“Anything else you need, mijo?” she asks, her gaze softening with maternal concern.
I shake my head. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.”
Irma watches me take a bite of food, and I know she wants to say more.
“Yes?” I ask.
“You know you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t gawk.”
She huffs, but can’t hide the smile on her face. I look at the clock and feel like an asshole.
“Irma, it’s almost 1 a.m. What are you still doing up?”
“Someone’s gotta feed you.”
“I would have been okay.” I feel guilty, but she shakes her head.
“I know, but I worry. Couldn’t sleep anyway.” I notice she’s wearing one of those old fashioned matching sweatsuits. It’s what she wears around the apartment when she’s working after hours. I’ve told her a million times she doesn’t need to wear a uniform, but she likes to. Says it gives her a sense of purpose to put it on and get to work.
“Bad dreams again?”
“Eh, they come and go.”
Irma lost her family a decade ago. When I hired her, I renovated the penthouse to include a completely separate apartment for her to use. It connects to mine, but gives her more privacy and space than the original servants quarters did.
She doesn’t like to talk about her family much, but I know it still haunts her. I’ve heard her cries in the night. I’ve heard her scream out from the nightmares.
“You don’t have to wait up. I’ll eat and work a little more, then get to bed. I promise,” I add when she raises an eyebrow.
With a nod, Irma takes her leave, the door closing softly behind her. I turn my attention back to the screens, the images of Hallie still flickering before me.
I need to get closer, to understand the connection between her and Drago. But more than that, I need to ensure her safety. The thought of any harm coming to her sends a cold fury coursing through my veins.
I pull up the blueprints of her apartment building, studying the layout, the entry points, the potential vulnerabilities. It's not enough to watch from afar; I need to be in her space.
“Gotcha,” I say to no one as I find the opening I need. A vacancy in her building—that apartment next to hers is finally up for rent. Serendipity or fate, it doesn't matter. I'll be the new neighbor, the friendly face in the hallway.
My jaw sets firm as I plot the path ahead. For Hallie, I'll play the long game, move the pieces with care. She'll never know the danger that lurks, the silent guardian at her door, or the storm that rages within me—the tempest of desire and duty that her very existence has awakened.
Eight
Silas
The river slices through Alcott City, its waters mirroring the murky divide in my own life. From across the street, shrouded by the shadow of an elm, I watch Hallie emerge from her building. She's a splash of color against the gray backdrop—her scarf a brilliant cobalt that dances in the breeze.
She moves with purpose, every step a testament to the life she's built, unaware of the eyes that trace her path. I note the time, the precise angle of her departure, the way she pauses to greet Mr. Henrikson, the elderly man who runs the news stand on the corner, with a smile warm enough to thaw the coldest winter. Kindness incarnate, and it gnaws at me, this softness I've never known.
“Morning, Hallie!” he calls out, his voice weathered but spirited.
“Good morning, George! How's your grandson?” Her voice carries clear across the street, a melody of genuine interest that doesn't miss a single beat.
“Growing like a weed,” he chuckles, and she laughs, a sound that weaves through the bustling noise of the city, finding its way to the fortress around my heart.
I store away each detail, a mental ledger of her habits and humanity. It's this same compassion that will make her trust the new neighbor, the man with the polite nod and the hidden agenda.
“They finally rented it out, huh?” Hallie’s voice is hesitant when she meets me in the hallway later, lugging grocery bags that look ready to burst. She sets them down at her feet and I take a second to slide my gaze up her legs.
