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Fortunately, it’s a short walk back to the Manor, and we head inside, dripping wet, and Ever is complaining about the old book being damp.
Alistair’s eyes are glued to it, which catches my attention. I have zero clue what I’m looking at, though, so I fix him with a questioning glare.
“That’s some heavy reading,” Alistair murmurs, eyes dropping back to the tome. It’s a fuckingtome. And that’s when alarm bells start to ring.
“Chancellor Aldritch gave me a horrifying assignment. He made me the keynote speaker at the Alumni Ball in a fortnight on the history of KnightsGate because who better?” Her sarcasm rains down on us heavier than that drizzle outside.
“Did he now?” I murmur. “That’s interesting.”
“Hmm, it is,” she murmurs. “Anyway, better get back to it, and I have a test tomorrow. Thanks for walking me back, but I don’t need locking away. Okay?”
Alistair nods, and we watch her head up the stairs.
“Do you think that was deliberate?”
“Yes.”
There is nothing more to say on the subject right now.
“Keep your eyes on her all night,” he adds.
Nodding, I take the stairs two at a time and push the door open to my room, flipping the lid up on the laptop.
I lean back in my chair as I click into the surveillance software. It’s a rush, this power, like holding someone’s heart in your hands and feeling the thrum of their life at your fingertips. The screen flickers, then blooms into a four-way split, each angle a different view of her sanctuary.
Ever drops her bag on the floor with a soft thud, oblivious to the invisible threads of control we’ve spun around her. Her hair, that cascade of wavy gold,falls over her shoulders as she sits down, just a girl and her homework. But to me, she’s the pulse that drives my obsession; every move she makes is another note in the symphony only I can hear during these times when it’s just me being a voyeur to her without her knowledge.
She pulls out her books, lining them up with precision on the desk, her slender fingers brushing over the pages. I watch, fixated, as she chews on the end of her pen, lost in thought, that striking green gaze scanning the words that will never reveal her secrets—not like I can. There’s a sharpness to her, an edge of steel beneath the silk, and I know it’s not just her mind that’s brilliant, but her spirit too.
“Ever,” I whisper to the screen to our girl, who doesn’t even know she’s become the centre of our world. “What would you do if you knew?” But she can’t hear me, and part of me revels in that, in the knowledge that I am here, unseen, undetected, watching her every breath, every sigh, every stroke of her pen against paper.
My eyes don’t leave her, not for a second. Ever’s lost in her work, scribbling down notes with a focus that makes me lean closer to the screen as if I could somehow become part of her world just by watching. Her brow furrows in concentration, those green eyes flicking back and forth across the textbook pages spread out before her. She bites her lip, deep in thought, and a surge of something dark twists inside me.
It’s driving me crazy, feeling this close to her and still worlds apart.
Time slips by, a silent thief, and then she stops. The pen drops from her hand, and she stretches, arms reaching above her head, arching her back in a way that makes my throat dry. I watch, tense, as she stands up, shuffling papers into neat piles before she turns off the desk lamp.
The room dims, but the cameras are relentless; they miss nothing, not even the subtle shift in her expression that says she’s done for the night. She moves away from the desk, out of frame of one and directly into another, following her to where she pulls open a drawer and takes out fresh clothes. My pulse kicks up a notch because I know what’s coming next.
Ever strips off, her movements unhurried and unaware. There’s a grace to it, a quiet dignity that tells me she’s never known what it is to be watched like this. She heads towards the bathroom door and steps inside as I’m caught in this web of obsession that tangles tighter with each passing day.
As the water cascades around her tight body, I groan softly, wishing my hands, my tongue, were tracing her curves.
“Fuck.”
It’s like a twisted solo performance, just for me, and it’s sick how much I crave it. She can’t see me, but I can see every inch of her.
She finishes quickly and turns the shower off, stepping out and wrapping a white towel around her.Her hair is a wet cascade down her back as she grabs another towel and coils it into a turban.
She moves with that same ethereal grace, unaware of the eyes that follow her every motion. Every curve, every breath. I’m caught up in how normal she thinks this moment is and how far from normal I am for watching her in her intimate moments.
Watching her dry off and run a brush through her hair before giving it a quick blow dry, she gets in her pyjamas and crawls into bed with a quiet yawn.
“Sleep tight,” I whisper.
My gaze doesn’t waver, locked onto the form that’s become my obsession, my compulsion, my nightly ritual.
I’m wrapped up in the dark reality of my own making, and even though she’ll wake up to a new day, oblivious, I’ll be right here—watching, waiting, lost in this dangerous game that only I know we’re playing.
