25. Clara

25

CLARA

I step into the dance studio. The scene before me steals my breath—not from horror but from its macabre beauty. Sarah Matthews hangs suspended in an eternal pirouette, her body twisted into perfect form. Eight mirrors surround her in a precise circle, creating the illusion of nine ladies dancing.

“Nine ladies dancing,” I whisper, running my fingers along one of the mirror’s edges. The positioning is immaculate. Every mirror sits at the exact angle needed to create seamless reflections.

Blood pools beneath Sarah’s suspended form, yet it doesn’t detract from the artistic vision. If anything, it enhances it—like paint on a canvas. My pulse quickens as I study the precise cuts across her neck and wrists. Clinical, calculated, perfect.

“What kind of monster could do this?” One of the officers asks behind me.

I bite back my immediate response: Not a monster——an artist. The thought should disturb me more than it does, but I’ve always been drawn to this darkness, fascinated by the psychology behind such elaborate displays.

Sarah Matthews is PTA president, charity organizer, and beloved community figure. But Silas wouldn’t have chosen her randomly. Something must be beneath that pristine surface, some darkness that caught his eye. I circle the scene, noting how the mirrors transform one death into nine synchronized dancers.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Do you see the beauty in it?

As I examine Silas’s handiwork, I shouldn’t feel this thrill, this rush of excitement. But I do. Maybe I’m more like him than I care to admit. Maybe that’s why I became a forensic psychologist—not to understand monsters, but to understand myself.

“Dr. Hart?” James calls from the doorway. “We found something you should see.”

I look at Sarah’s body before turning away. The mirrors catch my reflection, and I’m part of the performance for a moment, too.

I follow James down the hall, my heels no longer clicking as I step onto the carpeted area of the dance studio’s office space. He leads me to a small room filled with security monitors.

“Watch this.” James points to one of the screens showing footage from earlier tonight. A tall figure moves through the parking lot, carrying what appears to be a large duffel bag. The timestamp reads ten p.m.

My breath catches. The figure looks up directly at the camera.

“He’s never been this careless before,” James says, rewinding the footage. “Look at his face—it’s partially visible under the mask. And here—” He pauses on a frame where the killer adjusts his grip on the bag. “That’s a class ring. Private school, it looks like. We’re running the design through our database.”

I lean closer to the screen, studying the grainy image. The ring glints silver in the parking lot lights. Something doesn’t add up. Silas is too meticulous for this kind of mistake.

“There’s more,” James continues. “We found traces of cologne on Sarah’s body. Very distinct scent. We’re waiting for forensics to make a match.”

My stomach turns. Silas wears a very distinct cologne, which was almost impossible not to notice whenever he was near.

“With the face shot, the ring, and the cologne...” James grins, looking more optimistic than I’ve seen him in days. “We’ll have this bastard in custody before Christmas.”

I force myself to nod, to mirror his enthusiasm. But my mind races. Silas wouldn’t make these mistakes. Not unless...

“I need some air,” I say, turning away from the screens. “This is... it’s a lot to process.”

“Clara?” James catches my arm. “You okay? You look pale.”

“Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well with all this.”

He releases me, concern etched on his face. “Maybe you should take a break. Go home; get some rest.”

“Yeah,” I manage. “maybe I should.”

I cling to the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline, my fingers bleached bloodless with the strain of holding myself together. The evidence against Silas keeps piling up in my mind—the ring, the cologne, the camera footage. My chest tightens. He’s too smart for rookie mistakes like this.

The cell phone screen comes alive with his message.

Come home.

Home. Where he’s waiting. We’ve shared dark intimacies that should make me run to James with everything I know. Instead, my finger hovers over the message.

The drive feels endless. Each traffic light gives me another chance to turn around, do my job, and be the person I’m supposed to be. But I keep going.

I pull into my driveway and kill the engine. Through my living room window, I catch a glimpse of his silhouette. My heart races; not from fear, but from something else. Something I’m not ready to name.

“Why?” I whisper to myself. “Why leave evidence? Why now?”

The cologne wasn’t a mistake. The ring, the camera—none of it was careless. Silas doesn’t do careless. Which means...

My phone buzzes again.

I can see you sitting out there.

I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. James thinks we’re close to catching the Christmas Reaper. But Silas is playing a different game entirely. One I’m already caught up in, whether I want to be or not.

