Damien Vale

  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.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  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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