Eyes on me

ASHER

I fucking hate people, man.

Everybody wants something—status, deals, proximity to me. Anything that makes them feel powerful.

I tough it out, smile, shake hands. Nod like I’m listening. Pretend I give a damn. Try not to choke on the scent of expensive perfume and desperation.

I saunter through the crowd, dodging hands as I go, and snag a champagne off a tray.

“Blackwell!” a voice booms behind me.

Fuck my life.

I turn around, schooling my face into something semi-pleasant.

“Boden,” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. He grabs onto mine with both of his, and I immediately get the urge to yank it back. But I grin at him, and squeeze just a little harder than necessary. Just enough to remind him whose hand he’s touching.

Fucking weasel.

“You’re a hard man to get a hold of,” Boden murmurs, “even at your own event.”

“Especially at my own event,” I reply flatly, flashing another grin. “But you caught me. What can I do for you?”

“Walk with me,” Boden says, pulling on my fucking arm like he has the right to do so.

I follow him toward the coat check, more to get away from the rest of the crowd than anything, and let him yap about his company.

And then I see her.

Delicate little thing. Golden-brown hair pulled back in a loose twist, like she did it in a hurry. Big hazel eyes scanning the racks like they’ll burn her if she lingers too long. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

Breakable. Innocent. Fucking perfect.

The first thought that comes to mind is inappropriate—the second one possessive.

I need to make her mine.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t spare me a single glance, not even when I brace both hands on the counter, staring her down like I’m trying to pin her in place.

Doesn’t matter. I see her. I already picked her. That’s enough.

So when Boden pulls out his phone and drops his coat tag, I pick it up. And when the guy next to me steps away from the counter, stuffing his tag in his pocket, a well-timed, friendly half-hug seals the deal. I switch the numbers, stuffing the random man’s tag into Boden’s suit pocket, and watch him blabber on, still oblivious.

The girl turns up at the counter, and I glance at her name tag.

Guinevere—fuck me. Pretty name for a pretty girl.

She takes Boden’s tag and disappears into the maze of coats. Reappears moments later with an expensive black trench in her hands.

Boden takes it without a word, shrugs it on, then yanks his hand out of the pocket like it bit him. He strips it off, checking the label.

“Hey, girl,” he snaps, indignant. It makes me want to put his teeth through the floor, but I hold still.

Guinevere reappears, brows raised.

“This ain’t mine,” he huffs, slamming the coat down on the counter.

She furrows her brow and takes it. “Are you sure?” she asks, confused. “This is—”

“You think I don’t know my own coat?!” he snaps, and she recoils.

Something sharp flares inside me. That look in her eyes. I want to see it again. At my hands. On my terms.

She rummages through a stack of discarded tags and pulls out two. Both number 312—

She slides them toward Boden. “See? This is the number you gave me, I remember, because—”

He leans over the counter, cutting her off. “You think I don’t know my own coat?” he snarls again. His eyes dart across the room, locking on a side door. “Let me in, I’ll get it myself.”

“No!” Guinevere squeaks. “I can’t let you in, it’s against policy!”

She’s trembling now, wide-eyed and terrified.

A colleague steps up behind her. “Sir, I’m sorry—”

I step in. Calm. Casual. My hand wraps around Boden’s shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to make him pause.

“Boden, buddy,” I say, voice full of sugar and venom. “Why don’t you go outside for a smoke? Guinevere here’s gonna find your coat. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

She flinches. Those big eyes flick to mine, finally. Just for a second, but it’s enough.

She nods, then darts away again.

“My cigarettes are in my coat,” Boden grumbles.

“A drink, then,” I say, already steering him toward the bar.

He marches off, and I turn back to her.

She’s combing through the racks—almost all black trench coats, poor thing.

I watch her like a hawk, studying the way she moves. Her breaths come in quick little pants, her movements are jittery. She’s jumpy, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. Seeing if Boden is back yet, I bet.

He makes her nervous.

I like seeing her nervous—don’t like that he’s the one causing it. Really don’t like that she’s looking past me as if I’m not fucking here.

I brace my forearms on the counter, interlocking my fingers.

It takes her nearly ten minutes to find something that fits Boden’s description. She hurries back, coat in hand.

I beckon Boden over.

He holds out his hand when he sees the coat, but Guinevere hesitates.

“Could you tell me what’s in the right pocket?” she asks, barely meeting his gaze.

“You fucking better be kidding me,” Boden mutters, reaching again.

She steps back.

“You handed me a different tag,” she says, voice soft and unsure. “It’s policy to double-check before giving a coat to someone without the right number.”

Boden glares at her like he’s going to leap across the counter. Then he grunts, “Cigarettes and a silver zippo.”

She checks, nods, and hands it over.

“Again, sir, I’m so sorr—”

“Save it,” he spits. “I’m sure you’ll get fired anyway.” Then he storms off, already pulling out a cigarette.

Guinevere turns and walks straight into the arms of her colleague, who wraps her up and strokes her hair like some goddamn hero.

I stand there, watching her vent to her colleague, entirely unaware of my presence. It both enrages me and turns me the fuck on.

I hover nearby. Dip back into the ballroom a few times, talk to some employees, pretend I’m still networking. But I never let her out of my sight.

When I see her hug her coworkers goodbye and grab her coat, I slip through the crowd.

The night air bites my face as I step out, far enough behind her to stay hidden. She wraps a scarf around herself—too big for her delicate frame—and tucks her hands into her pockets. She’s fast for someone so small.

I stay in the shadows, watching.

She passes the parking lot and keeps walking.

Guinevere, baby. Don’t tell me you’re walking home alone in the dark.

She crosses the street and picks up speed.

Another block down, and she starts digging through her purse.

She’s looking for her keys—we’re either close to her house, or she knows she’s being followed and is desperately looking for something to defend herself with.

But then she stops in front of a little townhouse and unlocks the door, slamming it shut behind her. I hear locks turning.

I stay in the shadow of a tree across the street, still watching.

She flicks on the light. Pulls off her scarf and coat. Vanishes for a second, then comes back into view clutching a blanket. Then, finally, she closes the curtains.

Good girl.

You never know what kind of monsters might be lurking outside.

Welcome to the unhinged world of Asher Blackwell, babes. Get ready 🔥⛓️