Page 8 of Devotion

“You should be all set, Sir. We’ll be right here if you need anything.”

I nod at the men, then close the door, locking myself inside. The space is completely dark, the only source of light being the glowing monitor mounted on the far wall. The others that surround it are all dark and dormant, tunneling my vision toward the one with color and movement.

My steps are slow as I move closer. Mira oversaw the technical aspects of the plan, while Eugene was my risktaker, venturing out into the field to install the camera. But the end result?

It’s… well, it’severything.

I lower into the tall, leather armchair that’s been wheeled to the desk, and I’m already fixating on that face. A face that has surely caused its share of men to fall from grace. Her lips alone—full and pouty—could bring even a tyrant like me to his knees. But it’s her dark eyes that draw me in—wide set, large. Her lashes flutter when she brushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek, as if she’s heard my thoughts and intends to break me.

They say that, when you’re being watched, there’s this sensation of unease that crawls over the skin.

Does she feel that now?

Does she feel me watching?

I zoom in to bypass the vent grate that’s partially obstructing my view, finding that I’m fixated on her body now. A purple t-shirt clings to her full tits and toned midriff, a sliver of skin showing where the shirt ends, and the waistband of loose-fitting sweats begins. I study her, every contour of her figure, and I’ve determined she’s equal parts perfection and sin.

Fucking exquisite.

I’m so locked in that I’ve nearly missed that ridiculous-as-shit hat she’s hidden her hair underneath. It’s a gold monstrosity. Like the kind fortune tellers wear in movies, which now gives a bit more context to the crystal ball printed across her t-shirt.

My eyes are drawn to a small tattoo on her bicep when she reaches for a bowl at the corner of her desk. She removes the spoon, and then lifts the bowl to her face, but I’m still focused on the tattoo, absentmindedly touching the one in the shape of a spider on the side of my neck. Her sleeve unrolls a bit, blocking me from making out the details ofherink, but I’m intrigued.

I’ll get a better look at it soon, though.

I cock my head, watching her quickly gulp down whatever’s inside that bowl, like she hasn’t eaten all week. I smile when she lowers it again, daintily wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. As if she didn’t just hoover that down like a frat boy. She finishes off the last of her soda next, tossing the can toward the trash, missing the shot altogether.

She mouths the wordfuckto herself very clearly before attempting to stand and retrieve the can. However, she seems to have forgotten she’s attached to a headset. A headset that’s also plugged into her computer. My hand covers my mouth when I lean against the arm of my chair, holding in a laugh as she Stooges her way through. Eventually, she settles into her seat again before deciding to use her toes to roll the can back in her direction.

Folding my arms, I relax deeper into my chair and observe her, this beautiful, quirky mess of a girl. My annoyance flares that there’s no audio when she takes a call through her headset. Based on how she seems more interested in some old, black-and-white TV show than the call, it doesn’t seem like I’m missing much from the conversation.

But then she presses the spacebar, I’m guessing to mute before she belts an enormous laugh at something that’s been said. I’m talking a toss-your-head-back, show-all-your-teeth laugh, and I’m fucking missing it. Instead, I’m forced to imagine the sound, wishing I could hear it ring in my ears, hold onto it.

“Damn it,” I grumble to myself, pressing buttons that, from what I can tell, do absolutely nothing. I’m still locked out of her world. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you add fucking audio?”

Moving both hands through my hair, my heart races. I breathe deep, ignoring the phantom sensation of warm blood coating my hands again.

Mira simply made a mistake. This isn’t anything to lose your shit over, Damien.

Lean into love, not violence.

Lean into love, not violence.

“Fuck!”

I slam the keyboard against the edge of the desk on impulse, snapping it in two before I’m able to stop myself. Shards of plastic scatter across the floor, but I’m fine. I’m fine. Another deep breath and it’s over.

Clearing my throat, I stare at the monitor again. At this woman. This beautiful enigma who’s recently become the focus of so many of my dreams. Before this, I had to watch her from afar, silently enjoying how my world and hers have begun to bleed into one another, although she has yet to put a face with the…presentsI’ve left her.

But soon, when the time is right, she’ll know.

Until then, I’ll have to settle for the glimpse I’m able to see through the screen. And if Mira intends to keep her hands attached to her wrists… she’ll find a way to get me some fucking audio.

4

Layla

Nearly two weeks of run-of-the-mill cases, then tonight, another call. The now infamous killer, officially coinedThe Widowmakerby every media outlet in the state, is back at it.

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