Isaia: Chapter 2

I follow her.

Not because I’m a psychotic stalker. Suspicion is second nature for us. Threats hide everywhere, waiting like landmines. One wrong step, and everything blows up.

She pulls out her phone, eyes glued to the screen as she strolls. Those eyes—the most beautiful imperfection I’ve ever seen.

Maybe she’s just some woman who lost control of her dog. Or maybe she’s a mole. A spy for our enemies.

Or a cop.

Her fingers move over her phone too easily, like she’s waiting for a signal. Cops are good at that—blending in until it’s time to strike.

Her eyes linger on a passerby just a second too long—subtle, but I notice. People like me always do. Her attention snaps back to her phone, too fast, like she’s hiding something.

I stay close, shadowing her from a distance. She moves like she belongs—like the world bends for her. Luna’s leash dangles from her hand, the dog trotting alongside, tail wagging.

Everly. That’s what she says her name is. It could be a lie. It could all be an act—this quirky girl with a dog who thinks it’s a wrestler. I’ve learned not to trust first impressions.

Her steps are light, almost bouncing as she heads into the safer part of town. Smart.

I expect her to glance over her shoulder. A normal woman would. Her eyes flicker with curiosity, but not caution. Either she’s too oblivious, too lighthearted to notice danger, or she knows she’s protected by whoever the fuck she works for.

I stay far enough behind to avoid suspicion but close enough to keep her within my sight.

As she walks past a street vendor, she pauses to run her fingers absentmindedly over the cheap jewelry on display before moving on.

I slip between the bodies moving past, unnoticed, watching as she steps into a small bookstore.

Her pace slows the moment she crosses the threshold, her hand brushing the doorframe like she’s greeting an old friend.

She lingers at the entrance, her eyes scanning the shelves. She’s not just walking into the store—she’s sinking into it, like she’s shedding the outside world and stepping into one made of paper and ink.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch her trail her fingers along the spines of books as if she can feel the stories waiting inside.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she picks up a book, flipping through the pages, completely absorbed.

So, she’s a bookworm. Interesting. A layer I didn’t expect.

I wait outside the bookstore, keeping my eyes on the door. She’s been in there for a while now, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s really the type to lose herself in the smell of old books. Or if she’s waiting for someone.

Maybe that little smile was meant for someone else, someone meeting her inside.

My jaw tightens at the thought. I’ve seen this play out before—women hiding behind false innocence, luring men in like spiders waiting to pounce. But with her, it’s different. If it’s an act, it’s one I can’t tear my eyes away from.

Finally, Everly steps out, a book tucked under her arm, with Luna trotting beside her, completely unaware of the shadows closing in.

Her light brown hair catches the last bit of sunlight as it fades behind the buildings, and for a moment, she looks untouchable, like she belongs in a world that’s nothing but soft edges and warm light.

I push away from the lamppost, blending into the flow of people on the street, tracking her again.

She’s too carefree. Too…normal. And that’s what keeps nagging at me. This city is full of people rushing because their lives are shackled to time, every second fueling hard and fast to the next.

But her? It’s like time is chained to her, and not the other way around. She moves like the world works in her favor, like nothing could ever touch her.

It’s maddening.

She smiles at everyone—an old couple shuffling by, a kid wobbling on a scooter. It’s not forced, not polite. It’s real. Genuine.

Fuck, that smile. It’s not for me. It’s for her quiet life, her little bubble of peace. But I want it. I want to steal it, twist it, make it mine.

Jesus. Where the fuck did that come from?

She makes her way down the street, pausing briefly to step into a small coffee shop. Ember & Bean. It’s a small, cozy looking place. One I haven’t noticed until now.

Through the window, I watch as she hugs one of the waitresses, then orders a coffee to go, her dog sitting patiently by the door. It’s quick, casual, like she’s done this a hundred times before. She doesn’t even glance around, doesn’t notice anyone watching her.

I stay back, blending into the crowd. The night is creeping in, the air cooling. People are settling into their routines—grabbing drinks, heading home—but I’m not like them.

My world is always on alert, always two steps ahead of everyone else.

Everly steps out of the shop, holding her coffee in one hand and Luna’s leash in the other. She tucks the book under her arm again, sipping from her cup as she starts walking. She doesn’t break her rhythm, Luna still padding alongside her, a steady companion.

I stay back, watching the way she moves, how the dog never tugs on the leash, how her shoulders relax as if everything she carries is weightless. It’s unsettling, the way she seems untouched by the grime of the city, like she’s somehow above it. Or maybe outside of it altogether.

If this is all an act, this woman will get the best actress award.

Everly turns onto a narrow street, leading away from the noise and fading light of the city. I pause, hidden in the growing dusk, as she reaches a small white house at the corner.

It’s modest, unremarkable—the kind of place that exudes warmth, as if it’s been holding on to its quiet existence for years. A porch swing sways gently in the breeze, flowerpots scattered on the steps. Some bloom, others still not quite ready to greet spring.

She pushes open the door, and Luna darts inside, tail wagging. For a moment, she lingers at the threshold, her gaze drifting down the street, soft and absent.

I stay still, tucked behind an old oak tree, my breath quiet.

Her gaze sweeps over me, but she doesn’t see past the shadows I’m hiding in.

The thrill that rushes through my blood takes me by surprise—the idea of her feeling my gaze on her skin, aware of my presence. It’s a different kind of high, one I’m instantly addicted to.

She steps inside, the door clicking shut behind her, and a light flickers on in the front window.

I should leave. There’s no threat here. No signal waiting to be intercepted, no shady meeting about to go down. But my feet stay rooted.

Minutes pass before the door opens again, and she steps out with a bowl in one hand, her book in the other.

She’s wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, the kind that sit perfectly on her nose, completing her innocent, almost studious look. It gives her an air of quiet charm, making her seem even more unreachable, like the girl next door who doesn’t know she’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.

Why? Because she intrigues me. She’s demanding all my attention without even trying, my heart beating fast with each passing minute.

Luna trots out after her, nose twitching as Everly places the food bowl on the porch. The dog digs in eagerly, tail wagging, and Everly smiles, that quiet, content smile that eases every crease from her face.

I wonder what she’s like in the middle of the night, when the world is quiet, and the darkness wraps around her like a blanket.

Does she still wear that gentle smile? Or does something else take over—something deeper, more vulnerable?

When the distractions of the day are gone, and it’s just her, alone with her thoughts, does she still hold on to that light? Or does the weight of the world press in on her?

She sits on the porch swing, draping a cozy blanket over her lap before sinking into the cushions, opening her book, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages.

There’s something unnerving about watching her like this. It’s intimate, almost. It’s like I’ve cracked open a window into a life that’s completely foreign to me, a life that doesn’t have room for the kind of man I am.

A man who only knows how to ruin things.

Her life seems too soft, too far removed from the sharp edges of mine. Part of me wonders what it’s like, living in that kind of peace.

And the other part? The other part wants to drag her into my world, see how long that softness would last, see if she’d survive, or if she’d shatter.

The swing creaks softly, the night air growing cooler, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She wraps the blanket tighter, her world still untouched.

Something buried deep, dark, wants me to step back, to let her keep that peace. But that’s not what I do. I don’t leave things untouched. I ruin them.

Especially when they seem too good to be true.