2. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Tyler

Seven years later – present day

T he last day of September.

Tomorrow will be the day to mark the fourth year of her ritual. October first is just around the corner, and I have no doubt it'll happen again.

That first year took me by surprise. I'd been stalking Dahlia Valentine for the past four years. I never imagined she'd become a serial killer. That she'd lure people into her cupcake shop after closing time. One for every day of October.

Not one of them came back out. I've never seen bodies being hauled out of Sweet DeNights.

But she did kill them. I'm sure she did.

She's kept doing it for four Octobers since, every year like clockwork.

That's her pattern. I recognized it, because it's what I do. Other than writing code for Blazing Fire Gaming, I'm a sleuth. An online detective .

My blog has generated five arrests and ended up with over ten killers dead so far. I'm good at what I do.

So good that no other sleuth has found out about her.

Or maybe it's since none of them knows Dahlia or stalks her like I do.

No one loves her like I do.

Even though I shouldn't. Even though this aching feeling might make me snap one day. I might have the crazy idea that I want to be with her.

I can't. We were happy before. Once upon a time. As friends. As neighbors.

Twice.

After years of knowing her, I even fell for her.

But bad things happened to us. To the people around us.

There's no one else to lose anymore.

Next time the universe hurts us for finding joy with each other, it'll go for her. It'll kill my Dahlia. No doubt about it.

That's why I won't talk to her.

We're not friends. Not lovers. Barely acquaintances.

Fuck you, fate, or universe or whoever the fuck.

Fuck you for letting her deal with this by herself.

Like this.

Coping with her panic attack by killing people instead of being with me.

More curses. I hate the world. For the unfair choice I had to make. The one I had to make.

For her.

Over the three years she'd been my ward, Dahlia had had panic attacks every 31 st of October without fail .

She hasn't had any since I moved out of that godforsaken building. I still visit her apartment on the last day of October. Every year. After she kills all those people.

Dahlia rests peacefully in her bed. She doesn't need me to hold her like she used to.

No meltdowns. No crying. No panic attacks.

Meaning she won't stop.

It's just a guess, though. I can't know for sure.

We don't talk anymore, she and I. I keep her at a safe distance. I was an asshole, shut her out of my life to protect her. I had to. There was no other way to save Dahlia from fate.

That last October we spent together, the worst happened. The events of that day made it clear to me that the universe had it out for Dahlia and me. It hated our happiness. Hated it when we were together, even as friends.

We couldn't stay in touch. She could—she fucking would—end up dead if we had any sort of a relationship.

A piano would drop on her from the fifth floor. A taxi driver would kidnap her. A poisonous insect could sting her.

Really, anything.

So, I pushed her away. Moved out of the apartment complex and ignored her calls until she stopped trying to contact me.

But I haven't left her. I still stalk her, unhappy as fuck. I hide in alleyways to spy on her shop. Climb the fire escape to her apartment at night. Do inexcusable things to her while she sleeps.

We're not together. We're not happy, dammit.

It's one-sided .

That's what I tell myself. What I shout at the universe while I watch her. While I put blog posts about her out there. The murderous person who terrorizes Manhattan every October without incriminating her.

That's how I cope with losing her. That's how I keep what remains of my sanity while keeping her alive.

Dahlia is the love of my life. The girl who's turned into a twenty-two-year-old beautiful woman.

My little savage.

My angel of death.

My obsession.

I close every window on my laptop that has to do with my day job. Click on the button that'll take me to the desktop.

A picture of my late grandma fills up the screen. Gray hair as the moonlight seeping into my dark apartment. Eyes light brown like syrup. Smiling.

The last time I saw her was the last time I saw Dahlia. The day my world burned down in flames.

When she died—no, when she was murdered —she was eighty-nine. She couldn't take a step without her walker, much less leave the apartment she clung to. She and Grandpa had lived there for years, she'd say. Couldn't part from the memories of him.

