiar weight of it grounds me.

I tug my gloves on, then bend to lace up my combat boots, their heavy soles echoing with each step I take as I lock up the door behind me and make my way down the driveway. My bike waits for me at the curb, its matte black frame glinting under the dim streetlights.

It's sleek, fast—a predator in the night, just like me.

Before I slide the helmet on, I take a moment, scanning the house one last time, making sure everything's exactly as it should be. The helmet slips into place with a snug fit, the visor snapping down, obscuring my face. No one needs to see me. Not out here.

With a quick swing of my leg, I'm on the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me, vibrating through my body like a second heartbeat. I rev the throttle, my eyes locked on the house.

She's safe for now.

The wind cuts across my face like a blade as I take off down the street. I'm heading back to my place for the first time in days, and all I can think about is her.

My girl. My little nightmare.

She was mine the moment we locked eyes that night at Rustic Roast. She felt it, too. I know it, and I knew it then that there was no going back. That I'd own her, ruin her and nothing would fucking stop me. Not even her.

She needed me to do all this, and she wanted me to.

The brief moment when we locked eyes is something I'll never forget. I knew from the look in her eyes that she felt everything I was feeling; she saw a different me. The real me . It didn't matter to me that she was a complete fucking stranger. We shared something in those few seconds that no one else could ever understand.

She looked away, trying to brush it off, but I saw the way her breath caught, the slight tremor in her hands as she reached for her cup. She wanted me. I knew it then, and I know it now.

As I throttle forward, the streets blur past me, weaving through traffic with ease. The city's still alive, people moving about the streets, but it's nothing compared to what's happening in my head. I've only just left and every fiber of me is itching to get back to her. To watch her.

She's not just my obsession now—she's my responsibility.

I pull up outside my place, the sharp smell of exhaust mixing with the cool fall air. The familiar scent of falling leaves and the faint promise of rain lingers as I kill the engine and swing off the bike, heading inside to gather what I need.

The door to my apartment creaks open, and a stale breeze carries the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and leather. The place is dimly lit as I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me. I take in the sight of the controlled chaos—my sanctuary.

First things first, I head to my desk. It's cluttered with monitors, keyboards, and enough wires to choke a man. I gather the most critical pieces—three laptops, two of them rigged with encrypted systems, the other full of programs designed for surveillance and breaking through firewalls. My hands move on autopilot, disconnecting the monitors one by one. The screens flicker out as I yank their cords, rolling them up in tight coils and tossing them into a duffel bag I keep slung over the back of the chair.

Next, I grab the cameras. Small and discreet, most of them are black and designed to blend into any surface. I grab a few more of the small ones, pulling out my cell and tucking them into the hidden compartment of my case. I already have tons spread around through Cara's house, and they've served me well, but you never know when you'll need to keep an eye on someone. I tuck the larger cameras into the front pocket of the bag, making sure to wrap each in a cloth to protect the lenses.

I can't afford to have any of my toys break before I use them.

I pull open a drawer, revealing a row of burner phones. All untraceable. I grab three, slipping them into the side pocket along with extra SIM cards. Each one has its purpose—some for work, others for tracking some of the guys I run surveillance on. I like to be prepared.

Then, there are the files. Thick manila folders stacked on the corner of the desk, packed full of notes, printouts, and hand-drawn maps. They're detailed sketches of my plans, both old and new: routines, locations, and potential targets. I hesitate for a second before grabbing the folders, flipping through them one last time.

I reach down to the floor where a small metal case is half-hidden under the desk. Inside are spare memory cards, thumb drives, and a compact SSD filled with codes that would get me locked away for life if anyone ever traced it back to me.

They won't. I'll make sure of that.

The chargers are next. I grab a handful, shoving them into the bag along with the cables, which I wind around my wrist to keep them from tangling. A glance at my watch tells me I'm on schedule, but I still work quickly. My girl is out cold for now, but she won't stay that way forever.

Finally, I head into the small closet at the far end of the room. My gear is lined up neatly: more surveillance equipment, tactical vests, and a few firearms hidden behind the rows of black hoodies and jackets. I shove a couple of hoodies into my bag, followed by some socks and boxers, before I slip a few more cameras into my jacket pocket, just in case.

The apartment feels too quiet now, stripped of its usual hum of electronics and activity. I zip up the duffel bag and sling it over my shoulder, the weight heavy but familiar. I've done this a hundred times before, but this time, it feels different.

