16. Silas

16

SILAS

I drum my fingers against my desk, picturing Clara’s sleeping form from last night. The memory of her surrender, the way she yielded to my touch, sends a rush through my body. The gift box sits untouched on her nightstand—a delicate necklace with two intertwined turtle doves in sterling silver.

My phone beckons. I need to know if she’s discovered it yet. I type out the message, imagining her squirming at the reminder of our encounter and then hit send.

Still feeling my marks on your body, my sweet Clara? I bet you can barely sit down.

The typing indicator appears immediately. My pulse quickens.

You’re terrible. I had to wear a scarf to hide what you did to my neck.

Perfect. I lean back in my chair, satisfaction coursing through me. She hasn’t mentioned the gift yet. The symbolism will hit her eventually—two turtle doves, just like the carol, just like the murders she’s investigating.

I type a reply.

Keep the scarf on. Those marks are for my eyes only. Though I do enjoy knowing you’re carrying pieces of me with you today.

You’re making it very hard to concentrate.

If she only knew how much harder her work was about to become. The next body is already planned, waiting for the perfect moment. But for now, I savor this game of cat and mouse. Each text draws her deeper into my web.

Good. I want you distracted. Thinking about last night. About what I’ll do to you next time.

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times. I’ve flustered her. The power of it thrills me.

My phone lights up with Clara’s message:

I’m heading to see my dad at Evergreen Care Home. Please stop making me squirm.

A laugh escapes my lips. The thought of her trying to maintain composure while remembering our night together fills me with dark satisfaction. I tap out a response:

No promises. Your blush is irresistible.

You’re impossible.

I smirk at her reply and type out a text.

Give your father my regards. Though I doubt you’ll tell him about the man who left those pretty marks on your neck.

The typing indicator appears and vanishes several times. I picture her face heating up, those green eyes darting around to make sure no one can see her phone screen.

She finally sends her reply.

I have to go. Behave yourself.

Never.

I set my phone down, savoring the image of Clara squirming in her seat during her visit. Even when we’re apart, I maintain my hold over her. The power is intoxicating.

My fingers trace the edge of my laptop, where multiple tabs display the surveillance feeds from Evergreen Care Home. Soon, I’ll watch her walk through those sliding doors, probably adjusting her scarf one last time. But for now, I’ll let her think she has some privacy with her father.

I watch Clara through the Care Home’s security feed, my cock straining against my slacks the moment she appears on screen. The reaction irritates me. Before her, I maintained perfect control over my body’s responses. Sex was a calculated choice, a means to satisfy basic needs or manipulate others.

But Clara... she undoes me with the smallest gestures. The way she adjusts that silk scarf to hide my marks and then tucks her hair behind her ear before greeting the receptionist. Each movement sends blood rushing south, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair.

My erection throbs as she bends to sign the visitor log, her skirt pulling tight across her curves. I grip the edge of my desk, jaw clenching. This isn’t some hormone-driven teenage response. I’m not some pathetic boy ruled by his dick. And yet here I sit, hard as steel, just from watching her walk down a fucking hallway.

“Fuck,” I mutter, adjusting myself. The pressure only makes it worse. Images from last night flood my mind—Clara bent over, her lips parted in ecstasy, those perfect breasts marked by my teeth. My cock jumps again, demanding attention.

I’ve killed without breaking a sweat. Planned elaborate murders while maintaining complete composure. But one glimpse of Clara Hart sets my body on fire like I’m some inexperienced kid getting his first hard-on. The loss of control infuriates me.

She pauses outside her father’s room and red blooms across her cheeks. She’s thinking about last night, too. My cock pulses in response, and I curse under my breath. This woman will be my undoing if I’m not careful.

Watching her soft smile as she chats with the old man irritates me further. Her full red lips part as she laughs at something he says. That mouth, those sounds she made last night...

I undo my belt, freeing myself from the confines of my pants. My breath quickens as I stroke my length, watching her. Her innocence at this moment, the sweet tenderness with her father, only makes the contrast to our dark encounter that much more arousing.

I imagine her back arching in pleasure as I stand behind her, one hand on her throat and the other guiding my shaft into her cunt.

She crosses her legs, drawing my attention to the curve of her calves and the flawless skin above her knee-high boots. My thumb smears pre-cum over the tip, and I wish it was her tongue.

The need to have her again, to mark every inch of that smooth skin, overwhelms me. I’ll give her the scars she craves because I want her walking around with constant reminders of me.

Her head tilts back, exposing her slender neck, and my free hand curls into a fist, imagining squeezing her throat as I thrust into her. The thought of her desperate for air, but choosing my cock instead makes my stomach clench.

My hand moves faster, and I dig my teeth into my lip to muffle a groan. Clara’s face swims before my eyes, her flush, the way she bites her lip when she comes...

My orgasm hits, and I bite down harder to stifle my roar of release. Letting go of my shaft, I reach for a nearby tissue, cleaning myself. My breath is ragged, the ache in my balls a sweet satisfaction.

I lean back, eyes drifting to the screen where Clara remains, oblivious, chatting with her father. If she knew I was watching, how I was watching... A shudder moves through me at the possibilities.

For now, I’ll let her have this moment of peace. But soon, very soon, she’ll be mine again, writhing beneath me, our sweaty bodies moving in perfect sync. The memory of her pleasure-wracked face will fuel my fantasies until then.

I tap through the social media profiles of Evergreen Falls residents, frustration building with each swipe. The town’s population dwindles by the day as people flee from my Christmas gifts to Clara. Those who remain hardly qualify as worthy sacrifices.

I absently beat out my anxiety on the steering wheel, eyes locked on the YMCA’s entrance as I pass. The “Winter Swim Program” banner catches my eye. For some reason, I’m drawn inside. Pulling into the parking lot, I head in to scope it out.

Inside, middle-aged women splash through their morning aerobics class. Pathetic. None of them deserve the artistry I bring to death.

The indoor pool’s chlorine smell hits my nose as I walk the perimeter, pretending to check membership rates. A lifeguard whistles at kids running on wet tiles. Some teenage girls giggle in the shallow end. A swim coach barks instructions at the competitive team.

Then I spot her—Sandra Mills. She stands at the pool’s edge, screaming at a crying child who can’t get his breathing right.

“You’re worthless,” she snaps. “Get out of my pool.”

The boy scrambles out, tears mixing with pool water. Sandra’s face twists with disgust as she turns to berate her next victim.

My pulse quickens. Seven swans a-swimming. The symbolism clicks perfectly. Sandra will make a stunning addition to my collection. I picture her body floating face-down, arranged with six dead swans in the formation of Cygnus—the swan constellation.

Sandra’s cruelty has earned her the starring role. I leave the pool area, already planning the details. The chlorine will help mask certain evidence. And I know just the abandoned warehouse with a deep enough water tank to stage my scene.

Seven swans a-swimming. Clara will appreciate the astronomical reference when she sees it. Her brilliant mind will make the connection immediately.

My phone buzzes—a text from Clara. But I force myself to focus. I can’t let my obsession with her distract from the artistry of tonight’s performance. Sandra Mills has an appointment with death, and I intend to make it spectacular.