His Voice Alone

Chapter 21

Ezra’s POV

She was still in bed when I left. Her body curled slightly on her side, one hand resting over the bruise I had left on her throat.

Her legs were tangled in the sheets that still smelled like sweat, sex, and everything we had done in the dark. Her mouth hung open, soft and unfocused, as if she was still chasing the breath I had stolen hours ago.

“You’re mine,” I had whispered to her then, my mouth pressed to her ear while her nails dragged down my back. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she had said, voice probably cracked and breaking around the words.

Now, her hair clung to the pillow, damp with sweat. Her skin bore every mark I gave her. I didn’t touch her again.

I didn’t speak or look back. I shut the door in silence, holding onto only one thing, what she had whispered after everything, lips moving slow and weak, like it had cost her something to say.

“Don’t ever stop talking to me.”

I walked away without a sound and didn’t stop until I was behind the wheel. The car started without hesitation, and the road opened up ahead like it had been waiting.

Just the thought of her, still in bed, skin warm, sheets tangled, mouth parted where I’d left her breathless. Each mile passed without pause.

I knew every curve, every exit, every turnoff. I had planned this path long before she ever showed up at that campus.

The storage lot sat on the edge of the city, tucked behind old warehouses and shipping centers. It looked like every other dead industrial zone, with rows of units, metal siding, rust creeping through the corners.

I parked in the back and went straight to mine, the key already in my hand. She didn’t know it existed, and she never would.

The overhead light flickered once and then held. Inside, the wall greeted me like always. Photos covered every inch, floor to ceiling, hundreds of them.

Leia at sixteen, walking home from school.

Leia crouched behind a dumpster at seventeen, trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands.

Leia asleep on the campus couch, Leia crying behind the bus stop, head in her arms.

Every photo labeled with date and time, details scribbled in the margins in clean block letters.

Avoided eye contact today. Only slept four hours. Talked to Tyler. Investigate.

I moved past the wall to the shelves, rows of jars lined them like specimens: A single strand of her hair pulled from her brush, the lip balm she dropped near the vending machines, ter silver ring, the one she lost three years ago, and a flower pressed between two notebook pages from her failed biology class.

Everything tagged, nothing forgotten. Every item touched by her kept within reach.

People call it obsession, but they’re wrong. Devotion is when you never let go of the pieces that matter.

In the back, a metal table held my journals, dozens of spiral notebooks. Each one filled with her name, her words, her choices. I documented everything, what she said versus what she meant.

The way she curled her fingers when she lied, how many times she blinked when she was afraid, what she wore on the days she didn’t speak to anyone, and what she ate when she was sad.

I tracked the patterns, crossed the data, found the truth between her silences. I reached for the recorder, my thumb clicked the red light on with my voice calm.

“We’re winning,” I said. “She’s finally listening. She’s starting to understand what she means to me.”

I paused and let the silence sit for a moment.

“What we mean to each other.” My hands stayed steady. They always did when it counted.

Four years ago, I was seventeen. Sitting in a heat-choked apartment with a cracked screen and a broken desk. I hacked into the college systems. I found her records, I deleted the schools I didn’t approve of.

I submitted her applications to the ones I chose. I wrote her essays, I adjusted her scores, I knew where she belonged before she did, then I paid off the housing coordinator.

I made sure she was placed in the room beside mine.

“You sure about this?” the guy asked while counting the bills.

“Dead sure,” I said. That was all.

Then I started sending anonymous reports about the Grahams. Subtle things, inconsistencies, just enough to rattle the foundation. Just enough to make it harder for her to turn back.

I left no part of her future to chance.

Now, I moved to the locked cabinet in the corner using the other key. The drawer opened smoothly, like it had been waiting.

I lifted the black box with both hands and placed it on the table. Inside was the collar. Black leather, matte finish, clean lines, no decoration, just weight and purpose. I touched it with my thumb, slow and steady.

“No one’s taken better care of you than I have,” I said to it, as if she could hear me. I picked it up, feeling the weight settle in my palm.

“And when you wear this,” I whispered, “everyone will know you’re mine.” I held it there, still and centered. Then I said the only truth I’ve ever believed.

“No one ever will.”