SHATTERED VOWS

The Monster Who Watches

Chapter 6: The Monster Who Watches

Elara woke to the smell of coffee that wasn’t hers and the soft click of a door somewhere far down the hallway.

The bedroom was still dark blackout curtains drawn tight, only a thin silver line of city light sneaking underneath. She rolled onto her side, sheets cool against bare legs. She was still in yesterday’s clothes except the hoodie; sometime in the night he must have peeled it off her while she slept. The thought should have made her skin crawl. Instead it settled low in her belly like warm tar.

She sat up slowly. Head pounding. Throat dry. Between her thighs, the faint, sticky reminder of how he’d made her shatter against the glass last night. No penetration. No undressing. Just his hand and his voice and her own treacherous body giving him everything she swore she’d never give again.

The nightstand held a glass of water and two white pills. No note. She stared at them like they might bite, then swallowed both dry. Better safe than sorry when the man who owned you also controlled the roof over your head.

She padded barefoot across the cold floor. The bedroom door was unlocked small mercy or bigger trap, she couldn’t decide.

The hallway opened into the main living space. Empty. Lights low. Coffee maker still warm. Two mugs on the counter: one black, one with a faint lipstick smear she recognized as hers from last night. He’d kissed her after she came apart. Slow. Almost careful. Like he was apologizing to her mouth for what his hands had done.

She ignored the coffee. Went straight for the glass wall instead.

The city sprawled below, indifferent. She pressed her forehead to the cool pane. Closed her eyes. Tried to remember what normal felt like.

A soft chime from somewhere behind her.

She turned.

A sleek tablet sat on the low glass table. Screen lit. No password. Just a live feed.

Four camera angles.

One: the bedroom she’d just left. Empty bed, sheets still twisted.

Two: the hallway leading to this room. Empty.

Three: the kitchen. Her, standing there right now, staring at the tablet like it had personally betrayed her.

Four: the bathroom attached to the master suite. Shower running. Steam rising. A tall shadow moving behind frosted glass.

Her stomach dropped.

She tapped the screen. The feeds didn’t change.

She tapped again. Nothing.

Her reflection stared back at her from the dark glass wide-eyed, lips parted, looking exactly like prey that finally understood the jaws.

Footsteps. Bare. Wet.

She spun.

Damien stepped into the room wearing nothing but low-slung black sweatpants. Water still beading on his chest, tracing the ridges of old scars and fresh ink. Hair slicked back. Eyes locked on her like he’d been watching her watch him.

“You’re up early,” he said. Voice rough from disuse. Or maybe from the way he’d groaned her name against her throat last night.

She held up the tablet. Hand shaking.

“What the f**k is this?”

He walked closer. Slow. Unhurried. Water dripping onto the marble.

“Insurance,” he said simply.

“Insurance?” Her laugh cracked. “You’re watching me sleep. You’re watching me shower. You’re watching me right now.”

He stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough she could smell soap and skin and him.

“Yes.”

She shoved the tablet at his chest. Hard.

He caught it. Set it down gently on the couch like it was fragile.

“You think this makes me feel safe?” she hissed.

“No.” He stepped into her space. Backed her against the window again. Always the window. Always the city watching. “It makes me feel in control.”

She shoved at him. Palms flat on wet skin. He didn’t budge.

“You’re sick.”

“Probably.”

His hand lifted. Cupped the side of her face. Thumb brushing the tear track she hadn’t noticed falling.

“I watched you last night after you fell asleep,” he said quietly. “Curled on your side. Breathing like you were afraid even dreams would hurt you. I watched for three hours. Couldn’t look away.”

Her throat closed.

“I hate that I want to keep you like that,” he continued. “Safe. Mine. Watched. Because the second I stop, someone else will try to take you. And I’ve lost” His voice fractured. Just once. “I’ve lost someone before. I won’t do it again.”

The sister.

The ghost.

She stared at him. Saw the fracture widen.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I already did.”

He leaned in. Forehead against hers. Breathing her air.

“But you can decide how much it hurts,” he whispered. “You can fight. You can hate. You can claw at me until I bleed. Or you can let me watch. Let me protect. Let me worship every f*****g inch of you while you pretend you don’t love the way it feels to be seen.”

Her hands were still on his chest. Nails digging in now. Leaving half-moons.

“I don’t love anything about this.”

“Liar.”

He kissed her then.

Not brutal.

Not taunting.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

Like he was trying to crawl inside her ribs and live there.

She kissed him back fierce, angry, teeth and tongue and tears mixing. She bit his lip until copper bloomed between them. He groaned into her mouth. Pressed her harder against the glass. One thigh sliding between hers again. Grinding slow. Torturous.

She arched into it before she could stop herself.

He broke the kiss. Dragged his mouth down her throat. Over the bruise he’d left. Bit fresh territory.

“You like being watched,” he murmured against her skin. “Admit it.”

“No.”

He rocked against her. Thick length pressing through thin fabric. She felt every inch.

“Say it.”

She shook her head. Tears slipping faster.

His hand slid down. Cupped her again. Through jeans. Pressed. Rubbed. Slow circles that made her hips jerk.

“Say you want my eyes on you. Always.”

“f**k you.”

He laughed low, broken. Increased the pressure until she whimpered.

“Say it, Elara. Or I turn every camera off. Right now. And you’ll never know when I’m looking. Never know when I’m touching myself to the memory of you coming on my hand. Never know if I’m watching while you sleep. While you shower. While you cry.”

The threat landed like a blade between ribs.

She sobbed once. Quiet. Devastated.

“I want it,” she whispered. “I want you to watch.”

He stilled.

Then kissed her again harder. Hungrier. Rewarding.

His fingers worked her faster. Relentless. Until her knees buckled and she came again silent this time, just a broken gasp against his mouth, body shaking like it was trying to escape itself.

When it passed he held her upright. Kissed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her eye where tears still clung.

“Good girl,” he breathed. Voice wrecked. “My perfect, broken thing.”

She didn’t push him away.

Just stood there, trembling, while he held her like something precious he’d already ruined.

And somewhere in the apartment, four cameras kept rolling.

Quiet.

Patient.

Watching.