I grab my purse and step out of the car. Each step on the pathway to my front door feels like a countdown. To what, I’m not sure. But something’s coming. Something bigger than nine ladies dancing in mirrors of death.

The door opens before I reach it. Silas stands there, backlit by my hallway light. His face gives nothing away, but his eyes tell me everything I need to know.

“You’ve been sloppy,” I say.

His lips curl into that smile that makes my insides twist. “Have I?”

I step inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. Silas closes the door behind me, and I feel the familiar electric current that always sparks between us.

“You left evidence on purpose.” I turn to face him. “The cologne, the ring, the security footage. That’s not like you.”

“What makes you so sure?” His fingers trace my jawline.

I catch his hand. “Because I know you. You’re methodical. Perfect. Those weren’t mistakes.”

“Ask me why, Clara.” His voice drops lower, sending shivers down my spine.

“Why?”

He pulls me closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Because I need to know if you’re truly mine. If you’ll choose me when everything falls apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“The evidence points to me. Your partner’s closing in. Soon, they’ll have enough for an arrest warrant.” His hands slide down to my waist. “I need to leave Evergreen Falls.”

My breath catches. “And you want me to...”

“Come with me.” He cups my face. “Start somewhere new. Where no one knows us, where we can be who we are.”

“You’re asking me to abandon everything. My career, my father?—”

“I’m asking you to embrace who you truly are.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “The woman who gets excited by crime scenes and understands the artistry in death as much as I do.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. Before they connect the final pieces.”

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of his request. Everything I’ve built in New York, everything I am in this town—he’s asking me to walk away from it all.

“If I say no?”

“Then I disappear alone.” His grip tightens slightly. “And you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if you made the right choice, drowning in the mundane while craving the extraordinary.”

I press my forehead against Silas’s chest, inhaling his scent. That damning cologne that could lead James right to him. My fingers curl into his shirt as the weight of his request crashes over me.

“My whole life is in New York.” The words catch in my throat. “Everything I’ve built...”

“Is it everything?” His fingers thread through my hair. “Or is it just what you settled for?”

My job in the city flashes through my mind; the corner office I fought so hard for, the respect I’ve earned. All those years of study, of proving myself. But how much of that was real, and how much was a mask I wore to hide my true fascination with the darkness?

And Dad... My chest tightens. He barely recognizes me anymore. Our visits consist of blank stares and repeated stories. Sometimes, he calls me by Mom’s name. Growing up, he wasn’t there when I needed him, always buried in work or a bottle. Now he’s just... fading. The guilt of even considering leaving him burns in my throat.

“He’s all I have left,” I whisper against Silas’s shirt.

“Is he?” Silas’s hand slides down to grip my chin, tilting my face to his. “When was the last time he truly saw you? The real you?”

The truth stings. Dad never saw me—not when I was acing my psych classes, not when I graduated top of my class, not even when I got my first big case. He was physically present but mentally absent, lost in his world of regrets and whiskey.

“I don’t know if I can—” My voice breaks. The want is there, burning under my skin. The desire to run away with Silas, to embrace this darkness that’s always inside me. But years of conditioning, playing by the rules, being the good daughter and dedicated professional... they’re hard chains to break.

Silas’s thumb traces my bottom lip. “You can. You’re stronger than you think, Clara. Braver than you let yourself believe.”

I press my lips against his, desperate to silence the storm of thoughts in my head. His response is a deep growl that rumbles through his chest as his arms lock around me. My feet leave the ground as he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

The kiss deepens, his tongue claiming my mouth with possessive hunger. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

His fingers sear a trail of possession up my spine before tangling in my hair. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes me gasp. My head falls back, giving him better access.

“Mine,” he growls against my skin, teeth grazing my pulse point.

My body responds to his touch, to his dominance, with a rush of heat. I rock against him, seeking friction, needing more. His grip on my thigh tightens in warning, making me whimper.

He captures my mouth again, this time with bruising force. This kiss has no gentleness—all teeth, tongue, and desperate need. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt as he presses me against the wall.

The hard planes of his body pin me in place as he devours my mouth. I taste blood—mine or his, I’m not sure. It only adds to the intoxicating blend of danger and desire that always surrounds us.

His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher. His touch burns, marking me, claiming me. Each brush of his fingers leaves trails of fire in their wake.

