Page 66 of Between Dusk and Dawn

A pregnant pause lingered between us before my sister spoke again. "That’s sad, Walsh. She should be surrounded by people for the holidays."

"Sad for you, Ember." I leaned onto the small working table I’d set up with my laptop and a coffee. "Please do this for me, sis."

She sighed. "Okay. I'll see her in the new year at the party. I will be looking forward to it. Let me know if you need any help with the prep."

I released a small breath of relief. "Will do. Tell Rain I said hi." She ended the call, and my lungs relaxed once again.

Knowing I was about to disappoint her greatly, I lied to my sister. I was aware that, upon my return, whenever that might be, I would bear the brunt of her anger.

Glancing at my phone again, I focused on the camera, finding Madison sleeping more peacefully than she had throughout my entire absence...in my bed.

And there it was again—the faint tug on my heartstrings, a reminder of my humanity. It hinted at the possibility of having genuine emotions and falling for someone who felt like more of an equal than I could have ever imagined.

The tug was fleeting, as I exited the camera feed, redirecting my thoughts to figuring out how to deal with the Irish.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Islept until what had to be the middle of the night. My sleep patterns were all fucked up. Upon opening my eyes, I realized I’d passed out in Walsh’s room.

I rolled to my back, looking up at the plain white ceiling, closing my eyes, imagining my life differently. What if I somehow ended up marrying someone like Peter? He would have hurt me for years. He would have used me for sex and whatever else he deemed acceptable to provide for him. I had to become this person, no, I had let myself become this person and needed to take accountability for my choices and consequences.

I sighed. Since Ms. Luchesse wasn’t around and the guards were outside the house at this hour, I would snoop around the main house.

I slid out of bed and walked the hall and decided to peep into the first door on the right. The only thing in the room was an exercise bike. I shrugged, almost weirded out by the normalcy of the room before I headed out. I passed the stairs and was almost at the end of the hall when something caught my eye. A room to the right had a small glow coming from the crack at the bottom of the door.

There was a hand scanner at the door, so this had to be an office. He had one downstairs that was open to anyone, and I went in there yesterday when I got curious but had found nothing. This was the first time I’d snooped upstairs, so I’d never seen this.

I raised my hand to the scanner, fully aware it probably wouldn't respond to my touch. The security measure must be coded exclusively for Walsh, likely concealing confidential family matters. While he had mentioned being part of the Mafia, the intricacies of what that entailed were beyond my grasp. Nevertheless, my curiosity compelled me to try.

To my surprise, the door opened. It shouldn't have, given the presumed exclusivity. Pushing it ajar, I found an office nearly identical to the one downstairs, adorned with warm wooden furnishings, towering bookshelves lining the walls, a sizable desk, and a multitude of screens scattered across its surface and floor.

Approaching the screens cautiously, I acknowledged that Walsh must have anticipated my attempt to access the room. The video surveillance on the first screen covered the front of the house, followed by additional angles capturing the outside of the little barn and various areas inside the main residence, including his bedroom. Irritated but curious, I moved on to the next set of computers, my trembling hands revealing my anxiety.

The screens displayed footage from outside the gates, unfamiliar streets, and even inside my little apartment over the barn, featuring an unsettling view of the bathroom. "Fucking gross," I muttered. However, it was the final set of computers that left me breathless. Cameras were strategically placed in and around the guest house I had in Isles.

"Holy shit," I gasped, confirming that Walsh had been watching me all these years, explaining how he had known about my every move.

When Walsh and I first crossed paths, he possessed an eerie ability to pinpoint my location on campus with uncanny accuracy. It seemed like mere coincidence, but it was through stalking that he knew my routine, from teaching yoga classes in the morning to unwinding at the bar in the evening. As I looked at the small camera outside the Isles house, I felt a pang of loss, realizing I might never return to my home of nearly seven years. Oddly, instead of feeling outraged by his invasive surveillance, I felt a sense of calm. He wanted me to see all this, knowing it would provide me with a sense of security rather than fill me with red flags and fear.

Growing up with parents who never cared about my whereabouts or well-being, Walsh's meticulous attention felt like a twisted form of caring. His awareness of my movements and routines, even my presence in the little cabin in Isles, provided an odd comfort. In a world where indifference was my constant companion, Walsh's surveillance filled a void I hadn't realized existed. The cameras, though invasive, felt like silent guardians.

As I navigated through the screens showing different angles of my life, I couldn't shake the feeling that Walsh had woven a web around me. Yet, the bizarre warmth of being seen and acknowledged lingered. It was a complex dance between invasion of privacy and a strange sense of security, leaving me with conflicting emotions.

I paused, turning toward the door, deciding that I’d seen enough for the night. After I crept out of the room, holding the door so it didn’t make a noise as it shut, I headed back to his bedroom, curious if I’d find anything else in there.

The fear of unsettling Walsh, the man who meticulously controlled every aspect of his life, was terrifying. The power dynamic had shifted, and the consequences lingered. Walsh'sneed for control clashed with the vulnerability he showed when we fucked.

It wasn't just about the cameras or the surveillance or even marrying me when I was wasted; it was about navigating the intricate dance of control, trust, and vulnerability. We always seemed to be at war, but I realized we just wanted to be loved for our true selves. We had built walls for protection, but they had only hurt us. There was no war between us; we were on the same side, but neither of us knew it.

Unable to sleep, I gazed out the window at the pool. A midnight swim seemed like a good distraction. I considered the distance between the house and the barn, not wanting to venture into the dark woods. Calling a security guard felt like unnecessary work.

"You have to have something useful in here," I murmured, standing in the closet. I stumbled through the rows and rows of black shirts, realizing I needed to expand this man’s wardrobe. He needed a little color.

As I picked through his closet, looking for something to wear down to the pool, I saw a familiar box.

"Oh my God!" I lunged toward it, ripping the cardboard off the top. There were my sex toys, bikinis, and lingerie. "You motherfucker."

As I rummaged through the box, I heard a faint click. It was something that, during the day, the sounds of the forest would have muted, but in the silence of the dark, lost in the shadows, I heard loudly.

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