Page 18 of Devotion

His lack of conversation means he’d rather be alone, but he’s too polite to say so out loud. I can take a hint, though. So, I stand, walk to his side of the table, and then kiss the top of his hair.

“If you need me, you know where to find me.”

He smiles up as my hand starts slipping off his shoulder, but he catches it, halting me. My brow arches when I turn and find him staring. Yes, with a smile, but there’s more behind it. More that I can’t quite read.

“Have you been feeling well?”

His question feels loaded, and my stance shifts. “I’ve been fine.”

He nods but doesn’t release my hand. “And the meds have been working?” When I stare instead of answering, his expression softens, and he goes about things differently. “You know, Layla, if anything ever doesn’t quite feel right, if anything feels…off…that’s nothing a quick readjustment wouldn’t fix.”

My thoughts race through the list of strange things I’ve experienced lately—dreaming about Mom, my imagined late-night visitor, thinking I was being watched this afternoon. But I keep these things to myself, for fear of what he might think if he knew I was having these episodes.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie, and when relief washes over him, I know that was the best answer to give.

I leave him with his thoughts, and as I lock the door to my apartment, I can’t help but to wonder what was with the questions. Has my father’s trained eye detected that something isn’t right with me? Has he seen something that would have him believe I’m not okay?

Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to take more calls. Instead, I double-check the lock on my door, strip back down to my t-shirt and underwear, and take my last pill for the night. With only a single candle for light, I stretch out across the foot of my bed, my head hanging off the edge as I think.

What did he see?

Why does he think I’m not okay?

And… why does his concern have me feeling unreasonably terrified?

8

Damien

Still no audio, but it’s Mira’s lucky fucking day.

As it stands, she’s off my shit list. Thanks to her unique skillset, she found thepsychichotline Layla works for and connected me with her tonight. So, for now, I’m content with the silent speakers beside the monitor as I watch my dark angel through the screen, proving that the call, hearing her voice, temporarily quenched my thirst.

Her figure moves across the monitor, and I’m curious where she went those ten minutes she disappeared. It seems she’s now distraught, but there are so many missing pieces in her story, I realize something about myself.

I hate that I’m shut out of her thoughts, hate that the details of her life remain hidden from me.

Watching from afar—be it through a screen or from across the street—I’m only an observer, a man watching his specimen through a microscope. It’s a stark contrast from what I crave.

Full-on, in the flesh contact.

My entire fucking world colliding into hers, extinction-level event type shit.

I’m fixated on her every step, watching as she stops at the nightstand, lays a pill on her tongue, then washes it down with water from the night before. She’s also stripped down to her t-shirt and underwear. Boy shorts—my fucking kryptonite. Especially with an ass like hers, molded to absolute perfection.

Her room is dark and moody, a reflection of her soul. One candle flickers on the dresser, providing her only source of light. The bed bounces when she drops down onto it, sprawling out in dramatic fashion across the foot of the mattress. Her tits shimmy beneath her tee, and it’s clear she isn’t wearing a bra.

My head tilts, feeling my pulse race, obsessing over her body as she stretches to full length, her head dangling off the edge. She lies there like a sacrifice being offered to the gods. In an instant, my thoughts are drawn back to last night, in her room, kneeling beside her bed, finishing what that piece of shit left undone.

Not that I wanted her to enjoy him. Actually, my hands ached with unshed rage, watching him defile her, knowing he isn’t even worthy to breathe the same air she does. But his failure to please her provided me with an opportunity, and now her taste is my new addiction, burned into my memory. I’ll never forget how fucking sweet she was.

She places a hand on her torso, and I can’t even blink, clenching my fist when I imagine the feel of her skin against my palm. Then, my focus is drawn to her tattoo. Having gotten a closer look last night, I’ve now unraveled the mystery of her ink. It’s maybe four inches long, red, and definitely the marking of a black widow spider.

Uncanny.

Poor thing’s mine and doesn’t even realize it yet.

I lean closer to the screen, not only aware of my growing obsession, but embracing it fully.

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