11. Watched While Watching

Kian

I see him.

Aaron King. That fucking bastard. His car pulls up to the street outside her place like he owns the night, like he’s the kind of man who gets to play savior. My jaw locks so tight it aches, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

And there she is. Lena. My Lena. Stepping out of his car, her hair brushing over her shoulders, her lips parting as she says something to him. Too close. Too soft. I can’t hear it, but I don’t need to. I know that look. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the faint smile that curves her lips—it’s meant to be mine.

She’s supposed to look at me like that, not him.

A red haze crawls across my vision. My chest is burning. I slam my hand against the window frame, hard enough that the glass rattles. She lingers, standing there under his gaze, and I want to rip him out of that car and snap his neck until the world goes quiet.

By the time she disappears inside, I’m pacing my apartment like a caged animal. My fists crash into the walls, into the edge of the table, into anything that dares to stand in my way. A vase shatters, glass spraying across the floor like shards of ice. I don’t stop. I kick the chair, flip the couch cushion, send bottles rolling with a crash that fills the silence.

“You think you can betray me?” I snarl, grabbing a photo frame from the shelf. Her picture stares back at me, her eyes wide, her smile too pure. My Lena. My angel. I press my thumb against the glass, over her lips, trembling.

“You let him touch you? You let him look at you like you’re his?” My voice breaks into a growl. “No. No one loves you like I do.”

I hurl the frame across the room. It explodes against the wall, fragments raining down. Then I sink to the floor, gathering the scattered photographs I’ve hoarded—snapshots of her in sunlight, her laughter caught mid-motion, her walking home from work, her asleep through the gap in the curtains.

I spread them out on the floor like holy scripture, kneeling before them. My fingers shake as I trace her face in each one. “You belong to me. You always have. Don’t you see? No one else will ever understand you like I do.”

For a moment, the fury twists into something else—laughter. A raw, hollow sound that rips from my throat, echoing off the walls. “Let them try,” I hiss, clutching a picture tight against my chest. “Let them all try. They’ll never win. Because no one can love you the way I love you.”

My chest heaves, and my mind slips back to the fire. The smoke, the screams, the chaos I orchestrated with one spark. I left her photograph in the ash, deliberately, like a trail of poison. A seed of doubt for Aaron King to water with suspicion. Let him wonder if Lena is tangled with his enemies, if she’s the reason his empire quivers at its core. Let him doubt her.

The thought soothes me for a flicker of a second. I picture Aaron sitting in his mansion, mourning, crumbling under the weight of it. My lips twist into a grin. He’s too weak for her. He doesn’t deserve her fire, her storms.

But then—then I see it.

I follow her to his mansion. Aaron King’s grand mansion. My chest tightens. And there she is. Walking into his mansion. My blood freezes, then boils, flooding through me so fast I stagger. She’s supposed to be mourning me, not him. She’s supposed to be alone, broken, missing me until her bones ache. Instead, she’s inside his home, his world, as if she belongs there.

I slam my fist into the tree again, splitting the skin on my knuckles. The sting is nothing compared to the inferno roaring in my head.

Hours pass. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I wait outside his mansion, the storm breaking loose above me. Rain pours in sheets, soaking me through, plastering my hair to my forehead, dripping down into my eyes. But I don’t care. My gaze is locked on one window above.

And then—I see her.

She appears, framed by the glass, her silhouette delicate against the glow inside. She lifts her face toward the rain, and I catch the soft curve of her lips. She’s smiling. Smiling at the storm, at the freedom she thinks she has.

My fists clench, my jaw tightens until I taste blood. She has no idea. No idea I’m standing here, watching. She thinks she’s safe, thinks she’s rid of me because she isn’t at her little apartment anymore. Poor, sweet Lena.

The thought almost calms me. She believes she’s escaped. She believes I can’t touch her here. And that belief is what will keep her blind, unguarded, mine.

I press my forehead against the cold iron of the gate, rain streaming down my face, mixing with the sweat of obsession. “You’ll never be free of me,” I whisper into the storm.

Because she isn’t. She never will be.

I step away from the mansion, staggering into the empty street. The rain pours harder, soaking me, blurring the headlights of passing cars into streaks of light. My mind feels split, jagged edges cutting through thought and obsession.

Then suddenly—horns. Blinding lights. A car halts just inches away from me. Tires screech. The driver slams his horn again, long and sharp, echoing against the wet pavement.

I just stand there, unblinking, staring into the beams.

The car door bursts open. A man jumps out, cursing under his breath as he rushes toward me. His coat flaps open, rain plastering it against his body. He looks irritated, concerned. He dares to reach out, putting his hand on my arm.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing? You could’ve been killed. Are you drunk? Do you need help?”

Help. The word grates against my skin like sandpaper.

I tilt my head slowly, meeting his eyes. My lips twitch, forming a grin that feels too wide, too sharp. My voice comes out low, almost a murmur.

“She’s cheating on me.”

The man frowns, his grip tightening. “What? What are you talking about? Look, buddy, you need to—”

I snap.

My hand shoots out, grabbing his arm, twisting it back with a brutal crack. His scream pierces through the storm, high-pitched and raw, his elbow bent the wrong way. He collapses to his knees, clutching the ruined limb, his face contorted in agony.

I crouch down in front of him, rain dripping from my hair onto his face. My voice is soft, intimate, almost tender.

“You don’t get it, do you? She’s mine. Mine. And yet she smiles at him. Lets him drive her home. Lets him inside.”

The man whimpers, trying to crawl back, but I follow him, slow and deliberate, like a predator enjoying the hunt.

My hand slides into my pocket and finds the knife. Cold steel. Familiar. Comforting. I draw it out, the blade glinting under the dim streetlight despite the sheets of rain.

His eyes widen. “Wait—wait, don’t—”

I press the knife gently against his throat, silencing him. My lips hover by his ear.

“Do you know what betrayal feels like?” I whisper. “It’s fire. It eats you alive from the inside. And yet… I’d burn again and again, just for her.”

He sobs, his breath hitching. His body trembles beneath my hold.

“You’re in my way,” I murmur, dragging the blade slowly across his skin, just enough to make him bleed. A thin red line blooms under the edge, mixing with the rain. “Everyone’s in my way.”

Then, with one swift motion, I plunge the knife into his chest.

His cry is strangled, choked off by the storm. I twist the blade, feeling the resistance of bone, the way flesh gives under pressure. The warmth of blood rushes over my hand, thick, hot, pulsing.

The man gasps, his eyes rolling back, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. I pull the blade free, then drive it in again, lower, harder. Over and over, the sound of the knife piercing flesh merges with the patter of rain.

Each thrust is a word.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Until he stops moving. Until his body lies still, lifeless, his face pale under the streetlight.

I sit back on my heels, chest heaving, blood mixing with rain, my knuckles slick and trembling. A laugh bursts out of me—loud, jagged, broken.

The storm drowns everything else, but my laughter cuts through it.

“She can never escape me,” I whisper to the corpse. “Not now. Not ever.”

I drag the knife from his chest, licking the rain-washed blood off its edge before sliding it back into my pocket. My heart is wild, my head spinning, but I feel alive.

I step back into the road, rain cascading over me, arms stretched slightly at my sides. A shadow among shadows.

And then—movement. Someone else is there. Watching me.

What happens when a stalker finds a stalker of his own?