Watch me break a dark st.., p.1
Watch Me Break: A Dark Stalker Romance (Watched in Darkness Book 1), page 1
Watch Me Break
Watched in Darkness Book 1
V.E. Huntley
Copyright © 2025 by V.E. Huntley
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact V.E. Huntley (hello@vehuntley.com).
This work was written by a human and may not be used, in whole or in part, for the training, development, or creation of machine learning models, artificial intelligence systems, or any similar technologies, now or in the future, without the explicit, prior, written consent of the copyright holder
Watch Me Break (Watched In Darkness (Book 1) is a work of fiction. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Published in the United States by V.E. Huntley
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress
Paperback ISBN 979-8-9907982-8-1
Ebook ISBN 979-8-9907982-7-4
Book Design by V.E. Huntley
Book Cover Design by C. David Photography & Design
First Edition 2025
Contents
Dedication
Enjoy Your Surrender
Content/Trigger Warnings
He's always watching
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
36. Chapter Thirty-Six
37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
40. Chapter Forty
41. Chapter Forty-One
42. Chapter Forty-Two
43. Chapter Forty-Three
44. Chapter Forty-Four
45. Chapter Forty-Five
46. Chapter Forty-Six
47. Chapter Forty-Seven
Pre-Order Watch Me Burn
Please Review
Books by V.E. Huntley
Follow Me
Acknowledgements
About the author
This is for all my dark romance girlies out there —the ones who aren't afraid to admit they want to be tied up, completely at someone's mercy, and taken to the edge of sanity and back again.
You know who you are. You're the ones who dog-ear the filthy pages, who stay up way too late reading "just one more chapter," and who've definitely Googled "Is it normal to be attracted to fictional psychopaths?"
So here's my advice: Find yourself a Damien.
He's the kind of man who'll take you right to the edge, hold you there while you're gasping and begging, and have the audacity to look smug about it the entire time.
Because let's be honest—vanilla is great for ice cream, but we're here for the dark, decadent, deliciously twisted stuff.
And trust me, Damien delivers. Every. Single. Time.
Enjoy Your Surrender
If reading lots of hot, intense, ridiculously spicy sex isn't your thing, don't read this book.
If crude language, graphic violence, and characters with a very questionable moral compass aren’t your thing, don't read this book.
If men who take exactly what they want with zero apologies aren't your thing, definitely don't read this book.
But…
If you enjoy sensually surrendering to a dark, masked stranger who will absolutely ruin you—body, heart, and soul—before piecing you back together and dragging every one of your deepest, darkest desires into the light?
Then buckle up, my lovelies.
And enjoy your surrender…
Content/Trigger Warnings
This is not a full list, just the most triggering.
Please visit my website for the entire list of TWs.
This story contains the following dark themes, situations, and kinks that may be triggering for some readers: stalking, spying, primal play, fear play, knife play, breath play, non-consent/very dubious consent between the main characters, obsessive behaviors, bondage, graphic violence, explicit sexual situations, animal neglect and cruelty (off page), medical treatment of abused/injured animals (NO on page animal abuse), on page death of an animal from natural selection (NOT abuse or injury, NOT graphic). This death occurs in Chapter 32, and sensitive readers can skip this chapter without losing the plot, but you will miss a very poignant moment in Luna’s journey that is referenced later in the story.
If any of these (or the additional TWs listed on my website) are potential triggers for you, please do not read. I won’t be offended. Your mental health matters—do what’s best for you.
Despite the content/triggers and dark elements in this series, it is a story full of love, laughter, desire, passion, found family and loyalty. At its core, it’s a love story about two people destined for each other.
So, for those who still want to take this ride with me, enjoy.
He's always watching.
She's starting to want him to.
Chapter one
Damien
The amber liquid burns as it slides down my throat, but the heat pales against the fire building in my chest. My heart pounds as I face the massive stone fireplace, watching the flames writhe over blackened wood. The thirty-year Macallan tastes different tonight. Sharper.
Beside me, Athena stretches in her sleep, her blue-gray coat painted silver by moonlight creeping through the cracked transom above. She’s the only creature on this earth that sees gentleness from these hands.
I flex my fingers, studying them in the firelight. Two hours ago, these same hands dragged Dale Nash out of his truck at that shithole puppy mill in Fort Lupton. Hundreds of dogs crammed into wire cages, living in their own filth.
Not anymore.
