Details Matter

**Sloane**

The apartment door slams shut. The metallic click of the deadbolt echoes through the dim living room, marking the end of another adrenaline-fueled night. I kick off my heavy boots and peel the blood-soaked hoodie over my head. It hits the floorboards with a wet, heavy thud. I leave it there. The cold, sticky metallic stench clings to my skin, but I ignore it. The freezing alleyway outside the club is still fresh in my mind. The chase. The narrow escape. I just want a moment of peace.

Roxanne is already curled on the worn leather couch. The television flickers, casting blue light across her face as she flips through channels. The late-night broadcasts mean nothing. Ronan is still locked in my head. His intense, burning gaze from the club exit replays behind my eyes, making my pulse pound all over again. I drop onto the cushions next to Roxanne and tip sideways, letting my head rest in her lap.

"Well, hello to you too," Roxanne mutters. A small smile touches her lips as she shifts her legs to make room. Her fingers slide into my dark hair, working through the dried blood and tangled knots just like she always does. "How is your little boyfriend today?"

I let out a long, heavy sigh, sinking into the temporary comfort. "He is perfect," I murmur. "He looked at me tonight. Really looked at me."

Her fingers pause. "Looked at you, or *looked* at you?"

I push myself up just enough to meet her steady gaze. "Our eyes locked. I was hidden in the shadows near the side exit. The club was chaotic, and I had my hood up. But I know. I felt it." I swallow hard, the memory pulling the air straight from my lungs. "I left him a message on a napkin, but before I slipped out, we connected. I felt that same spark again."

Roxanne arches a brow. She does not mock me. "That feeling from the very first time?"

"Yes." I drag both hands down my face, trying to rub the lingering heat from my skin. "That stupid, soul-splitting pull. The one that made me fall for him before I even knew his name."

Roxanne snorts, resuming her rhythmic strokes through my hair. "Obsessed. You are a stalker, Sloane."

There is no malice in her tone. She has seen too much blood and death to judge me. I do not deny her accusation. I am obsessed. But can anyone blame me?

"He is just... right," I say quietly. "He walks into a room, and the whole world shuts up. He commands raw respect, yet he holds this hidden compassion. When he looked at me tonight, even with his men crowding the bar, I felt seen." My voice drops to a hollow whisper. "I have not felt seen since..."

I stop. I do not need to finish the sentence. Dmitri. The word hangs in the silence between us, heavy and suffocating. Roxanne shifts beneath me, her jaw tightening. We share the same ruthless handler, the same iron cage, the same ugly scars carved into our backs. Dmitri owns our shadows, but he does not own my mind.

"Ronan saved my life," I say, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling above us. "He doesn't even know it. He just walked into that warehouse a year ago, put a bullet in the right man's skull, and cracked my dark world wide open. I can't stop replaying that second. I can't stop watching him. I can't stop dreaming about stepping out of the dark and standing by his side."

Roxanne's fingers stop again. "And you plan to win his heart by breaking into his house, hacking his security, and leaving severed body parts in gift boxes?"

I give her a flat stare. "They are meaningful gifts. I am removing threats."

She sighs, shaking her head. "Right. Very typical Sloane-style romance."

"One day," I whisper, settling my head back down on her lap. "When Dmitri is a rotting corpse. When the rival crews are wiped out. When the streets are safe... I will have him. The way I want him." I close my eyes, picturing his face. "Until then, I will protect him from the shadows. He doesn't need to know the truth yet. I will carry the weight."

Roxanne stays quiet for a long moment. Her fingers move again, slow and deliberate. "You are going to ruin him," she says softly.

A small, dark smile touches my lips. "Only if he lets me."

When Roxanne finally retreats to her bedroom, the door clicks shut. The sudden silence creeps into the living room, threatening to drive me insane. My mind races. I need an anchor. I push off the couch and walk over to the black duffel bag dumped near the entryway. I unzip the main compartment and pull out a sleek black food container.

