Locked In

9

THEON

She makes me want to kill Vincent. She called him Vin for fuck’s sake. I should not be furious.

I should not be furious that she reduced and referred to that piece of shit as Vin. But I was. She’d never said my name before—not once in all those years. Not back then, and not now.

She often referred to me as ‘hey’, ‘uhm, hi’, ‘excuse me’, ‘you’ and so on. Yet, she was so possessive of him like he was her one ticket to heaven. She was alone with two guys for a week. Two grown ass men. Vincent wasn’t gay, he was bi. There was a difference. He had a girlfriend two years ago.

I didn’t care if they’d been friends for three years. They weren’t really in touch until she came back to this town. Thanks to me. I wouldn’t sit still and let them cuddle, hug and shit just because he was gay. He had a cock, and that was the point.

I ran my hand through my hair and hissed, pacing the edge of the lawn as the repairmen moved in and out of her house like worker ants. How fitting. Fixing what I’d broken, patching up the mess I’d caused—ironic, really. I cut her water, killed her lights, all to force her hand, and now here I was, supervising the same repairs. It was laughable.

They were tearing into the kitchen first, peeling away layers of worn-out tiles, patching the leaks that had plagued her plumbing for months. The clanging of tools and the murmur of the workers should’ve been satisfying. Instead, it grated on my nerves.

One of them called for me, holding up some pipe as if to ask for my approval. I waved him off, my attention elsewhere, my mind still tangled in the vision of her hugging him—Vincent—like he had any right to touch her.

The electricians were in the living room, rewiring the place, making sure every socket worked perfectly, restoring the power I’d deliberately stripped away. And still, it didn’t feel like enough. They were scrubbing her walls, replacing the peeling paint, fixing the water pressure in her bathroom—everything. Her house had been on the verge of falling apart. And I was patching it up, like an idiot.

I wasn’t doing it for her. Not really. I told myself that. This was about control, about making sure she couldn’t turn to anyone else. Especially not him.

I let out a bitter laugh. Pathetic.

The obsession had never gone away. It just lingered in the background, waiting for a chance to sink its claws back into me. One look in her brown eyes, one touch of her skin when I had my hand around her throat—that was all it took. I was back where I’d started. Worse, even.

The beast inside me had stirred, awakened. And now, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it hidden. It wanted her. It craved her. It needed her. Everyday was a battle. I was so excited for this stage, but if I knew facing her would be this hard, I’d have kept tormenting her from behind the screen.

She was a fucking witch.

I didn’t realise I’d wandered into her room until I was standing in the middle of it, my hands shoved deep into my pockets as I took in the space. Small, but not cramped. It suited her—Ainsley was never one for extravagance, not like she had the money. The bed was modest, simple, with a wooden frame that fit snugly in the corner. No ornate headboard or over-the-top furnishings. Just a bed meant for sleeping, for comfort.

And yet, the room was drenched in her presence. Every inch of it. Damn.

I could still smell her—faint traces of perfume hanging in the air, that soft scent that was hers alone. It hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. My gaze fell to the dresser against the wall, the surface cluttered with little things she probably didn’t even notice she left out—hair ties, an old book she hadn’t finished, a few scattered bits of jewellery. And there, right in the middle, lay my locket. She didn’t take it with her, not that I expected her to. Ever since she wore it years ago, I had never looked at it the same again. It was hers. It wasn’t meant to be in my hands. It suited her so perfectly. A part of me wanted her to wear it again, but the other part of me knew what dirty things my head would stir up if I saw it on her. She’d been lucky in high school. But now, I wasn’t so sure.

My eyes drifted towards her closet, and before I could stop myself, I opened it. As expected—trousers. Row after row of them, neatly hung up. Nothing that screamed femininity, even if her body was an absolute killer.

I knew when she bought the pair on the right—she’d been at some shop across town, a little corner boutique. I’d seen her hesitate before picking it up, running her fingers along the fabric before heading to the counter.

Stepping back, the locket still in my hand, I leaned against the dresser. She had started suspecting how closely I’d been watching. How I’d seen it all—every move, every choice, every moment she thought she was alone.

My phone rang in my pocket. It was Blake.

“Hi.” He attempted to sound lively, thought twice about it and cleared his throat. “Did as you told me. But Ainsley said she can’t make it.”

Like I didn’t know. I released a deep breath and sat on her bed. “Persuade her.”

“But—”

“If she isn’t going to be there, there’s no point holding the damn get-together. And if there’s no get-together, you know there’s no life for you.”

“I-I-she...I’ll try to convince her. I’m sorry.”

I disconnected the line and held up the locket, opening it. I’d had this image of her for so long and I thought putting it in the locket was fitting. I had no clue why I held onto it.

Blake Everett didn’t really have any choice. When I sent him the video of him fucking his step mother, he was at my feet in a heartbeat. He came here last week because of me. He knew he was in deep shit if I sent it to his father. He’d lose his assets and his trust. And he’d be in deeper shit if I posted it online.

I had to use him in particular for this party because of his influence, and I couldn’t wait to see the look on Ainsley’s face by the end of the week.

Dropping the locket, I stepped out of her room.