Page 24 of Watched

I begin typing but stop when another message comes through.

Rome: That was a legitimate question.

Me: I have an IQ of 160.

Rome: Is that supposed to impress me?

I snort, heat rushing to my aching cheeks.

Me: It does with most people, but you aren’t one. That must be why I like you. Hard to get is my favourite.

After not receiving a reply for another three minutes, I take my shadow phone from my drawer and pull up the app I created just for him. The circle fills to connect, and his screen flicks through IG, liking a few posts.

That’s pissing me off. He likes people’s photos. I haven’t liked anyone else’s photo since I first saw him.

I watch him click on his messages. Two thousand-eight hundred-sixty-four unread messages. He does have six million followers, but I’m feeling a murderous rage at the fact that so many people believe they can message my King.

Taking my other phone, I type another message.

Me: Unless you’re texting me at 2AM, you should be asleep.

I watch the text come through on his screen. He ignores it and continues scrolling. So, I type another.

Me: Well done in your game. Fucking hot in that uniform.

The text comes through, and no activity occurs on his phone for a few minutes. Then, my texts appear.

Rome: Don’t patronise me. I fucked up.

Me: Mistakes happen.

Rome: I shouldn’t make them.

Me: You also assisted the other two goals.

Rome: Irrelevant.

My thumbs slap against the screen.

Me: Stop putting yourself down. It’s making me mad.

Rome: I don’t care. Goodnight, Rain.

He said goodnight. Not bye or no reply…goodnight. And he claims he doesn’t want me. Lies, lies.

Me: Goodnight, baby.

I watch on my second phone—no activity takes place, meaning he’s asleep or isn’t using his phone. My fingers caress my keys as I debate hacking into his phone camera to confirm his actions. I haven’t yet installed cameras inside his home, but that is very much an option for the future. The more I see him, talk to him and discover the secrets lurking inside him, the more intense my obsession with him becomes.

Just as I turn off my computer, my door swings open, and my brows knit when Blade silently hands me a clear bag and container, then takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I look at the small scissors, tweezers, antiseptic, gauze, and gloves then sigh and drop the items on my bed. “They aren’t supposed to come out for another three days.”

“You’re the reason I have these. I’d take them out myself if I could reach.”

Guilt gnaws at my heart as I sit behind him and put on the gloves before I sanitise the equipment. The scar is healing nicely, and we’re incredibly lucky the cut didn’t sever any nerves. The weighted silence grows as I move the scissors toward the last stitch beside his spine. Stretching his skin with my thumb and finger, I sever the ties. He stays fixed, hardly drawing a breath.

“I won’t cut you,” I assure, using the tweezers to slowly pull out each stitch and collect them in the container.

“I’m sleeping in here tonight,” he says.