I used to believe I was immune to fire.

That no one could light a match close enough to reach me.

Then came Elena.

And now I burn. Quietly. Constantly. Without relief.

I returned to my penthouse at midnight, the city glowing like it was taunting me—millions of lights, and none of them hers.

I poured whiskey into a crystal glass and didn’t drink it.

I just watched the liquid still itself, thinking how easily she unsettled me.

She had no idea what it meant when I told her to let me carry her burdens.

No idea what I was willing to carry.

I’d killed for less.

No, not literally. Not yet.

But the thought doesn’t scare me anymore.

The man from the café? I’d already had Lucas run a full background check. It took less than three hours to know where he worked, what car he drove, what bar he liked after dark.

He wouldn’t be a problem again.

I told myself I was doing it to protect her. But I knew the truth.

It was possession, wrapped in devotion.

Love, corrupted by need.

I stepped into the dark hallway that led to the room I never let anyone see.

The room with walls lined in still frames. Monitors. Notes. Schedules.

Elena’s life mapped out in obsessive detail.

I approached the center screen—her apartment’s front door. I watched it like a worshipper before an altar. She hadn’t left since she got home.

Good.

I opened the drawer below the screen.

Inside was a small velvet box. I hadn’t meant to buy it yet. But when I saw it—dark stone, wrapped in antique silver—it reminded me of her. Beautiful. Untouchable. Laced in shadows.

I clicked it open.

Closed it again.

One day.

I sat down in the leather chair I rarely used and leaned my head back, eyes closing, her name breathing through my ribs like a prayer.

Elena Rivers.

I didn’t know when it started—this need to be everywhere she was, even if only in spirit.

But now I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

I would burn every lie she told herself.

Every man she smiled at.

Every door she tried to close.

Because when I wanted something, I earned it.

And I wanted her like a sin I would never confess.

The glass finally tipped in my hand.

Whiskey spilled across the floor.

I didn’t notice.

Because I was already gone—lost in the thought of her voice, the curl of her lip when she was angry, the ache in her silence.

And I knew—if it came to it, if the world demanded a price—I would give it.

All of it.

For her.

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