Control

From the moment she moved into the quiet, ivy-wrapped neighborhood, Zade knew. He watched her carry boxes in alone, a flicker of vulnerability in her tired movements. She was soft in all the right ways—emotionally frayed, physically delicate, and radiating the kind of loneliness that men like him and Dominic fed on like wolves.

Zade installed the first camera two days later. A drone disguised as a delivery box scoped her windows. He tracked her grocery runs, her online purchases, her browsing habits. He memorized the lull in her voice when she spoke to herself, the way she touched her collarbone when anxious. He didn’t guess what she needed—he knew.

Dominic, on the other hand, didn’t bother with subtlety. He’d pass by her yard, shirt off, tattoos glinting under the sun, always catching her eye. His grin would linger just a little too long. She thought it was harmless—maybe even flirtatious. But beneath that grin was the anticipation of possession. Of breaking her open like a gift.

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