The look on his face when I stepped out of the shadows…
Fuck, that was beautiful.
I drain the glass and let my gaze drift across the room. What was once a grand Victorian study now lies half-shrouded in dust and shadows, its carved mahogany panels warped and water-stained from four decades of neglect.
This place called to me the moment I saw the listing. Five hundred acres of Colorado wilderness, far from prying eyes and closer to God’s judgment than man’s law. The real estate agent kept dancing around the property’s history, but that history is the reason I bought it.
I chose this place because isolation breeds opportunity. No neighbors to hear screams, no streetlights to cast unwanted shadows, and no city noise to mask the sounds of justice. The nearest house, a wildlife sanctuary tucked in the valley to the west, is a mile down a winding mountain road that becomes almost impassable in winter.
The empty whiskey glass sits heavy in my palm, each facet sharp against my skin. The cut crystal belonged to my grandfather and is one of the few possessions I kept when I shed my old life. Everything else about Damien Wolfe is carefully constructed theater. But here, surrounded by decay and darkness, I can stop pretending and be what I am.
The monster they created.
A log shifts in the grate, sending sparks spiraling up the dark throat of the chimney. Athena’s ear twitches, though her eyes remain closed. The scars along her muzzle have faded to thin white lines, souvenirs from the fighting ring I saved her from two years ago. She was scheduled to be bait for a champion fighter, thrown into the pit to be torn apart for entertainment. Instead, she found her way to my home and is the only living thing I let close.
I set the empty glass on the mantel and reach for my mask. I catch my reflection in its polished surface. Eyes burning bright. Pupils dilated. The face of a man ready to christen his new killing ground.
The silver titanium wolf mask covers half my face, spanning from the top of my head to just above my upper lip. Cade calls it my death wish, a calling card that will eventually hang me. But the moment that metal touches my flesh, I shed my human limitations. The mask doesn’t just hide my identity; it reveals my true nature.
The floorboards protest under my boots as
Athena lifts her head as I pass, dark eyes following my movement. She yawns, and I stop to scratch behind her ears. Her fur is warm from the fire, soft against my palm.
“Sleep, girl. This part isn’t for you.”
She settles back into the warmth with a satisfied grunt.
Beyond my office, the hallway fades to shadow, wallpaper peeling in curling strips, exposing layers of faded florals and the gray plaster beneath. Most of the mansion has remained untouched since I bought it. The decay serves as a testament to what happens when evil takes root.
The door to the basement sits at the end of the hall, heavy oak that’s absorbed decades of secrets. I pause before it, savoring the anticipation clawing at my chest. This moment, crossing from hunter to executioner, never loses its power over me.
The ancient wooden planks creak and shift as I descend the stairs. Good. I want Nash to hear me coming, to count each footstep like the slow beats of a dying heart.
The cool basement air is heavy with moisture that seeps through the stone foundation. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the smell hits me. Earth and the lingering copper scent that never quite faded from this place.
The single bulb above throws sharp shadows around the room, lighting up the cold metal table in the center. The kind used in morgues. It came with the property, along with the rickety wooden workbench rotting in the corner, both abandoned by the previous owner, a serial killer from almost forty years ago. Jeremiah Morrison carved his name into local legend with the blood of seven teenage girls before they caught him in 1984. Their deaths left this place cursed and untouchable.
Until I came along.
Nash lies strapped to its surface, awake now, his eyes wild and bloodshot. They snap to me as I step into the pool of harsh light. His chest strains against the restraints. Tendons stand out in his neck, and sweat beads on his forehead despite the basement’s chill.
Behind the duct tape, Nash’s breathing turns to panicked snorts through his nose. The sound makes something warm unfurl behind my ribs. He jerks against the straps, his wrists already raw and bleeding where they cut into his skin.
I step closer. The mask gleams in the bulb’s glare, and Nash’s eyes widen with terror.
I move to the workbench against the wall. The serrated blade is still there, reflecting the faint light. My fingers wrap around the handle, leather worn smooth from use, molded to my grip like it belongs there.
“Do you know what separates us from animals, Dale?” I turn the knife, watching light dance along its edge. Each syllable hangs in the air, carrying the weight of coming judgment. “It’s not intelligence. Not morality.”
Nash thrashes against the leather straps binding him, the metal table legs scraping concrete in a rhythm that matches my pulse.
“It’s our capacity to understand suffering before it arrives.”