I break the kiss, gasping for air. His eyes meet mine and they're dark with desire, sparkling with something wilder, something that should terrify me but only makes me want him more. I recognize that look—I've studied it in case files, seen it in interview rooms. But experiencing it, craving it, is different. In my line of work, we form profound connections in moments of intensity. We dive deep into the darkest parts of humanity without hesitation, because sometimes that's what the job demands. Time stretches and contracts like a living thing, warping around the gravity of each case, each revelation.

"Please, Silas. Fuck me." The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. We're teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that mirrors the intensity of my work—where a single moment can reveal everything about a person's psyche, where understanding comes in lightning flashes rather than gradual revelations. My career has taught me that the most significant moments happen in the blink of an eye—a killer's confession, a victim's breakthrough, a profound understanding of the darkness within. This feels just as natural, just as inevitable.

His eyes glitter with that feverish intensity I've come to crave. He backs me against the hallway wall again, one hand pressing against my throat, not enough to choke but enough to remind me of his strength. I should be thinking about my career, my reputation, but when you spend your life analyzing the darkest human impulses, conventional boundaries blur. Time becomes meaningless in the face of such raw connection, and right now, years of professional experience are collapsing into this single, burning moment with him.

“Please, what, Clara?” His voice rumbles against my lips.

“I need you inside me.” I bite my lip, knowing he can sense my urgency.

Silas doesn’t respond right away. He holds my gaze, his thumb tracing patterns along my jawline. The silence stretches taut between us, thick with anticipation. Finally, he releases me with a soft, "How can I deny such sweet desperation from my goddess?”

He lifts me off the floor, cradling me against his chest as he carries me to the bedroom. My heart hammers against my ribs as he lays me down on the bed. My body trembles with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. I know tonight won’t just be about pleasure. It will be about power, the exchange of control, and finally, seeing the depths of each other’s darkness.

Silas retrieves a length of rope from his jacket pocket and ties my wrists above my head, securing them to the bedpost. Recollections of the wild sex we had in the milking barn flash through my mind, turning me on.

That was almost a crime scene. I know this as sure as I know my own name. But he used it for me… for us, instead.

I test the bonds, relishing my restraints. Silas tied them firmly but not uncomfortably tight. He runs his knuckles down my cheek, his eyes softening for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Wordlessly, he turns and retrieves something from his pocket—his Ghostface mask, which he puts on.

"I've been waiting for this," he whispers, his voice distorted by the mask.

"What are you waiting for now?" I breathe, relishing the feel of his eyes on my body. None of my nights alone touching myself to men in that mask can compare to what he offers.

A low chuckle escapes him. "To show you the true depths of my depravity."

He grabs the hem of my dress, roughly pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. His masked gaze rakes over my black lace bra and matching panties, making me shiver with anticipation. With practiced ease, he reaches behind me, unhooking my bra. It falls away, leaving my breasts exposed to his hungry stare. His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down my legs until I step out of them.

Then he pulls something else from his pocket, and my eyes widen as I recognize the butt of a gun. I'm no stranger to the sidearms law enforcement carries... but to bring it to bed? I can't take my eyes off of it, off of him.

He presses the barrel against my stomach. The cold metal surprises me, the contrast with Silas's heated flesh startling. The sensation of a weapon on my naked skin is foreign, and I shiver. I want to ask what this is about, but my voice abandons me when he traces the gun down my abdomen to the damp folds between my thighs.

“Silas?” I whisper, unsure whether I want him to stop or continue. The question dies on my lips as he drags the barrel against my clit, making me jolt. I ache to be filled, but the unexpectedness of this sends my pulse racing.

“Is it... loaded?” I whisper, watching the gun with trepidation. I’m simultaneously frozen and achingly aware of every inch of my body.

Silas raises an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with dark intent. “Wouldn’t be any fun if I told you, would it?”

My breath hitches as he teases the entrance to my pussy with the barrel, the cold metal sending shockwaves through me. His other hand traces a path from my knee to my inner thigh, dragging my skirt higher.

“You like that, don’t you?” His eyes flash behind the mask. “The not knowing. Wondering if you should feel safe or scared.”

