Chapter 3
816 Words
Xavier Schawn was a man who never obsessed. He conquered. Acquired. Devoured.
But this—this woman had left an imprint. A flash of her eyes in terror, the curve of her mouth as she gasped and turned, the way her limbs moved with instinct, not calculation.
Fear was something he usually took away from others. But her fear? It had become an invitation.
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He spent the morning in his study, a glass of dark scotch untouched on the table beside him. The file on Bella Knight lay open in front of him like scripture—birth certificate, academic records, photographs, financial statements. He studied her as though learning the shape of her soul could grant him some forbidden access.
She’d lived small. Grew up in a modest home. Nothing extravagant. Parents now deceased. One younger sister, estranged. No close friends. Just Steven.
Her life had been quiet, careful. Maybe even too careful.
Xavier ran a finger over her wedding photo, pausing on her smile. It wasn’t just love. It was safety. She clung to her husband like he was her anchor.
Which meant Xavier only had to rip that anchor loose.
“She doesn’t know it yet,” he murmured to no one, “but she belongs to me.”
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Bella didn’t go outside that day.
Something in her chest had tightened overnight, like a warning she couldn’t explain. The dreams she’d had—shadowed figures whispering from doorways, hands clawing at her ankles, Steven disappearing into smoke—still clung to her even in the daylight.
She stayed in the kitchen, hands busy with baking. Measuring flour, sugar, eggs. Stirring too long. Kneading too hard. The repetitive motions gave her something to control, even as her thoughts spiraled.
She hadn’t told Steven about the man in the alley.
Not completely.
She’d left out the way his eyes held her. The silence of the gun. The way the world seemed to narrow to a single moment and never quite returned to normal after.
Something had shifted in her.
And in the shadows, she knew—someone was watching.
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Xavier’s instructions were precise: no direct contact. Not yet. His men were to follow from a distance. Note her habits. Where she went. What time she woke. What time she showered. What she wore.
Her rhythm would be mapped like a war campaign.
He didn’t need to touch her to make her break. First, she would unravel from the inside.
Fear. That’s how it would start.
Then isolation.
Then need.
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That evening, Bella sat curled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her legs, watching the sun bleed through the window in shades of orange and wine. Steven entered with his work bag slung across his shoulder, tie half-loosened.
“Hey,” he said softly, setting his things down. “You okay?”
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Steven didn’t push. He sank beside her, letting the silence stretch. His hand found hers between them.
Bella looked at him—really looked. His jawline, the lines near his eyes, the way he always smelled faintly of pine and something warm. He was solid. Familiar. And for the first time, she realized just how terrifying it would be to lose that.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a long pause, “about installing cameras around the house. I know we live in a safe area, but lately… I don’t know. I’ve had this feeling.”
Bella’s chest clenched. “You’ve felt it too?”
Steven nodded. “Like we’re not alone.”
She squeezed his hand.
Neither of them said anything more. But that night, they made love like it might be the last time—slow, tender, urgent.
And outside, in the street cloaked in shadow, Xavier’s car sat parked in silence.
Watching.
Waiting.
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The next morning, the flowers arrived.
Bella opened the door to find a bouquet taller than her—deep red roses, almost black at the edges, wrapped in silk. No card. No name.
Just her name written in ornate calligraphy on the ribbon tied around the stems.
She stepped back instinctively, heart stuttering in her chest.
Steven took the bouquet from her hands, examining it with a frown. “Did you order this?”
She shook her head.
He stared at the ribbon. “No sender?”
“No.”
They didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then Steven turned, carried the bouquet outside, and threw it into the trash bin.
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That night, Bella woke up to a soft sound.
A tap.
She sat upright, heart hammering.
Another tap. Glass.
She stood, trembling, and walked slowly toward the bedroom window.
Nothing.
She opened the curtains.
Nothing again.
But the feeling stayed.
She was being watched.
And whoever it was—they weren’t in a hurry.
They were enjoying the game.
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- Writer