My grandma didn't mind the cracks in the brown wallpaper. The old pale blue cupboards in the kitchen. The small bedroom—hers. I didn't mind the sofa bed in the living room, either.

A knot twists in my stomach, looking at her. She didn't want to move out. Neither have I, once I became Dahlia's legal guardian. Dahlia refused to move out in case Ian came back. And I couldn't be away from her. I didn't love her like I do today. I cared for her as the kid she was.

She'd been through too much to be abandoned by me too.

In hindsight, I wish I pushed harder.

I wish Dahlia wouldn't have insisted on giving Ian a head start before the cops swarmed into the crime scene.

I wish…

I slam my fist on the round dining table of my apartment. The laptop rattles in response.

Fate. I fucking hate the bastard. I hate that it's hellbent on keeping Dahlia and me out of each other's lives.

What happened is no one's fault but fate's. Not even Ian.

The night Dahlia killed Al was the night that Ian's sanity slashed right down the middle. The last straw.

He's not here anymore. What good would it do to blame him? None.

The past is dead.

I can prevent bad shit from happening in the future. And I do. It tears bits and pieces of my soul to be away from Dahlia. I ache to talk to her. To hug her. To be around her while she's awake.

"I know, Grams. I know you want me to go get her." I run my knuckles over the screen. Over my late grandmother's temple. Her cheek. "I can't have her. If Dahlia and I find happiness, the world will find a way to destroy us. Or worse, I will. Four years of missing the love of your life will turn any man insane, right? "

I remember how my grandma smelled of cinnamon and sugar. How smooth her skin felt. How much Dahlia loved her.

My fingers move on their own. They click on the locked folder on my desktop named Little Savage . Insert the password Mine2A .

There are pictures there. Many of them. Pictures of Dahlia in her cupcake shop, wearing an orange short-sleeved dress, her blonde hair in a high bun. Of Dahlia carrying milk gallons into her shop. Eggs. Bags of flour. Helping the delivery men I wanted to kill but couldn't.

So many photos, none of them were taken in October. Any October. I've never gotten too close on those days.

"You're so beautiful. Way too beautiful for this world." My eyebrows furl, my resolve waning the longer I look at her. "At a distance. I won't risk your life. Be angry at me all you like, curse me, little savage. I won't."

Lies. All lies. Hell, even I don't even believe a word I'm saying.

My late grandma's voice chimes in with a, This Dahlia kid, she's such a sweet one. Don't leave her, Tyler. Stay. Help her.

"She doesn't need me. She kills people, for crying out loud."

She was always an eccentric one. That's what we loved about her. Besides, she's doing God's work. Killing those bad people. I'm sure she wouldn't mind you joining her.

My voice might have slipped into Grams' words. And it's not wrong .

No one misses the people who disappear inside Sweet DeNights. Dahlia used to love me, that's another truth. She might let me. She might…

The tattoo on my back itches.

The blonde image of a woman that's inked to my skin takes up almost every square inch of my back. Covered by a black gown, the hair of the faceless woman flails as though she's levitating. She's wielding a scythe with spiders climbing on top of it.

It's Death. It's Dahlia.

The itch is a familiar one. The burning happens whenever I so much as think of Dahlia. When I watch her. When I jerk off to her sleeping form.

I'm hard in my jeans, remembering the nights in her apartment. I limit my visits to once a month, except in October when my need for her grows tenfold.

The little savage is beautiful, that's a given.

Her tits are rounder these days. Her hips have widened. Her cheeks are fuller. She's no longer a starved, abused, wounded animal. She's a lioness. Baking some of the most famous cupcakes in Manhattan.

She's gorgeous. She's ruthless.

She intrigues me to no end, and that infuriates me.

She won't let me go.

What ruins me, what truly destroys my soul, is that she murders bad people, and how badly I get turned on from that.

No. Tonight, I will not jack off to her.

I'll write. I'll write or I'll sneak into her apartment, kiss her, and wake her .

