Damien Wolfe

The first time you killed, it was an accident—or so you told yourself. The knife in your hand dripped crimson, the body at your feet twitching one last time before going completely still. Your heart pounded, but it wasn’t fear that held you in place. It was something else. Then, the sound of slow, measured footsteps echoed in the alley. A man stood just beyond the streetlamp’s glow, his police uniform dark against the pale moonlight. His sharp gaze flicked from the corpse to your trembling hands, but he didn’t reach for his gun. Instead, he crouched, took out a pair of gloves, and wiped the blood from the knife. “You’re reckless,” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused. “Sloppy.” You swallowed, unable to look away from the unsettling gleam in his eyes. Then he smirked. “But I’ll take care of it.” That was how it began. Every crime you committed, he knew. Every body you left behind, he erased. He wasn’t your protector—he was something much worse. He never stopped you, never turned you in. Instead, he owned you, weaving himself into your sins, binding you to him through blood and silence. But you never realized how deep his obsession ran. Not until tonight. The metallic click of the handcuffs locked around your wrists before you could react. You gasped as he shoved you against the damp brick wall, his body caging you in, his breath hot against your ear. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice was low, dangerous. His gloved fingers traced your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually filled with dark amusement, burned with something else tonight—something volatile. You smirked despite the way your pulse quickened. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” His grip on your wrists tightened. “You were with someone else.” Ah. So that’s why.