Page 44 of Can't Stop Watching
I exit the old building and cross the street. My fingers dance over the keypad, inputting the code I memorized last night as I watched her put it in. The lock clicks open. Too easy.
Inside, I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. At her door, I pull out my lockpick set. It's been a while, but muscle memory kicks in. Within seconds, I'm inside.
Lila's scent hits me first, a mix of lavender and something uniquely her. I inhale deeply, hating myself for how much I crave it. Her cluttered apartment speaks of a life lived in haste. Textbooks and notebooks litter every surface, pens scattered like landmines waiting to be stepped on.
I move through the space carefully, cataloging details. A half-empty mug of cold coffee on the nightstand. The green dress she wore on our date, draped over a chair. My fingers brush the silky fabric. I pick it up and smell her scent, keep it in my hand, relishing the feel.
Next, I open her closet, rifling through clothes that feel as if they still hold her warmth. My hand closes around a small stuffed animal, a worn teddy bear missing an eye. Something about it screams 'childhood relic.' I wonder what nightmares it's chased away.
On her desk, a stack of papers catches my eye. Internship applications. One for Veritas stands out, covered in highlighting and scribbled notes. So that's what she was talking about.
My feet carry me to her bed. I sit on the edge, running my hand over the rumpled sheets. Images of Lila here, alone, vulnerable, flood my mind. I could protect her. Keep her safe from the monsters of the world.
I would do whatever you need me to do, Lila.
The sound of a key in the lock jolts me back to reality. Shit. I'm on my feet in an instant, heart hammering. There's no time to get out. I duck into her tiny closet and close the door, prayingshe won't need a sweater, then realize I'm still holding on to her dress.
The door opens. Lila's voice drifts in, talking to someone on the phone. "Yeah, I'm just running a little late. Be right there." A pause. "Okay, bye."
I hold my breath, trapped in a prison of my own making, surrounded by the scent of the woman I can't stop thinking about.
What have I done? If she finds me here, it's all over.
My heart pounds like I'm pinned down by sniper fire. Sweat beads on my forehead as Lila's footsteps draw closer. I'm not religious, but I find myself praying to whatever cosmic force might be listening.
"There you are," Lila mutters. "Now, where did I put that stupid dress?"
Fuck. Me.
I drop the dress at my feet, heart pounding like artillery fire as I press myself deeper into the closet. The hangers rattle softly, and I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Lila's footsteps grow closer, each one a countdown to my inevitable discovery.
Fucking amateur hour, Wolfe. Some spec ops soldier you turned out to be.
I can picture Lila's face if she finds me here—shock, betrayal, terror. The thought twists my gut.
Her scent surrounds me in this cramped space, a reminder of my fucked up obsession. It's intoxicating and suffocating all at once. I'm drowning in her, and I can't bring myself to swim for shore.
"Where the hell is it?" Lila mutters, frustration coloring her voice.
I press myself against the back wall, willing myself to melt into the shadows. The irony isn't lost on me—a predatorbecoming prey in the blink of an eye. How quickly the tables turn when you're on the wrong side of morality.
Her hand brushes the closet door, and I hold my breath. This is it. The moment of truth. When she opens it, will she find me here, a wolf in sheep's clothing, caught red-handed in her personal space?
The closet door swings open, and I'm face-to-face with my own demise. But Lila's eyes never reach me. They lock onto the green silk puddle on the floor.
"There you are," she mutters, bending to scoop up the dress. "You're going to the cleaners then back to Tessa."
I don't even dare to blink as she turns away, heels clicking. The front door opens, closes. Silence descends like a fog.
I wait one heartbeat. Two. Three. My lungs burn, starved for oxygen. Finally, I allow myself a shaky exhale.
Fuck me sideways. That was too close.
I step out of the closet on unsteady legs, adrenaline still singing through my veins. Here I am, a trained killer, nearly taken down by a closet and a damn dress.
My eyes scan the apartment, seeing it with new clarity. This isn't just Lila's space anymore. It's a crime scene. My crime scene.
I sink onto her bed, the mattress creaking under my weight. The scent of her shampoo lingers on the pillow, and I resist the urge to bury my face in it. Christ.