Fuck no. What am I thinking?

I haven't spent all this time ghosting her just so I could ruin it tonight. I have to keep her safe.

Writing. I have to write.

A few clicks and I have my blog's page up and ready for today's entry. CTCyfrin, short for Catch Them Cyfrin, is my blog name and username on sleuth forums online. Coming from Welsh origins, Cyfrin means secret. And that's exactly what my identity is.

A secret.

No one can know who I am. I have to stay in the dark. Have to stay anonymous while I let off steam, stalk, and kill other murderers.

Yes, Dahlia and I aren't that different. We're not the same either.

Other than killing people, she needs to bake.

And I… I need to write.

Readers,

Gear yourself up. October is coming.

The time for the mysterious disappearances of people no one cares for. A spouse might file a report with the police. A landlord, a nosy neighbor maybe. But they never follow up. I've shown you enough evidence from the police files I stole from them to back up what I'm saying.

This year won't be different. I can smell it.

Can you?

Maybe this year I'll catch them.

Stay tuned.

Happy Halloween month ,

CTCyfrin.

Today, unlike any other, writing has failed me. After pressing send, I'm no better than I was ten minutes ago. Not even when comments and conspiracy theories begin to flood.

The taunting comment from Watcher1988 doesn't bother me like it used to, either.

If you're so sure it's them, why don't you go over there? Why don't you get him already?

I don't owe them anything.

Once more, I don't care.

I'm desperate. For her, only her.

My tattoo never stops burning. My cock throbs and aches and begs.

I love her.

I…

Fuck.

I don't slam my fist on the table this time. I get the fuck up. The chair scrapes the hardwood floor. My whole body strains as I do my best to stay put.

Seeing her is wrong.

But I'll lose my fucking mind if I stay here.

I can't control this obsession more than I could stop Ian's killing rampage.

Driven by my most basic impulses, I stride off to my bedroom. Stand in front of the mirror door of my closet. I stare at the thirty-four-year-old man I've become.

My face is made of sharp edges. My expression has hardened over the years. I rarely smile anymore. At six-four, I'm tall. Toned from years of killing people and lifting weights .

Sadly, no matter how built I am, nothing will help me fight fate. Nothing as human as muscles could pull punches against the sad ending that's waiting for Dahlia and me if we were ever together.

The singe on my back turns into an agonizing pain. It demands I go to Dahlia.

Fuck this.

I throw on a black Henley and hoodie that match the color of my jeans. Next are my boots and keys.

I'm on my way to her.

It's late. Cold. The chilly fall air bites into my cheeks as I cross the city, walking downtown. I welcome the distraction. Always do. Anything to take the edge off.

Anything to make me want her less.

I shouldn't even like her. Shouldn't do what I'm doing.

I march forward anyway.

Going up the fire escape to her apartment is a climb I've taken again and again over the years.

No one sees me do that. No one gives a fuck. New York after midnight means I could do whatever I want. I could murder her in her sleep and no one would notice until the smell of her rotting corpse seeped through the ventilation system.

Not like I'll ever do that.

Dahlia Valentine is the girl who stole my heart. Some days, I'm worried she'll take it with her to her grave. To hell.

This murderous, beautiful woman just might.

As I peer into her apartment, I see through the open door to her bedroom. She's asleep. Tucked under a fluffy blanket, her blonde hair sprawled on the black pillowcases .

Serene. Calm.

She sleeps like the dead.

Always has. I've done a lot of unimaginable shit to Dahlia Valentine over the years ever since she was nineteen. In her sleep.

She hasn't woken up. Not once.

Tonight won't be any different.

The latch on her window opens with enough manipulation. I oil the hinges every three months, so the window slides up soundlessly. Dahlia doesn't hear it, doesn't twist and turn in her bed.

One leg, then the other, and I'm inside her apartment. The soles of my boots land softly on the linoleum floor. I slide the window closed. No one else is allowed in here but me.

