Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Damien

I slip through the unlocked sliding glass door into Francesca's house. The thrill of being inside her home sends a shiver down my spine.

Inside, the lingering scent of her perfume wraps around me like a lover's embrace. The hint of jasmine and sandalwood, an intoxicating elixir. I can get drunk on that scent alone.

But I'm here for more than that.

I prowl through her space, a predator scenting his prey. The living room is immaculate, everything in its proper place—just like the detective herself, always in control.

Exploring each room, I soak up every detail. I'll uncover all there is to know about Francesca DeMarco.

A few photos catch my eye. Frankie as a child, her big brown eyes full of innocence. She didn't know the horrors the world had in store for her yet. Beside it, a photo from her police academy graduation. There's a fire in her eyes now, a determination to take on the world's villains. But it doesn't faze her; she pushes through it, concentrating on the next case and the one that follows. The next criminal to catch.

I admire her ability to set her feelings aside, as if being emotional is some kind of virtue. But not Francesca. She's unwavering, unshakable, regardless of the brutality or viciousness of the crime scene. She keeps that intense focus, the slightly bored expression that underlies her compulsion to make sure she gets justice for whatever asshole that's lucky enough to have her investigating their death.

All of this makes me think she's not as different from me as I initially thought, making her even more irresistible. A woman who shares my darkness? After decades of being a billionaire tech prodigy and the most sought-after bachelor, I never imagined such a creature existed.

Most of the women I go out with only see dollar signs when they look at me. Sure, some want to sleep with me just to say they've been with me , and others are hoping for an eighteen-year meal ticket, but none of them stick around because they aren't right .

Frankie, on the other hand? She may be right .

At least for right now .

Each room unlocks another side of her personality. Her kitchen—also tidy—shows a vibrant, joyful aura that catches me off guard. The fridge, stocked mostly with fruits, veggies, yogurt and a bread loaf, hints at her health-conscious efforts. Yet the soy sauce, ketchup and duck sauce packets neatly arranged in the egg tray tell me it's a constant battle against the convenience of takeout meals.

I mentally catalog her preferred coffee and milk brands, laundry detergent choice–even her favorite beer—nuggets to use later. Climbing the stairs, a devious grin spreads across my face as I near her bedroom, her innermost sanctum.

Her safe haven.

I touch the towels in her linen closet, note the brand of her shampoo, conditioner and body wash. Even the shaving gel she uses is ironed onto my memory. The scents she uses give me another glimpse into who she is, what she likes, the things she prioritizes in her life.

But it's the bedroom where the real treasure lies. Decorated in a deep, sensual purple. Her sheets are silky, cool and inviting. I want to lay her out on the bed, map every inch of her body with my hands and mouth until she's thrashing beneath me.

Focus, Damien. Business before pleasure.

Her closet reveals the duality of her nature, the split between her public and private lives. Work and play, neatly divided, just like the two sides warring within her soul. Even her shoe collection tells a story—sensible heels for chasing down criminals, strappy sandals for dancing the night away.

I drink in every detail, committing her sizes to memory with a satisfied smile. My first guesses were so close, just a hair off the mark.

The fabrics she chooses for her personal life are a delicious contrast to her professional armor. Silky, flowing, soft—a whisper of the woman beneath the tough exterior. "Oh, my sweet contradiction," I say, trailing my fingers along an interesting dress.

On the surface, Francesca's hard edges and cold logic, a detective through and through. But I see the truth lurking inside, the shadows that mirror my own.

We're kindred spirits, Francesca and I, concealing our true natures behind meticulously crafted masks.

I move to her lingerie drawer, a treasure trove of silk and lace in every hue imaginable. Red, purple, green—a rainbow of temptation. Sheer panties that leave little to the imagination, promising untold delights. This is definitely a side of her she keeps hidden, a femininity she reserves for one special man.

Me. It has to be me.

No one else could want her the way I do. Appreciate every facet of her beauty. She's mine, even if she doesn't know it yet. But I'll make sure she realizes it soon enough.

