ALEXANDER
I sat in the dim light of my study, laptop open in front of me, watching the live feed from Dashiell's bedroom.
Half an hour had passed since we got home.
On the screen, my little anomaly was doing exactly what I knew he would do.
He had already showered, I'd watched him stand under the hot water for nearly twenty minutes, barely moving, letting the sound and pressure drown out the chaos from the hospital. Now he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of his room, wearing only soft gray sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt. The lights were off except for one small bedside lamp turned to its lowest setting.
He was rocking.
Slow, steady, rhythmic rocking, forward and back, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, chin resting on them. Every few rocks he would press his palms hard against his ears for a few seconds, then release. His eyes were half-closed, unfocused, staring at nothing. This was his decompression ritual. The one he'd done since he was a teenager. The one I had watched through hidden cameras and from the shadows of his bedroom window for years.
I leaned back in my chair, one finger slowly tracing the edge of the laptop as I studied him.
Beautiful.
Even now, after everything, after being punched, and crying in the shower he was still so fucking perfect.
So fragile…. mine.
My cock twitched at the sight.
I had known about the rocking long before we were married. I'd climbed through his bedroom window more times than I could count while he slept, sitting in the corner like a shadow, watching him self-soothe when the world became too loud. I'd installed four hidden cameras in his old room: one in the air vent, one behind the mirror, one in the bookshelf, and one in the smoke detector. They were still there, even though he now lived here.
Old habits.
My obsession with him had long since crossed into clinical territory. Any normal psychologist would have called it dangerous, pathological, requiring intensive treatment. I have seen three different ones over the years. None of them could do anything about it. The hunger was too deep and permanent.
He was not a want.
He was a need.
On the screen, Dashiell rocked a little faster for a moment, then slowed again, pressing his palms to his ears once more. His breathing was finally starting to even out.
I smiled faintly, cold and possessive.
*Good boy. Calm down for me.*
I knew every single one of his patterns. I knew he would rock until his nervous system settled, then crawl into bed, pull the weighted blanket over himself, and fall asleep facing the wall. I knew he hated being touched when he was this overstimulated and that he would wake up tomorrow still carrying the weight of what happened today.
And I knew I would enjoy every second of it.
I watched until his rocking slowed to almost nothing. Until he finally stood up on shaky legs, turned off the small lamp, and climbed into bed, curling up under the heavy blanket with his back to the camera.
Only when his breathing deepened into sleep did I close the laptop.
I stood up, changed into an all black attire, black leather jacket, black shirt, black pants, black boots. I pulled a black face mask over my nose and mouth and a black cap low over my eyes.
Then I walked silently down the hallway to Dashiell's room.
I didn't knock, just opened the door without a sound and stepped inside.
He was fast asleep, curled on his side, face still slightly swollen from the punch. I moved to the edge of the bed and stood there for a long moment, looking down at him.
My little anomaly.
So vulnerable and trusting. So completely unaware of how deep my hunger ran.
I reached down and stroked his cheek with the back of my fingers, gentle and tender. Behind the mask, my lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile.
"Sleep well," I whispered, voice barely audible. "Tomorrow the world will be a little quieter for you."
I left the room as silently as I had entered.
Outside, a different car was already waiting, a black, untraceable SUV I had arranged earlier. I got in, started the engine, and checked my phone.
A single message from my contact:
"Rivera is at The Black Barrel."
I drove and parked half a block away from the bar, killing the lights. From my position I had a clear view of the building.
I leaned back in the seat and waited.
Hours passed.
Finally, the man staggered out, laughing loudly with two women hanging off his arms and they piled into an Uber.
I followed at a safe distance.
When they arrived at Rivera's house, I parked further down the street, killed the lights, and watched.
Rivera staggered out, laughing loudly, one arm around a blonde woman and the other around a brunette. Both women were clearly drunk and they disappeared inside the house.
A few minutes later, the lights in the living room turned on.
From where I sat, I could see everything through the gap in the curtains.
The man was already kissing one of the women while the other laughed and poured drinks. His wife and biological son were somewhere in that house probably asleep while he brought whores into their home.
I watched for a long time.
Then I reached into my jacket, pulled out a sleek folding blade, and flipped it open with a smooth motion. The steel caught the streetlight for a moment before I caught it again.
I smiled behind the mask, genuinely pleased.
Mr. Rivera had touched what was mine.
He was going to learn exactly what that meant.