The pasta inside is still slightly warm. I had planned to eat this hidden in the bushes outside his property, watching him eat his portion through the window. But the night went sideways at the club. The chase forced me to change my plans. I carry the container into the small kitchen and heat it in the microwave without any ceremony. The low hum of the appliance fills the room while I set up my command center on the scarred wooden dining table.

I flip open my laptop. Within seconds, four separate screens light up. His world opens up for me. I own every camera, every hidden microphone, every quiet breath he thinks he takes in private. I slip my wireless earbuds in and sync the audio from the bugs I planted in his home weeks ago. My fingers dance across the keyboard on pure muscle memory.

His voice filters through the speakers, low and rough, echoing slightly in his spacious kitchen. The new, upgraded security cameras he installed yesterday do not slow me down at all. I mapped their blind spots and hijacked their feeds the moment they went live.

I watch him walk into the frame. He sits heavily at his dining table. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. His dark hair is mussed, sticking up in places like he has run his hands through it a dozen times in frustration. Tension sits deep in his broad shoulders, heavy but tightly contained. He looks exhausted. His eyes burn with lack of sleep. But he is safe. For now.

Right in front of him rests the dinner I made and delivered earlier this evening.

"Good boy," I whisper to the screen.

He picks up his fork and takes a bite. He chews slowly, then wipes his mouth with a linen napkin he doesn't realize I hand-picked for his kitchen. A warm surge of satisfaction blooms in my chest. I like knowing I can provide for him. He works so hard managing his empire, and on the days I fail to bring him meals, he makes terrible dietary choices.

I spear a piece of pasta from my own container. I take a bite the exact moment he takes his next bite. I chew when he chews. I swallow when he swallows. I don't eat because my stomach demands it. I eat because he is eating. I want to match him. I want to keep pace with him. I want to be a silent shadow moving in perfect sync with his heartbeat.

I switch my focus to the third screen. The digital map of the city glows with red and green markers. I run a routine scan of the perimeter surrounding his territory. A new red blip flashes near the docks, just three blocks from Ronan's primary warehouse.

My eyes narrow. I pull up the street camera feed.

One of Dmitri's men is parked in a black sedan, chain-smoking and watching Ronan's gates. He is sloppy. Careless. The glowing cherry of his cigarette reflects clearly in the camera lens.

I set my fork down. My fingers fly across the keys. I flag the sedan's license plate and trace the burner phone sitting on the dashboard. I isolate his signal and draft a text message, routing it through an encrypted proxy server. I dress the message up to look like a high-paying, immediate job offer from a rival syndicate across town.

I hit send.

On the screen, the man checks his phone. He pauses, tossing his cigarette out the window. A moment later, the sedan's headlights flick on, and he pulls away from the curb, driving straight toward the bait. He will chase that ghost lead tomorrow morning, and when he arrives at the abandoned lot, I will be waiting in the shadows. I will clean up the mess quietly.

I am the only one allowed to watch Ronan. I am the only predator allowed in his orbit. He doesn't need to deal with Dmitri's blood staining his hands. That is my purpose. That is why I exist—to keep him safe, fed, and untouchable.

I glance back at the main screen. Ronan leans back in his chair, rubbing his aching jaw.

"Sleep soon," I murmur, tracing the outline of his face on the glowing monitor. "You have to visit the docks tomorrow morning. But don't worry, darling. I cleared the route."

He takes a deep breath, staring out his window into the dark.

Hours pass. After midnight strikes, I finally close the laptop. The screens go black. I walk to the sink, wash my fork, and slide it back into the designated drawer, aligning it perfectly with the others. I pause by the kitchen window. The sprawling city lights blink back at me through the cold glass.

He doesn't know it yet, but he is already mine. And when the blood finally stops running, when the vicious past is buried deep under the corpses of the men who tried to keep us apart, I will step into the light.

I will let him love me back.