I'm not relocating for work this time. There's no new target, no new job.

This time, it's for her.

For my girl.

I check my watch again; time to go. I head back out, locking the door behind me. There's a stop I need to make before I return to her. The same place where this all started—Rustic Roast.

When I arrive, it's busy. I can smell the coffee from outside, a rich, almost bitter scent that clings to the air mixed with the sugary sweetness of pumpkin spice. The stupid bell dings as I enter, drawing some of the customers' eyes to me.

Inside, the hum of conversation fills the space, people chatting in that easy way they do when they've got nothing important to say. The line moves slowly, and I glance around. Old ladies are eyeing me like I'm trouble, their gazes lingering on the ink covering my wrists and hands, the tattoos creeping up my neck. One whispers to the other, but I don't give a fuck.

Let them stare.

Juan's working the register, the same barista who was there the night I first saw Cara. He doesn't recognize me—why would he? I was just another customer in a crowded café, but he was part of the backdrop to one of the most important moments of my life.

Now, he's just another pawn, another potential gift for my girl.

"Welcome to Rustic Roast, what can I get you?" Juan greets with an annoyingly cheerful tone. The guy's smile alone makes me want to commit murder in front of all these people. Show the old hags sitting behind me just how much trouble I can really be.

I order Cara's pumpkin spice latte, the same one she had that night, and a black coffee for myself. As Juan makes the drinks, I consider him—his neck, his build, the way his hands move as he works. He's young, fit, probably around my age, and I can't help but think how much better I could recreate Cara's gift, but with him.

Now that I know what to expect, I could perfect it this time around.

Cleaner, more precise. His head would make the perfect offering, especially with Juan being so symbolic to the first night we met. He'd make a more fitting tribute for my little nightmare.

When he hands me the drinks, he says, "Thanks for stopping by, hope to see you again."

I give him a nod, suppressing the twisted grin tugging at my lips.

Oh me too, Juan . Me too.

But not just yet. Maybe later. Cara deserves the best, and I'll make sure she gets it.

I head back to my bike, balancing the drinks as I secure them before heading out. The ride back to Cara is faster, my anticipation growing with every mile. I need to see her, to make sure she's still asleep, still waiting for me.

I step back into the house, the door whispering shut behind me, the quiet settling like a heavy shroud over everything. The dim light from outside barely filters through the boarded windows, casting shadows that stretch across the floor. My boots echo softly against the hardwood as I walk through the narrow hallway, slipping the bag from my shoulder and setting it down with a soft thud by the entryway.

The air is warm as I make my way to the bedroom with the drinks in hand, the sound of my footsteps carefully measured, quiet enough not to disturb her. As I reach the door, I pause for a second, my hand resting on the frame as I take in the sight before me.

Cara's still asleep, her body sprawled out across the bed, the sheets twisted around her legs like they're trying to hold her in place. Her dark hair fans out over the pillow, and in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, I can see the soft rise and fall of her chest. She looks peaceful—too peaceful, given what I know is coming.

My girl, my little nightmare, is completely unaware of the chaos I'm about to unleash.

I slip off my jacket and toss it onto the chair in the corner, my eyes never leaving her. The room feels smaller with her in it, the space shrinking around us, suffocating us in a way that's strangely addictive. She stirs for a moment, mumbling something incoherent, but she doesn't wake. I watch her for a little longer, the temptation to reach out and touch her building in my chest like a slow burn. But not yet. There's still work to be done. I place her latte on the table beside her, and head back out to the hall.

The soft click of the door closing behind me feels like it's sealing a secret as I leave the room, my steps quickening as I head back down the hall. Heading downstairs, I grab the duffel bag and plop on the couch. I pull one of the laptops from the bag and set it up, connecting it to the cameras I installed earlier. The feed flickers to life, showing the inside of the house—every corner, every shadow.

I sit back, bringing the steaming cup of coffee to my lips as I watch her sleep on one of the screens. Her form is small and fragile against the backdrop of the bed. The other screens show the doors, the windows, and the hallways. No one's getting in or out without me seeing.

I pull up my email, fingers moving across the keys with practiced ease as I sort through messages, encrypted plans, and incoming intel. There's an update from one of my contacts and details about a recent job that requires my attention, but I push it aside for now.

Cara is the priority tonight. Everything else can wait.

I settle in, my eyes flicking between the screens and Cara's sleeping form. She's mine, entirely. And when she wakes up, we'll continue this game.