April 10, 1944

Genevieve Parsons knows she’s being watched, yet she didn’t bother to lock her door. I can’t contain the smile that comes to my face.

I’ve been visiting her for weeks, though I’ve scarcely allowed her to see me. I’ve been staying hidden in the trees or just out of view from the window.

She’s fascinating when she thinks no one is watching. Too often, I spent hours circling the manor, viewing her through windows while she cleaned, sang along to the radio, or sat in her chair writing in her journal.

She must write about me. And I’m curious to see what she has to say.

Earlier today, she was staring out the window, a mournful look on her face. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her appear sad, nor the first time I’d longed to run to her and make her forget about the husband I’m sure is ailing her. I could make her forget if I was inside her.

My feet carried me to her as if I was in a trance. My body was no longer mine to control, but hers. She sat in her rocking chair and turned to look out the window, and it was like feeling the sun warming my face for the first time in years after being trapped in a dark dungeon.

I watched with rapt fascination as her eyes landed on me and rounded at the corners. Fear flashed through them, yet I felt something entirely different.

Hunger.

All I felt was hunger.

Her gaze continuously drifted back toward me as she attempted to ignore me, to favor her journal rather than holding my stare. She was frightened, and she was trying to hide from me.

I fought with myself, tempted to walk through this very door and claim her as mine. But it was too soon. I needed to wait until her curiosity overrode her fright.

Maybe . . . that’s already begun to happen, and her curiosity is winning.

Did she leave the door unlocked just for me?

It’s not uncommon for normal civilians to leave their doors unlocked. Despite the rampant crime in Seattle, robberies are almost unheard of—unless they’re actively related to the crime syndicate.

It’s unfortunate Genevieve has found herself at the center of a dangerous man’s desires. I don’t feel guilty enough not to step through the front door and softly close it behind me.

It’s the first time I’ve been inside Parsons Manor, and the interior is even odder than the exterior.

Where the hell did she get her taste from?

It’s incredibly dark in here, but even with my limited eyesight, I’m able to glean a few details. A sparkling chandelier hangs above my head, dripping crystals from warped steel.

The black-and-white-checkered floor is prominent in the darkness, along with the black grand staircase directly ahead.

Silently, I trek further into the home, finding the living room to the left of the stairs. My gaze instantly finds the large bay window on my far left. There is Genevieve’s rocking chair, with a stool placed right in front of it. It’s where she sits while she pens in her journal. It’s where I’ve seen her those few times I’ve caught her just watching the rain or staring almost longingly at the dark woods that surround her house.

My footsteps are light as I walk over to the chair, running my fingertips along the soft red velvet. Then I lean down and inhale, catching a faint whiff of her perfume. I pick up subtle accords of cinnamon, amber, oakmoss, sandalwood, and a touch of plum.

A scent made just for my Genevieve. It suits her perfectly.

Moving on, I note a black stone fireplace in the center of the wall before me, where red velvet couches surround it. Next to the fireplace is a stand with a radio atop, and I can imagine Genevieve and her daughter dancing next to it, laughing and singing along.

I feel a small pang in my chest, knowing I don’t have the privilege of joining them. I’m destined to watch from afar, outside the bay window. It’s a life I’ll accept for now, though it doesn’t enrage me any less to know that John has the pleasure of filling that role.

The kitchen is directly ahead opposite the bay window. I’m tempted to make my way through toward the back of the house where their glass room is. I’ve only seen it from the outside, but considering all three walls and the ceiling are made of glass, it wasn’t difficult to inspect the inside of the room.

I’m sure it’s beautiful there when the stars are out, but I’m too eager to see my Genevieve.

I’m unsure of which bedroom is hers, but I imagine it won’t be far from her daughter’s. From my research on the Parsons, I’ve learned quite a bit about them, including little Sera.

If I have it my way, someday in the future, John will be gone, and Sera will know me as a secondary father. I would never attempt to replace John, but I hope to find a way into her heart and will love her as Genevieve does. But that’ll take time.

I can be patient.

The wooden steps hardly creak beneath my weight thanks to years of practice keeping light on my feet. The air is colder up here, and it’s nearly pitch-black. I patiently wait to be able to make out the edges of the wall so as not to stumble into them.

The first bedroom is empty, so I move on to the next one on the left side of the hallway.

I’m careful as I open the door and find Sera curled up in a ball, softly snoring. Leaving her be, I shut the door and move on to locate Genevieve’s room.

As I tread down the hallway, an ice-cold chill prickles at the back of my neck, stopping me in my tracks. Goose bumps scatter across my flesh, sending a tremor down my spine.

Slowly, I turn my head over my shoulder, finding nothing behind me.

Yet I feel a presence as surely as if blood runs through its veins.

During my research into the Parsons, I came across an article recounting a fire that took five men’s lives while building the manor.

These lands claimed those souls, and I’ve seen shadows and angry faces a few times when hiding within the tree line.

They don’t scare me, though.

I’ve faced far worse souls than those of a few construction workers.

Genevieve and John’s bedroom is on the right side of the hall, far enough from Sera to give them a sense of privacy but close enough to hear if she’s ever in distress.

The door quietly creaks as I open it, the sound of John’s snores arising as I enter. Their room is decorated as dark as the rest of the house, and if it weren’t for the balcony doors on the wall opposite me, I would be sightless. However, the thin curtains allow moonlight to peek through, offering me a view of the four-poster bed to my left.

John snorts, his body jolting from whatever dream is playing behind his eyelids. He’s on the side of the bed closest to me, and the sight of his sleeping form prompts an array of murderous thoughts.

Without thinking, I slide my revolver from the back of my trousers, though I don’t take aim. I just hold it while I fantasize about pressing the cool barrel to his forehead and pulling the trigger. The following pop would be as satisfying as watching the blood ooze from his skull.

The urge is so demanding, I force myself to walk around to Genevieve’s side, farthest from the door.

At least John got that much right.

She sleeps on her side, her hands held together as if she’s praying and tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair is curled into rollers, a satin scarf wrapped around them.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her lips bare of red stain. I imagine it’s a rare sight—one that John doesn’t deserve. I get the inkling that her red lips are her armor, and I’d love nothing more than to be the one to strip it away and behold her at her most vulnerable. To see her face as bare as her body, lying on her back with her legs spread wide for me, her beautiful eyes sparkling up at me as she waits for me to worship her.

My cock hardens at the thought, pressing painfully against my trousers.

One day, I will convince her to grant me that honor. And when that day comes, she will never have screamed louder.

While I still grip the gun in one hand, I bring my other fist to my mouth, biting down on the soft flesh as the fantasy takes flight. The different positions I could arrange that beautiful body in. The sounds that would spill from her lips. I’d leave no part of her untouched, whether it’s my hands or my tongue doing the exploring.

Fuck.

It takes control I didn’t know I possessed to take a step back.

The carnal impulse to take her here and now is becoming difficult to suppress. I’d make her pathetic husband watch, unable to stop me from making his wife come undone in a way that he will never accomplish.

Inhaling sharply, I tuck my gun back into my waistband and head toward the door, my movements wooden and robotic.

It’s physically painful for me to walk away from her, but I know that I must.

I’m a bad man, but I won’t be her monster.

No.

I want to be her savior.