Anyone comes in here, and I'll slit their motherfucking throats.

She's mine , even if I can't have her.

Good thing that, on some unconscious level, she's aware of it. Dahlia doesn't date. Doesn't flirt. The endless days I spend stalking her provide me proof of that. Here. At her shop. While she's on her way home. Sometimes, I hack her phone.

There's no one.

She's a virgin.

She's mine.

I hover over her bed and anger surges. I'm furious at her. At the love I have for her.

At how I was so weak for this girl—first out of compassion, then when she turned seventeen, out of something more—that I let her stay in my life. I should've realized that after Al fucked up her and Ian's lives, we were cursed.

I shouldn't come anywhere near her.

Not to tempt fate.

I know. I know.

Except I want her.

So fucking bad.

Blood rushes to my groin. I'm hard, and it fucking hurts, how much I need her.

My depravity rises to the surface. Calls on me to violate Dahlia in her sleep. Make her mine while I suffer through every second of it. Because this is fake. Because she's not really mine.

"Oh, little savage," I mouth as I unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper. As I take myself out. "You've been busy today, haven't you?" My cock pulses in my hand as I fuck it. "Putting up Halloween decorations. Your spooky season cupcakes are on display. You must be exhausted."

Her bed is a high one. When I inch closer, Dahlia's breaths are hot on my cock.

I haven't fucked her mouth before. The closest I got was rubbing my cum on her lips. Her body. Writing our initials with cum on her skin.

You love her.

Fuck, my brain is messing with me. The distance, the four years of not talking to her.

You love her .

I love her, yes.

I'm a dirty, sadistic fuck. I pull back, bend to her mouth, and spit onto her open lips. My saliva makes her sweet, pink tongue glisten. The desire to lick it off her, then spit on her again is overwhelming. It has precum wetting the tip of my cock.

Dahlia doesn't stir. As if she's awake. Listening to my thoughts. Begging me to do it. In slow, meticulous strokes, I lick her mouth clean. Then spit between her parted lips again.

Before the day , I hadn't been like this. Nowhere near this depraved.

Then Dahlia gave me the mother of all complexes when she blossomed into a magnificently disturbed seventeen-year-old. The person I've been so hung up on that I haven't so much dated or fucked anyone for years.

No one has or ever will come anywhere close to her.

She's mine. And I've always been hers in one form or the other.

Holding on to the headboard, I place the crown of my cock on Dahlia's spit-coated lips.

Fuuuck .

The taste of blood fills my mouth from sinking my teeth into my inner cheek. That's the only way to silence my groans.

My free hand grips the base of my shaft as I start rocking my hips into it. My cock slides effortlessly on Dahlia's lips. Her shallow breaths drive me wild. I gaze lower, at her breasts, covered by the blankets and that barrier pisses me right the fuck off.

Without slowing down, I draw them back. Pull her black hoodie and T-shirt up to her neck. To the snake tattoo there.

Yes. That's what I've been missing. Full, round breasts. Small, pink nipples that harden at the loss of warmth. How her tits sway from left to right when I slide my cock between one corner of her mouth to the other.

When Dahlia yawns in her sleep, her mouth parts wider. Her lips wrap around me, taking me in a little deeper. Her tongue rests on my length as I keep rocking my hips back and forth.

It's almost as if she's licking me.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath, coming on her sweet tongue.

A swift pain slices through me before the relief arrives. I pull away just in time to spray my load on her lips, in her mouth. The last of my orgasm, I shoot in her hair. That's what I feel like doing.

That's what being owned by me means.

"This doesn't mean we're together, little savage." I tip my head up to the ceiling, talking to whoever the fuck runs this show. "Doesn't mean any goddamn thing."

Then I rub my cum inside her mouth, snapping it closed. By the morning, she'd have swallowed my seed. She won't taste a thing, but I'd be deep inside her. Forever

"I still love you. But I'm not yours. Nothing's changed. Good night, Dahlia. And happy hunting."