24. Silas

24

SILAS

I wake with an unfamiliar weight against my chest. Clara's warmth bleeds into my skin, her breath tickling my neck steadily. My arm wraps around her, fingers splayed across her ribcage where I count each rise and fall.

This sensation defies logic. People are pawns, toys to manipulate and discard. Yet here she lies, fitting perfectly against me like the missing piece to a puzzle I never knew existed.

My mind races, unable to process these contradictions: the urge to squeeze tighter wars with the need to protect, possess, and worship.

Love is a chemical reaction, a weakness I've studied in my victims. But Clara stirs something primal in me that transcends mere biology. My fingers twitch against her skin as thoughts spiral and fragment.

I am a god among insects. I hold power over life and death. Clara should be beneath me, another puppet dancing on my strings. Instead, she's burrowed under my skin, taken residence in spaces I didn't know were empty.

Her hair spills across my chest like liquid gold. I trace the marks I left on her neck, evidence of my claim. Mine. The word echoes with new meaning.

"Silas?" Clara's sleepy voice breaks through my chaotic thoughts.

My body responds before my mind can catch up, pulling her closer. Wrong. Weak. Perfect.

"Go back to sleep," I murmur, pressing my lips to her forehead. The gesture feels foreign yet natural, like muscle memory I shouldn't possess.

She sighs contentedly, drifting off again. I remain awake, analyzing every point of contact between us and categorizing each sensation. This doesn't fit with who I am or what I've built myself to be, yet I can't bring myself to let go.

For the first time, my carefully ordered world tilts on its axis. Clara has introduced chaos into my system rather than eliminating the variable. I want to embrace it—to cherish it.

My fingers trace Clara's spine as memories flood unbidden. The warmth of her skin contrasts sharply with the cold emptiness of my past.

"Stand up straight, boy." Father's voice still rings in my ears, sharp as a drill sergeant's bark.

I'd slouch deliberately to provoke him, testing boundaries until his backhand taught me better.

Mother drifts through my mind like a ghost—always present but never there. Her perfect makeup couldn't hide the hollow behind her eyes. She'd float past me in the hallway, gaze sliding over me like I was part of the wallpaper. Sometimes, I'd break things just to make her look at me. The shattered crystal vase. Her prized China teacup. Each time, her lips would thin, but her eyes remained distant.

I pull Clara closer, breathing in her scent. So different from the sterile perfume that clung to Mother's clothes when she'd brush past me to attend another charity function.

"Image is everything, Silas," she'd say to the air above my head. "No one wants to see what's underneath."

The Christmas I turned twelve stands out sharp as broken glass. I'd spent weeks crafting a card, pouring my heart into every careful brushstroke. Mother glanced at it for half a second before setting it aside.

"How... quaint," she'd murmured, reaching for her phone.

Father didn't even bother opening his.

That night, I burned the card in the backyard, watching the flames consume my childish attempts at connection. The heat felt good against my frozen skin.

Clara stirs against me, mumbling something in her sleep. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining naturally. The simple gesture sends cracks through my carefully constructed walls. No one touched me as a child unless they were straightening my tie or forcing me to maintain proper posture.

I press my face into Clara's hair, inhaling deeply. She smells like warmth and life—nothing like the cold emptiness of my childhood home. My chest tightens with unfamiliar pressure. This softness feels dangerous, yet I can't pull away.

Clara's phone vibrates against the nightstand, casting blue light across her peaceful face. James Marsden's name flashes on the screen. My jaw clenches.

I know exactly why he's calling at this hour. Sarah Matthews lies posed in her final dance, surrounded by mirrors in the dance studio. Each one reflects a different angle of her frozen form.

Clara stirs against my chest, reaching for the phone. I tighten my hold on her waist, savoring these last moments before duty tears her from my arms, and she rushes to examine my latest work.

"Hello?" Her voice is thick with sleep. I trace patterns on her bare shoulder as she listens.

My pulse quickens as James delivers the news. I crafted this scene with particular care—positioned Sarah's limbs with mathematical precision, arranged the mirrors to create an infinite loop of her final performance—nine ladies dancing, indeed.

Clara's body tenses. "Another one? Where?"

I press my lips to her neck, tasting salt on her skin. Such delicious irony having her lying here in my embrace while James describes my handiwork. My fingers drift lower, possessive. She shivers.

"The dance studio? I'll be there in twenty." Clara ends the call, turning in my arms.

Clara's eyes narrow as she props herself up on an elbow. "You could have warned me about this one."

My fingers trace the curve of her hip, savoring how her skin prickles under my touch. "I was... preoccupied." The admission tastes strange on my tongue. Being honest about weakness goes against every instinct I've cultivated.

"Preoccupied?" Her eyebrow arches.

"With you." I pull her closer, breathing in her scent. "It was done before our agreement, before you asked me to stop." The words come out rougher than intended. "This will be the last one."

Clara's expression fractures, doubt warring with desire as she stares at me. Her teeth worry her bottom lip which is a tell I've noticed when she's processing complex emotions. The detective in her fights against whatever this is between us.

I watch the conflict play across her features, memorizing each micro-expression. Part of me wants to press her back into the mattress, make her forget everything but the sensation of my hands on her skin. But I remain still, letting her work through this moment.

Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, hesitant yet hungry. "The last one?" The question hangs between us, heavy with implications.

"Yes, for now." I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. "You have my word. The Christmas Reaper stops immediately." The promise feels foreign because I've never given anyone this power over my actions.

Clara's gaze searches mine, torn between belief and suspicion.

"I must be certifiably insane." Clara's fingers trail across my chest. "Lying here with you, knowing what you've done. What you are. Yet I can't stop wanting you."

I capture her mouth with mine, drinking in her confession. The kiss deepens as I roll her beneath me, pressing her into the mattress.

Breaking the kiss, I drag my lips along her jaw. "I wish I could spend all day inside you." My teeth graze her pulse point, feeling it jump beneath my touch.

"Your fault you can't." Clara arches against me, her nails scoring light trails down my back. "I'll be stuck poring over your handiwork for hours. James will have the whole team analyzing every detail."

"Mm." I suck a mark just below her ear, marking her as mine. "Tell me more about how I'm making your job difficult."

"Christmas Eve is in two days." Her breath hitches as I bite down gently. "Even if you stop now, I'll probably work straight through Christmas. The paperwork alone..."

I silence her with another kiss, slower this time. Savoring how she melts against me despite knowing exactly what kind of monster holds her. My perfect match in every way.