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I sink into the plush passenger seat, my gaze following the elegant line of her neck, the gentle rise of her tits beneath her sweater, and finally resting on the soft curve of her thighs.

A quiet, diabolical wave of pure satisfaction slams into my chest.

This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Fifteen agonizing years of watching, planning, and waiting for the right moment to trap her. A chance to get her completely alone, secluded in the dark with no interruptions, no cops, and no crowd to save her.

My hands flex inside the pockets of my hoodie, my thumb tracing the smooth casing of my blade.

The crazed beast inside me claws at the cage of my ribs, eager to tear away the pretty, arrogant mask she wears.

I want to peel back her skin, dig my fingers into her secrets, and watch her bleed for me—whether it’s tears, truth, or pure, soulless surrender.

I want to press her into the cold earth, strip her of her secrets, and see if she survives what I have planned for her.

And deep down, in the blackest corners of my soul, I know the truth: once I have her isolated in the dark, I might not have the strength to stop myself from ruining her completely.

Eleven

The Way He Watches Me

HARMONY

11:30 PM

As the rain insists on tearing a hole in my roof, every nerve ending in my body is on high alert, firing off warnings I can no longer afford to ignore.

I’m stepping directly into the lion’s den, and I know it. And yet, I don’t care.

Worse than the threat of Ryder himself is the terrifying, volatile truth creeping through my chest: I don’t trust myself.

The sheer, overwhelming pull I feel toward this man is a dangerous, intoxicating fog that threatens to erase every shred of self-preservation I possess.

I’m terrified that if I let my guard down for even a single second, I’ll do something I regret. I’ll give in and let him tear away the rest of my defenses and burn us both to the ground.

Pulling the car deep onto an overgrown dirt lane, I cut the headlights as I maneuver into the gaping wooden doors of an abandoned barn.

I know this land.

The owners haven’t stepped foot on this parcel in years, and it’s set so far off the beaten path that the county police won’t dream of checking out here, especially with the storm washing out the surrounding ditches.

“Out,” I demand, my voice tight as I kill the ignition.

We throw open our doors and make a desperate, drenched dash into the dark interior just as the skies unleash a fresh torrent of wind and rain.

The heavy double doors creak shut behind us, locking out the roaring storm and plunging us into the shadowy, cavernous space. Thick and heavy with the scents of aged cedar, damp earth, old rusted iron, and the sweet, lingering musk of ancient hay rot invade my nose.

High above, the rafters groan under the weight of the wind, but inside, the air is still and freezing cold.

Ryder doesn’t waste a second. He moves through the gloom with an eerie, quiet efficiency, instantly scanning the floor seemingly for anything dry enough to catch a spark and give us warmth. He kicks open an old wooden crate, eyeing the pile of dry, brittle hay inside, but shakes his head.

He must know just as I do, that it’ll burn too fast and choke us out with smoke.

Instead, he stalks toward the far wall, kicking away a pile of rotted canvas to reveal a stack of forgotten kindling—dried pine twigs and thick, seasoned oak logs left behind years ago.

I lean my back against a heavy support beam, letting it guide me as I slide down to sit on the floor. I wrap my arms tight around my middle, unable to tear my eyes away from him as he kneels on the dirt floor.

Even in the dim light, watching him build the fire turns my blood into liquid heat.