21. Clara

21

CLARA

I wake with a groan, every muscle screaming as I shift in bed. The sheets stick to the dried blood on my skin where Silas marked me on my ass. His brand throbs with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of my surrender.

Siting up, I swing my feet out, and they hit the cold floor. Grabbing my robe and putting on my slippers, I stumble to the kitchen, needing caffeine.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the air with a rich aroma. I spot the silver gift bag from two nights ago, still sitting untouched on my counter where Silas left it.

The memory floods back. He’d given it to me with deliberate care, those piercing blue eyes watching my reaction. But we’d gotten... distracted before I could open it.

My fingers trace the metallic paper, hesitating. Part of me wants to leave it unopened, maintaining some illusion of control, but curiosity wins out. I reach for the bag, hands trembling as I pull apart the tissue paper.

Inside sits a black velvet box about the size of my palm—the kind jewelers use for necklaces or bracelets. My heart pounds as I lift the lid, unsure what to expect from a man like Silas.

A delicate silver necklace lies inside the box, nestled against black velvet. Two turtle doves intertwine, their wings spread in an eternal embrace. The craftsmanship is exquisite—each feather detailed with precision, their eyes set with tiny diamonds that catch the morning light.

My coffee sits forgotten as ice spreads through my veins. The second day... two turtle doves. Just like the song. Just like the murders.

I drop the box, backing away from the counter. The necklace spills onto the granite, the silver chain pooling like mercury. My hands shake as I grab my phone, pulling up the case files.

The second murder scene flashes across my screen—two victims posed face-to-face, their arms wrapped around each other in a twisted mockery of an embrace, just like these doves.

No. It has to be a coincidence. The necklace is beautiful, romantic even. Lots of jewelry uses bird motifs. But my mind races through the possibilities, each worse than the last. The timing. The symbolism. The way Silas admitted to stalking me…

My phone buzzes with his text:

Did you like my gift? The turtledoves suit you.

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The necklace glints on the counter, both beautiful and threatening. Part of me wants to throw it away, pretend I never saw it. But another part—the part that thrills at crime scenes and craves darkness—wants to clasp it around my neck.

But I can’t reply, because I know…

I know he’s the killer .

It was so obvious and right in front of me this entire time.

My fingers trace the cool metal of the doves. Their diamond eyes seem to watch me, knowing my secrets like Silas.

I pace my living room, the turtle dove necklace burning a hole in my palm. The evidence stacks up in my mind like case files on my desk.

Last night’s encounter at the milking barn plays on repeat. The way Silas pushed me against the cold metal stanchions, his hands rough and demanding. The smell of hay and leather mixed with his cologne. At the time, it felt spontaneous—a dark fantasy fulfilled. But now...

Eight maids a-milking. The crime scene we’ll likely discover today, if the pattern holds. My stomach lurches.

The necklace catches the light, and two silver doves are forever locked in their dance—just like those bodies at the mall, positioned face-to-face in matching sweaters. Two turtle doves.

“It’s impossible,” I whisper to my empty apartment.

I sink onto my couch, the necklace cold against my palm. My brain shifts into detective mode, piecing together a timeline I’ve been too blind—too aroused—to see.

The first murder happened the day I came home. A partridge in a pear tree, staged when I arrived in Evergreen Falls to visit Dad.

Then there were the mall victims: two turtle doves. Silas “accidentally” bumped into me the same day at the coffee shop at the mall.

He admitted to watching me for weeks, following me in New York. He knew where I worked, my routines, and when I’d return here.

My chest tightens as more connections click into place. His intimate knowledge of my darkest desires—desires I only indulged in when I thought I was alone—and the calculated precision of his touches, like he’d rehearsed every moment.

I knew you were the one.

That’s what he had said our first night together. Stated that I was the one for him, because he did know, he orchestrated everything.

The coffee spill wasn’t an accident. The dinner wasn’t a chance. Even my submission to him was planned and inevitable because he knew which buttons to push and which fantasies to fulfill.

I clutch the necklace tighter, its edges biting into my skin. The serial killer I’m hunting has been in my bed. Inside my body. Inside my mind. I invited him in, craved him, begged for more.

My training screams at me to call James, to report everything, but my body burns with memories of Silas’s touch, his control, the way he unleashes my darkness. Every twisted fascination I’ve ever harbored, every dark fantasy about killers and danger, suddenly has a face—his face—and God help me, I still crave him.

I stare at the turtledoves, their diamond eyes reflecting my torment. Silas isn’t just any killer. He’s the Christmas Reaper. And he’s chosen me as his audience, muse, and participant in this twisted performance.