This little home invasion is about more than just getting to know Frankie. Her favorite color and how she takes her coffee are just the appetizers. I want the full fucking feast. I want to crack open her skull and suck out her secrets, the ones she keeps locked away tight. The ones that keep her up at night, staring at the ceiling, fingers twitching for her gun.

I set to my real task, placing the cameras I brought with meticulous care. The living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. And, of course, the bedroom. I need to watch every move she makes, hear every gasp and sigh. When she thinks she's alone and she lets that iron control slip just a little bit, I'll be watching.

I sync the cameras to my phone and test the feeds. Crystal clear, every angle covered. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. My kitten thinks she's the hunter, but I'm always one step ahead. This is my game, and I'm very, very good at it.

I tweak the audio, cranking up the sensitivity until I can hear the whisper of her curtains and the hum of her fridge. I want it all. Every sigh, every gasp, every whispered curse. When she screams my name in the dark, I'll be listening.

There's nowhere to hide now, Francesca. Every inch of this place is mine, just like every inch of you will be. Your secrets, your fears, your filthy little fantasies. I'll peel them away, layer by layer, until you're laid bare before me.

The cameras are sleek, discreet, tucked away in the shadows. She'll never spot them, even with that keen eye. I've been playing this game for far too long and perfected my craft. When I'm satisfied that I've left no corner unwatched, I allow the tension to drain from my shoulders.

My pretty little mouse thinks she's safe in her maze of case files and red tape. She has no fucking idea that the big bad tomcat is already inside, claws out and ready to pounce.

This is my favorite part, the thrill of the chase. I could end it quickly, snap her pretty neck and be done with it. But where's the fun in that? Where's the slow, sweet seduction of fear?

Like Kowalski, Donovan and that smug prick Beaumont, I like to revel in my work and be a little creative. I could have killed each of them the first night I found them, but I didn't.

I saw them and followed them, learned their patterns of behavior. I knew what cologne they wore, who they fucked, and what secrets were on their hard drives. I knew it all because I had to.

And when I finally made my move, when I showed them the monster behind the mask, their screams were a fucking masterpiece.

Before I go, I leave her a little present. I select a delicate purple negligee from her drawer and lay it out on the bed like an offering to a goddess. And beside it, a real message.

A pair of sheer black stockings, more expensive and finer than anything she owns. A sign that someone's been here, touched her things. It will unsettle her cool composure and make her question her safety in her own home.

The first move in a game she doesn't yet know we're playing.

I take one last look around, imprinting the details in my mind. How the moonlight spills through the window and pools on the floor. The stack of case files on her nightstand, no doubt full of the horrors she carries home with her. The half-empty bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet, her weakness.

I'll be back. But for now, I have my own preparations to make.

At home, I pour myself a scotch and settle in front of the monitors, watching. Waiting.

On the screens, Francesca's house glows with a ghostly blue light, silent and still. But not for long.

Close to midnight, her car pulls into the drive. I sit up straighter, adrenaline sparking through my veins.

It's showtime.

She enters the house, and I can tell she's exhausted. But still, ever the cop, she checks the locks and sweeps the room with a wary gaze. She frowns at the sliding door, annoyed at her own oversight.

I toggle through the feeds, tracking her progress. She sheds her jacket, toes off her shoes, and pours herself a generous glass of wine. I watch her throat work as she swallows, imagining the heat spreading through her chest.

She takes the glass with her as she climbs the stairs, her free hand rubbing the back of her neck. I could take all that stress from her if she'd let me. I could give her a release she's never known, never dared to crave.

The bathroom fills with steam as she starts the shower, and I lean forward, excitement running through me. I watch as she enters the bedroom and stops short at seeing my gift. I can read the confusion and unease in her body language, even through the camera lens. She reaches out, fingers tracing the lace and silk. She holds the stockings up, a frown marring that beautiful face.

Yes, Francesca. Put that clever mind to work. Realize you're not as safe as you thought, not even here.