The blade hovers above his chest, not quite touching. Nash freezes, every muscle locked. Even his breathing stops.
The tip touches his skin just below his collarbone. Cold metal against warm flesh. I press down—just enough. The skin parts in a clean, shallow line. Blood wells, a perfect crimson thread against his flesh. Nash’s body arches off the table, his muffled scream vibrating through the duct tape. The sound echoes off stone walls that have heard worse. Much worse.
The cut throbs with his heartbeat, weeping fresh drops with each pulse. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, like an artist’s first brushstroke on virgin canvas.
Outside, wind rattles the basement’s single barred window. The storm that’s been brewing all night finally breaks, the rain hammering against the glass like desperate fingers trying to get in. Perfect weather for what comes next. Nature’s fury will swallow any noise that might escape this tomb.
The scent of urine assaults my nose as a dark stain spreads across the front of his jeans.
“Already?” Disappointment colors my voice. “We’ve barely started.”
Nash’s eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the corners. His whole body shakes—fear, adrenaline, or maybe just the cold seeping into his bones.
I select a different knife from my array of tools, smaller and more precise. The handle fits between my thumb and forefinger like it was crafted for my grip. I test its edge against my thumb. A thin line of blood appears.
I press the tip against Nash’s shoulder, just above where the first cut weeps crimson. His entire body goes rigid as the metal bites through his skin, opening a parallel line that mirrors the first, only deeper. Blood flows in twin streams down his chest.
His scream tears through the duct tape, his body convulsing against the restraints. The straps creak under the strain but hold. They always hold.
I walk back to the workbench and lean against it. Nash’s frantic eyes track my every movement. Time to let anticipation do its work. Let him marinate in the knowledge that those two cuts are only the beginning of a very long night.
His muffled cries, a prayer for mercy, will go unanswered.
Justice has no ears for the pleas of monsters.
Chapter two
Luna
Ihold my breath as I secure the splint around the eagle’s fractured wing, my fingers steady despite my racing heart. The smell of antiseptic fills the treatment room, mixing with the underlying musky scent of feathers.
Working with raptors isn’t easy. There’s something about their gaze that strips away all pretense until you’re left exposed. This magnificent creature doesn’t understand that I’m trying to help. All he knows is captivity and pain.
“Almost done,” I murmur, checking the alignment one more time.
The eagle remains still beneath the towel draped over his head and body, with only his injured wing uncovered. Maren’s hands keep his legs and talons secured.
Then he mantles. She adjusts her hold, but I still step back. Adrenaline spikes through my system, a primal response to a predator’s threat that no amount of veterinary training can override. My pulse hammers, a reminder that no matter how many wild animals I treat, I’ll never be completely immune to fear.
“How about we drug him up a little more?” Maren whispers to avoid startling our patient. “I’m not in the mood to get my face rearranged. I like my face.”
I edge closer. “It’s a good face.”
“JT thinks so too. He’s especially fond of the expression it makes when I’m coming on his cock.”
“That’s not something I needed to know, but okay.”
“Oh, please.” She snorts but cuts herself short when the eagle’s head turns toward the sound. We both freeze until he settles again. “It’s not like you don’t know what my orgasm face looks like. We shared a dorm room for four years. There’s no way you were always asleep when I brought a hookup home. No one sleeps that deep.”
“Selective hearing was the only way I could survive all that grunting and groaning without losing my mind.”
“Try not to choke on that imagined chastity belt, Dr. Foster.”
I blow her a kiss across the examination table. Without missing a beat, she flips me off while maintaining her grip on the eagle’s powerful legs. I have to admire her dexterity. Few people can deliver obscene gestures while restraining a bird of prey.
The eagle shifts again, testing her hold. The muscles in his legs ripple beneath her gloved hands, reminding us both that we’re dealing with a predator capable of snatching salmon from rushing rivers.
“So you’re sure he doesn’t need any more drugs?”
“No, he’s been incredibly cooperative. Even during the X-rays.” I smooth the last piece of tape, ensuring the splint is secure without being restrictive. “I think he knows we’re trying to help.”
“Or he’s plotting our demise and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. You know, when we least expect it.”
I bite back a chuckle. “Your optimism is truly inspiring.”
“I prefer realism. This bird could fuck up a small aircraft if he put his mind to it.”
“He could wreak havoc if he wanted to, that’s for sure.” I tuck the injured wing against his side. “Let’s move him to recovery.”
