Damon's POV
After calling Selena, I should have gone straight to her club. Should have. But my mind was elsewhere—fixated on her.
I wanted to see her fear, her trembling form, her innocence. wanted to watch her shiver under my gaze, knowing she had witnessed something she shouldn't have.
So I followed her to the café.
This time, without my mask, without my coat. Just a plain white t-shirt and black pants—a casual disguise for the devil himself.
The night air was crisp, the scent of coffee and sugar lingering—warm, inviting. But beneath it, something else.
Her.
I stepped inside, and she felt me.
She didn't look up. Didn't see me.
But she felt me.
The tremor in her fingers as she fumbled with a ribbon, the way her breath hitched, the way her back straightened—an instinctive reaction to something dark brushing against her skin.
Not recognition. Not yet.
But she remembered the night. The fear. The unseen presence that had wrapped around her like a phantom in the dark.
She just didn't realize it had been me.
Not yet.
But soon.
And then—him.
She turned—and ran straight into his arms.
Something inside me cracked.
She clung to him, gripping his shirt like an anchor. Like he was something solid. Like he was hers.
My jaw clenched, muscles coiling as a slow, venomous rage seeped into my veins.
She thought she could run to another man. That he could protect her.
That he was her safety.
Her home.
I forced my hands to stay at my sides, fingers curling into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms. Control.
She was trembling, and for a moment, I let myself believe—
That it was because of me.
That my touch still haunted her skin. That I still lingered in the corners of her mind, in the shudder of her breath.
But then—he cupped her face.
Close. Intimate. His voice a murmur, something meant only for her.
Close enough to kiss her.
And she let him.
A slow, deep heat burned in my chest.
Not fire. Not rage.
Something darker. More poisonous.
Jealousy.
I had never known jealousy before—not the kind that gnawed at the edges of my sanity.
Not the kind that made my fingers twitch with the need to rip her away from him.
Not the kind that made me crave destruction.
I moved forward. Controlled. Measured. Deliberate.
She didn't notice me at first. But the moment she did—everything changed.
Her breath stilled. Her pupils dilated.
She didn't know why.
She didn't know who I was.
But she felt me.
That invisible thread that had always bound us—tightening.
And then—him.
He turned, his grip on her shifting, subtle but protective.
He felt it too.
Not like she did. Not the dark, inescapable pull of what I was to her.
But something wrong.
A tension thickening the air. A predator stepping too close.
His fingers curled into fists. A silent barrier. A warning.
Pathetic.
I stepped toward the counter, a slow smirk tugging at my lips.
That bastard came forward, forcing a polite expression. "What can I get for you?"
I didn't want him to take my order. I didn't want him near me.
But I wouldn't let my rage show.
"Hot coffee." My voice was smooth. Unbothered.
A lie.
His gaze sharpened, wary.
Good.
I wanted him to feel it.
The slow-burning hatred. The quiet, inevitable truth.
He would see it now.
Or he would see it when I tore her away from him.
Either way—he would see.
And no matter where she ran, no matter who she turned to—
I would find her.
She was pretending.
Pretending she didn't see me. Pretending she didn't feel me.
But I saw the way her hands trembled, how she fumbled with the ribbons, her fingers clumsy where they should have been deft.
She was unraveling.
And I wanted her to.
She turned, just slightly—just enough to steal a glance.
Our eyes met.
A jolt. A silent gasp caught between us.
She didn't understand it yet, didn't know why she felt this way.
But I did.
Her pupils dilated, her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.
And then—she whipped back around.
Running. Hiding.
It didn't matter.
She could turn her back, bury her fear, pretend this moment never happened.
But she had already given herself away.
Her body knew before her mind did.
A moment later, the bastard placed my coffee on the counter. "Here you go."
Him
She ran to him. Clung to him. Looked at him like he was the answer to her fear.
Pathetic.
I dragged my gaze to him—slowly. Deliberately.
And when my eyes met his, I let him see it.
Not just a threat. Not just a warning.
A promise.
He didn't notice. Too fucking oblivious.
But she did.
I felt her watching, stiffening as I wrapped my fingers around the cup. Too tight. The ceramic burned my palm, but I barely noticed.
Then—she reached forward, her fingers outstretched, offering the bill.
I let it happen.
I let the back of my hand brush against hers, let my fingertips graze her skin.
Cold.
She sucked in a breath, a soft, barely audible sound.
But I heard it.
I felt it.
Her skin was warm, so warm, and I was cold, so much colder.
A contradiction. A battle neither of us had chosen, yet one I was determined to win.
Her breath shuddered.
And then—I leaned in.
Close. Just enough for my breath to touch her skin.
She was frozen. Trapped.
Good.
I let my voice drop to a whisper, smooth and low, threading through the space between us.
"You look beautiful in this outfit."
Not a compliment.
A claim.
Possession woven into each syllable, dark and inescapable.
Knew it in the way her throat went tight, in the way her fingers curled inward, in the way she couldn't move—couldn't breathe.
