Gaze (Dark Romance)

The Echo

The woods are haunting at night—a labyrinth of shadows and silence. But for me, they're home. They lead me to her.

The light spilling from the bungalow window is a magnet, drawing me closer. It's soft, warm—like her. The kind of light that doesn't belong in my world but one I can't resist stepping into. She was in there now, standing with her back to the curtain, perched on her tiny desk chair. I know her routine too well by now. She comes there in the evenings and idles there either drawing some unknown person or going through such items that were left by her grandfather.

That man...

Sometimes it can cause harsh feelings in my organism just hearing this name—a wave of frustration with a hint of guilt. I never really knew him, growing up I never met him face to face, but his work? His legacy? It's what brought me here.

At first, it was about the paintings. The rumours whispered in hidden corners about his genius, about how his last works were never cataloged. They were personal, they said—pieces he poured his soul into before his death. The kind of art that could unravel empires if they landed in the right—or wrong—hands.

But now, it's not just about the paintings. It's about her.

I can feel her even when I can't see her. It's maddening – this feeling she has on me, this desire to shield her – to dominate her. Sometimes she forgets she is rather vulnerable; a small breeze is enough to knock her off her feet. Perhaps, that is why I get so excited—her shallowness and all that non-existent softness. I get closer as well not to advance from the trees. The cold earth turns beneath my boots and I am cautious. 

Silent. What I don't need right now is for her to turn around and see that I'm here. Not yet. That's how she is inside, holding something—one of the paintings. From this perspective, however, I can still sense the adoration she adds to the gesture of holding it. She runs her fingers along the rim of the stretched fabric as if it has an extra meaning, something beyond a part of her grandfather's art. As if the touch of her hands caused him pain as if she took the part of him that was alive and left it lying there.

She doesn't know what she has. If she did she would not store them in this small house in the middle of nowhere to be never seen again. She wouldn't leave them vulnerable to anyone willing to take them.

Like me.

I shake the thought away. It's not that simple anymore. If it were, I would have taken them weeks ago. As I sit there, I notice how she tilts forward and her features relax under the light of the desk lamp. Her lips quell, she mumbles something or perhaps it is a conversation being addressed to him, the absent one. She needs him; I can see it on her face when she is alone with his belongings.

For all I remember he was good to her. All that I know about him is that he was kind and selfless. A man who contributed much more to this world than he consumed. But that's why I need those paintings.

Because good men don't live in a world like this, and the things they build are not meant to last. Their chances: they are grabbed, bent, used. I try to tear my eyes away from her, knowing that to pursue what I want I must retreat into the darkness. I can't linger too long. She has become a distraction and tonight I am not here to sit and sound like a perv.

It's about finding my way in.

My fingers go over the key in the pocket – the key I used the previous night. The paintings will draw me deeper into the world of The Nemesis than it is healthy, but, without those paintings, I will have no means of getting him where I want him: on his knees, begging for mercy.

But she... she is the protection I never thought I would have. The one person who makes me question every move I make, every lie I tell myself about why I'm here.

 I glance back at the bungalow one last time, her silhouette still visible. She's fragile, yes. But she's also a fortress. And soon, I'll tear down every wall she's built to protect herself.

*******

I slam the door shut behind me, my shadow stretching across the dimly lit room. Ethan barely spares me a glance, hunched over the cluttered desk in the corner, surrounded by maps, sketches, and blueprints of her house. He doesn't even pretend to hide them anymore.

"Tell me you finally got them," he says without looking up, his tone clipped. "The paintings. From your—" his voice drips with sarcasm, "—lover."

I ball my hands into fists and take a step forward the weights of my boots thud on the floor loud in the silence. "She's not my lover," I reply through my lips which seem to blaze with heat. "And no. I didn't take them."

That gets his attention. He spins in his chair, disbelief written all over his face. "What? You have the key to her damn house. You've been playing house in her life for weeks now. What's stopping you?"

"What's stopping me?" I bite back, taking another step toward him. "Stealing them now would be stupid. It's messy, and it'll raise questions. She's not some idiot who won't notice."

Ethan stands, the chair scraping behind him. "Messy? You? Suddenly you care about playing clean? When have you ever done the right thing?"

My jaw tightens. He's trying to provoke me, and it's working.

"When have you ever done something good?" he presses, jabbing a finger in my direction.

The anger rises before I can stop it, bubbling to the surface in a flash. I grab the edge of the desk and shove it hard, sending papers and pens scattering to the floor. Ethan flinches, his smirk fading.

"Don't," I growl, my voice low and deadly. "Don't stand there and pretend you know who I am. You don't know a damn thing."

Ethan recovers quickly, his lips curling into a mocking grin. "Oh, I know exactly who you are. The guy who's losing his edge because of some girl."

I step closer, invading his space, and lower my voice. "Watch it."

He raises his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk doesn't fade. "Whatever you say, boss. Just don't forget why we're here. Those paintings—her grandfather's paintings—aren't just pretty pictures. You know what's at stake."

I push past him, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. "I don't need you to remind me."

"Really?" Ethan calls after me. "Because of the way you're acting, it seems like you've already forgotten. They're not going to wait forever, you know. They'll come for her if you don't deliver."

I stop in the doorway, my hand tightening around the frame. "I said I'll handle it."

The noise of his laughter still ringing out in the night, I step out of the house.The wind touches my skin and for the first time, I do not feel it's chill I don't really care. It becomes a familiar path along the winding way to her bungalow—the hard-packed dusty red road. I could find it blindfolded. 

 She has no idea who I am.To her, I'm just another stranger, one of the hundreds she passes by every day. And that's how it has to stay.Because if she knew the truth—about me, about her grandfather, about the darkness following those paintings—she'd never look at me the same way again.Not that it matters. 

 I've never been concerned with the subordinate role of the good guy. That's not who I am.But when it comes to her... 

 I stop at the entrance to her house, her window is just visible but the lights are switched off indicating she has already fallen asleep. 

When it comes to her, it's getting harder to remember why I'm here in the first place.

And harder still to convince myself it's not personal.

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Word count:- 1350.
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