Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
She wants this, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
And now I can’t stop.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, already knowing it’s her. A message lights up the screen.
Dreammafiaqueen
What did you do?
I smirk to myself, my thumb hovering over the reply. I should ignore her. Walk away. Hell, run before this goes further.
But I’ve never been good at ignoring temptation.
I left you a small present, little queen.
I press send, slip the phone back into my pocket, and step away from the rooftop edge. It’s better this way—for her, at least. She thinks I’m gone. She thinks I’ve let her go.
But I’ll be watching.
Just to make sure she’s safe, I tell myself.
And maybe—just maybe—to see if she’ll come looking for me.
Dreammafiaqueen
You shouldn’t have come here. I didn’t invite you.
Her message flashes on my screen, her defiance practically dripping through the text. I smirk, shaking my head. She’s trying to play the game, trying to keep control, but she doesn’t realize how much she’s already surrendered.
Didn’t you, though?
I send the reply and pocket my phone, pacing the rooftop as adrenaline courses through me. I shouldn’t have come here, and yet… I can’t stay away. Not when I’ve seen the way she responds, her breaths quickening, her eyes flaring when I step close.
I can’t do this. I won’t. I shouldn’t.
But the word shouldn’t has never stopped me before.
Pulling out my phone again, I tap into the feed from the camera I had discreetly installed in her apartment. Her face fills the screen, beautiful and furious as she paces. The light from her fairy lights softens her edges, but it doesn’t hide the fire in her movements. She’s muttering to herself, running her fingers through her hair, biting her lip in frustration.
The way she bites her lip… my fingers flex at my sides, imagining them tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, tilting her face up so she can’t look anywhere but at me.
I check the biometric data monitor I installed earlier. Her heart rate is elevated, her breathing quick and shallow. She’s angry, sure, but there’s something else there too. Excitement. Anticipation.
She wants this, even if she won’t admit it yet.
And that’s why I’m here—not to scare her, but to remind her that the fantasies she hides behind her screen can be real if she lets them. If she lets me.
But I can’t push too hard. Not yet. I’ve spent years mastering control, and this is no different. I’ll take my time, unraveling her defenses piece by piece until she doesn’t just trust me—she craves me.
Her phone lights up on the camera feed, and I watch her glance at it, her thumb hesitating over the screen. My response must’ve shaken her more than she expected.
Good.
I close the feed, my pulse steady and calm despite the way my blood burns for her. For now, I’ll stay in the shadows, watching, waiting. She’ll come to me when she’s ready.
Because deep down, she knows what I know.
She’s mine already.
Get some sleep, little queen. I’ll be back
Dreammafiaqueen
Are you watching me?
Good night, beautiful
Her pacing slows as her phone lights up again on the camera feed. I watch as her brows furrow, her lips pressing into a tight line. She picks up the device hesitantly, and when she reads whatever message just came through, her whole body stiffens.
Her hands shake as she types back furiously, then stops. Her face twists into something I can’t quite place—fear, anger, maybe both.
I flip to the biometrics. Her heart rate spikes off the charts, and her breathing grows shallow. Whatever that message was, it hit her hard.
A second later, her phone buzzes again, and I catch the flicker of panic on her face before she slams it down on the table.
Who the fuck was that?
I access the feed again, zooming in to catch the name on the screen.
Shawn Steele
My stomach tightens, the way it always does when something doesn’t sit right. Who is this asshole? She looked rattled, and Ember doesn’t rattle easily. I’ve been watching her long enough to know that much.
I switch to my own phone, pulling up every scrap of information I can find on Shawn Steele. Not much turns up—a few social media accounts, a sparse LinkedIn page, and an address in the Midwest that doesn’t seem to fit with Ember’s life here. He’s marked as “stepbrother” in some public records, which makes my stomach churn.
I dig further, scanning the few photos I can find. There’s a smarmy grin, the kind that makes my fist itch to connect with his face. But what catches my attention is the absence of her. No pictures, no posts, no shared mentions.
I look harder, cross-referencing where I can, and I finally find a link—a mention in an old blog post she wrote years ago before she built her following.
"Family is supposed to protect you. When they don’t, it’s up to you to protect yourself."