Ruth’s POV
The studio reeked of stale turpentine and unbothered canvases.
I stood in front of a blank one, brush gripped in my hand like muscle memory was the only thing keeping me upright. Nothing came, no colors, no shapes, just that same quiet image of Emmett Marshall, kneeling on my bathroom floor, sleeves rolled up, scars catching the light. The same scars I shouldn’t have noticed, the same eyes that shouldn’t have lingered on mine for as long as they did.
He hadn’t said much at the gallery, but I remembered the one thing he did say, about the ocean painting. “It stayed with me.” He said it like it hurt, like admitting it cost something. Maybe it did, and I’d stored those words somewhere I thought I wouldn’t revisit. Until now, when silence filled my studio louder than anything else.
Maybe I was just lonely, that would make sense. Maybe I was just grateful, but neither explained why the memory of his voice kept looping in my skull, or why I couldn’t forget the feel of his presence near me. He never touched me. Never crossed any obvious line. But I still felt the tension in my skin, like a wire drawn too tight.
There was something surgical about his silence, like he was studying more than the pipes. Watching me work, talk, breathe, and I let him. God help me, I wanted him to. It wasn’t like with Tyler. Tyler had watched me too, long before I realized what that meant. The messages, the photos, the escalating obsession masked as love. That watching had made my chest seize up. With Emmett, it was different. Still wrong, maybe. Still dangerous, but where Tyler’s presence had felt like suffocation, Emmett’s felt like gravity. A pull I couldn’t rationalize or resist.
By noon, my phone buzzed with a call from Sarah. I almost didn’t answer, but her voice broke the spiral. “Hey, stranger. You alive out there or already drowned in oil paints?”
I let out a breath. “Barely. Just slowly losing my mind.”
“You always did dramatize isolation. Come meet me for coffee. You can tell me all about your haunted beach shack and the mysterious plumber with serial killer vibes.”
I snorted. “He’s not, never mind. What time?”
“Four. That weird little spot on Hastings.”
“See you then.”
Sarah hadn’t changed. Same dry humor, same blunt compassion. She was one of the few people who hadn’t tiptoed around me after everything with Tyler, she never called it trauma. Never called it anything, really. Just showed up when I couldn’t.
The café was warm and cramped, full of cinnamon and salt air. We talked about her job, her students, the town gossip. I didn’t mention Emmett, not by name. Just said there was a local handyman. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. On the way home, the wind cut sharper than it had earlier. The house looked still, but something in the air felt wrong.
After dark, I curled into the couch with my sketchpad, trying to reclaim some kind of routine. My phone buzzed again. No name, no number, just a message with an attachment. The photo took a second to load. Then I saw it, me, two nights ago. Sitting on the porch with the sketchpad in my lap, looking out at nothing. The angle was wrong. Not from the road. From the trees behind the house. The woods.
I didn’t move or breathe. My heart knocked once, twice, then kept pounding. I should’ve screamed, I should’ve called someone, but I couldn’t look away.
Because I’d been right, I had felt watched, and now I had proof. But the panic didn’t hit the way I expected. What hit me was heat, low and guilty.
That sick throb of validation. Like some part of me had wanted this.
I set the phone down and stood up, locking the front door again even though I knew I already had. I checked the windows twice, pulled every curtain tight. The kitchen still held the faint shimmer of that pearl I hadn’t moved.
Gifts, that’s what they were starting to feel like. Not threats, not warnings, just proof that someone out there saw me… chose me.
That night, I didn’t sleep. Not really, I drifted.
And when I finally closed my eyes, the dream came. I stood in the meadow behind the house, barefoot, breath fogging in the cool night air. The trees loomed like sentries, still.
Then he stepped out. Tall, broad, and masked. He said nothing, just came toward me with purpose. I didn’t run, I turned my back to him. He moved behind me, close enough that the heat of his body blanketed mine, chest to spine, solid and unmistakably male.
His gloved hand slid to my waist, firm, and possessive. He didn’t rush, just touched, and claimed. My breath hitched as his mouth hovered at my neck, masked but hot, every exhale soaking through the fabric like a promise.
He kissed me through the mask, slow and deliberate, dragging the cloth across my skin in a line that felt reverent and filthy all at once. His other hand gripped my hip tightly, anchoring me.
Then he pressed his body flush against mine, and I felt him.
Hard thickness. His hunger. I whimpered. His fingers dug into my waist as he rocked into me, slow at first, not thrusting, just letting me feel how ready he was.
The ache between my legs bloomed sharp and urgent. My body responded before thought could catch up, arching back, pressing against him like I couldn’t get close enough.
He growled low, the sound vibrating through my back. His masked mouth traced the shell of my ear, hot and wet even through the barrier.
“You like being watched,” he whispered, voice deep and distorted by fabric. I moaned, high and needy, my thighs clenched.
His hand slid lower, over my stomach, then dipped between my legs, gloved fingers cupping me through my panties. He didn’t move, just held me there, letting the pressure drive me mad.
“Say it,” he demanded.
But I couldn’t speak, I was too far gone. Too desperate for friction, for anything. He pressed harder, just enough to make my knees buckle.
I gasped. “Please.”
And then, just as I reached back, fingers trembling to tear away the mask and see his face, he vanished.
I woke up choking on my breath. The sheets tangled around my hips, sticky against my skin. My nipples ached, and my panties were soaked through.
I lay there shaking, throbbing, too aware of the space between my thighs and how empty it felt. And the worst part? I wanted to fall back asleep, just to be touched by him again.
My phone buzzed again, same number. No photo this time, just five words: “You looked peaceful last night.” My hands shook as I held the phone to my chest. I should’ve blocked the number.
I should’ve thrown the device across the room. Instead, I closed my eyes... and smiled.