“I—” My voice fails as he slips the barrel between my folds, pressing gently upward. My breath catches. I want to beg him to tell me, to assure me it isn’t loaded, but the words dissolve on my tongue. Part of me craves the danger, the thrill, the unknown. Another part of me is petrified, imagining him pulling the trigger and ending me in one second flat.

The steel is smooth, almost soothing, as it glides along my sensitive flesh. I feel his gaze on me, observing my reactions, his touch deliberate and controlled. I realize this isn’t just about my pleasure or his dominance—he’s testing me.

He kisses me softly, his lips gentle against mine, his thumb caressing my cheek. “I would never hurt you, Clara. I’d die before I let anyone or anything harm you.”

I search his eyes, and my breath catches in my throat. The scene is straight out of a horror movie: me, restrained, helpless, at the mercy of a serial killer. My chest tightens at the fear and overwhelming arousal he elicits from me. I should be terrified; instead, I feel alive, electrified by the danger.

The gun slides out of me, and I whimper, already craving more. I know Silas isn’t done toying with me. He teases my entrance with the barrel again, circling it, slowly pushing it back inside.

I moan, the sound filling the room, my wrists pulling at the restraints. “Please, Silas...”

“Let me hear those desperate little words,” he purrs, voice rough with controlled obsession as his midnight stare strips me bare.

“Fuck me,” I gasp, the crude honesty setting my face aflame while desire pools between my thighs. “I need you deep inside me.’”

With a soft growl, he slides the gun deeper, filling me. My back arches off the bed, my body betraying my fears, opening to him. He hesitates for a moment, letting me feel the weight of the gun inside me before beginning a slow, steady thrust.

My breath catches as he begins to fuck me with the gun. The sensation is intense, unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I squirm against the restraints, my hips moving in rhythm with his thrusts. The cold metal sends shivers through my body, contrasting with the scorching heat between my thighs.

I’m keenly aware of his eyes on me, studying my reactions, taking pleasure in my surrender. My skin is alive with sensation, every nerve ending buzzing with anticipation. I whimper, my body on the edge of an abyss, teetering between pleasure and a pitch black lust, something that dances with danger.

"Such beautiful surrender," he purrs through the mask. "Tell me, Dr. Hart, did you ever imagine during your studies that you'd end up here? Naked and wanting beneath a murderer's touch?"

I close my eyes, shame and desire warring inside me. Every lecture, every case study, every professional boundary I've ever maintained crashes against this moment. "I... I didn't—" But even as I try to deny it, my body betrays me, arching into his touch.

"Don't lie to me." His voice hardens slightly, demanding truth. "Not now. Not when I can feel how wet you are for this."

My breath catches. Years of analyzing criminal psychology, of maintaining clinical distance, dissolve beneath the weight of this confession. "Sometimes," I whisper, the admission burning my throat. "Late at night, I'd imagine... God, I'd imagine being exactly here." The truth breaks free, desperate and raw. "Being completely at the mercy of someone like you."

His eyes burn into mine, and I see the carnal hunger there. Slowly, deliberately, he slides the gun out of me, my body throbbing with need. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more.

His voice is a low, rough murmur in my ear, contrasting with the softness of his lips trailing down my neck. His fingers dig into my hips as he thrusts the gun deeper. “That’s it, my goddess. Let me see you fall apart.”

His words send a shiver through me. They tap into something primal that has always been there, lurking in the shadows of my psyche. It’s a heady rush, a cocktail of danger and desire. I want to be his goddess, worshiped and consumed by this man.

My breath quickens as he thrusts again, the gun pushing against all the right spots. My body responds instinctually, eagerly. My hips move in tandem with his hand, my back arching off the bed. I’m flushed, my skin sensitive to his every touch.

His free hand slides down to my clit, fingers circling, applying pressure. The dual stimulation is overwhelming. My body tightens like a bowstring, ready to snap. I whimper, my breath coming in short gasps.

Silas’s voice is a low rumble. “Let go for me, my goddess. Come apart at my hands.”

He thrusts harder, his thumb finding that spot that drives me wild. My vision blurs, white-hot pleasure spreading through me. My body convulses, clenching around the gun as I cry out. My release washes over me in waves, leaving me trembling and boneless.

Through the haze of my orgasm, I feel Silas’s breath against my ear. “Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.”

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, my mind floating in the aftermath of pleasure. I feel branded by him, marked as his. And I know he’s far from done with me. I pray he never stops.