I stepped back. Took my coffee.
And walked away.
But it wasn't over.
It would never be over.
Because the moment she stepped outside, the moment she thought she could escape—
She felt me again.
That weight. That suffocating, inescapable pull.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because she could run.
She could run straight into his arms, into anyone's arms.
But in the end—
She would still be mine.
She would realize it soon enough.
I followed her home. Not too close—just enough to let her feel it.
The air shifted around her. The night thickened, tightening its grip, wrapping her in a shroud of unseen terror.
Her steps faltered. She turned her head, searching the shadows, searching for me.
She knew.
Not who. Not yet. But she felt me.
Like a whisper at the nape of her neck. Like fingers gliding over her skin without ever touching her.
Her hands clenched around her bag. Her breath hitched.
Foolishly, she hurried, as if that would save her. As if a locked door, a sliding chain, and closed windows could ever keep me out.
Sweetheart, I have my ways.
The lights in her house flickered off. The world inside went still.
I waited.
Waited until exhaustion stole her defenses. Until sleep wrapped its delicate chains around her limbs and left her vulnerable.
Then, I moved.
Silent. Unseen.
I was inside before she even stirred.
Her room was small, warm—a sanctuary.
So unlike mine.
Mine was cold. Empty. Lifeless.
And there she was.
Fast asleep. Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks, lips parted in a breathless sigh. Strands of hair tumbled over her pillow, a tangle of black silk. Books lay scattered around her, their pages open, like she had fought against sleep and lost.
She looked peaceful.
So unbearably, infuriatingly mine.
I knelt beside her bed. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough to let my breath mingle with hers.
The scent of cinnamon and chocolate clung to her. Sweet. Addictive. It made my blood hum with the need to consume her whole.
My fingers twitched. My body burned.
I could take her now. Mark her. Break her. Ruin her.
But no.
I leaned in, my lips barely grazing the shell of her ear, letting my breath dance over her skin in a whisper of possession.
"I will have you slowly, my love."
She stirred, lashes trembling.
A sigh. A fleeting frown. A shift of her delicate fingers against the sheets.
But she didn't wake.
I vanished before dawn, leaving nothing behind but the weight of my presence.
I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Her scent. Her warmth. The way she tensed in my presence, even when she didn't understand why.
It wasn't enough.
I needed more.
I made sure I would never miss a moment.
Cameras.
Small. Hidden. Everywhere.
I watched her through my third eye—unseen, unknown—while she moved through her life, oblivious to me.
Unaware that I watched her while she brewed her morning coffee, while she curled up in the tiny living room with a book, her brows furrowing in concentration.
But I saw something else, too.
The way her body tensed when the wind howled outside. The way her fingers trembled when she locked her doors at night.
She was scared for me ,the murderer
I loved it.
Her fear.
A fear that belonged to me.
While she was gone—off to her classes, drowning in textbooks, working late shifts to survive—my men worked.
Placing cameras.
Everywhere.
Her bedroom. Her bathroom. Every inch of her world now belonged to me.
And that night, when I watched her, my control snapped.
She came home exhausted. Tossed her bag aside. Ran a hand through her hair.
And walked straight into her room.
She didn't know.
She had no idea that I was right there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then—she undressed.
Slow. Unintentional. Each piece of clothing fell away, revealing the untouched canvas of her body.
Perfection.
My fingers curled into fists.
Her back arched as she stretched, muscles taut from the weight of her day. The faintest sigh slipped from her lips.
The kind of sound I wanted to tear from her throat over and over again—until she had no voice left except my name.
She stepped into the shower.
And I lost myself.
The water cascaded over her, tracing paths down her body that should have been mine to follow.
My jaw clenched.
I should be there.
I should be touching her.
Making her shudder. Making her tremble. Making her break.
Not the water.
Not her own hands.
Me.
By the time she stepped out, steam curling around her like a ghostly embrace, my restraint was fraying.
Thin. Dangerously thin.
I needed a distraction.
Now.
A knock at my study door.
"Hello, Damon."
Selena.
Perfect.
I yanked her inside.
Crushed my mouth against hers.
Hard. Desperate. Empty.
She gasped. Tangled her fingers in my hair. Moaned when I lifted her onto my desk, nails scraping down my back.
I didn't care.
I needed to erase this feeling.
To forget the girl who haunted me.
So I drowned myself in the only relief I knew.
Teeth. Nails. A brutal, mindless blur of bodies colliding in the dark.
But even as I took, I wasn't there.
Selena moaned beneath me, but in the haze of heat, of tangled limbs and gasping breaths—
I saw her.
My hands softened.
My lips slowed.
For the first time, I wasn't just taking.
I was giving.
Selena's breath hitched. Her fingers traced my face, something unreadable in her gaze.
"This is the first time you were this gentle," she whispered. "I almost felt… love in it."
I went still.
Love?
No.
I didn't love.
I consumed.
I destroyed.
And she will be no exception.