29. Clara

29

CLARA

I run my fingers along the banister, feeling every nick and groove worn smooth by countless childhood slides. The wood still holds that familiar warmth, as if it absorbed all those secret moments when I'd whoosh down while Dad lay passed out on the couch below.

My bedroom hasn't changed much. The true crime books still line the shelves, their spines cracked from endless re-readings. I pack the essentials first—clothes, documents, and the silver necklace from Silas. My hands shake as I place each item into my bag with care.

Mom's perfume still lingers in the master bedroom, though she's been gone fifteen years. Dad bought it and constantly sprayed it to make it feel like she was still here. As I step inside, the floral scent hits me, and I grip the doorframe to steady myself. This room holds the heaviest memories, finding her cold and still that morning, Dad's drinking spiraling afterward.

In the hall, my fingers trace the height marks scratched into the wall. "Clara. Age 8" is the last one, just before Mom died. After that, Dad stopped measuring. I'd grown up marking my own milestones, finding strange comfort in studying the darkness that took Mom away.

I sink onto my childhood bed, the springs creaking in protest. The old newspaper clippings I'd hidden under the mattress years ago crinkle beneath my weight. I pull them out, yellowed and fragile now. Mom's face stares back at me from the front page.

"Local Woman Found Strangled, No Suspects."

They never caught him. The police said it was random, a burglar who panicked when Mom came home early. But the precision of the kill haunted me.

Dad retreated into the bottle after that. I retreated into books about killers, hoping to understand. Why did they choose their victims? What made them tick? Each case file and psychology textbook brought me closer to comprehending the mind that took Mom away.

But something shifted as I grew older. The fascination turned darker. I'd catch myself admiring the artistry in certain kills, the methodology. The way these men played God. My collection of books grew, hidden in my closet where Dad wouldn't see. I'd stay up late, my heart racing as I absorbed every detail.

When other girls were dating, I analyzed BTK's letters. While they went to prom, I wrote papers on Richard Ramirez. The darkness became my companion, filling the void left by both parents—one dead, one drunk.

I run my fingers over Mom's autopsy photos, memorized from countless viewings. The bruises on her neck tell a story of control, of power. I used to hate the killer for taking her. Sitting here with Silas's necklace around my throat, I understand the intoxicating pull of that power.

"I became what I studied," I whisper to Mom's photo. "I fell in love with the same kind of monster that took you away."

A shadow falls across the autopsy photos; I don't need to look up to know it's Silas. His presence fills the room like smoke, dark and suffocating.

"Finding closure?" His voice carries that familiar edge, like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

I close the folder, but his hand catches mine. "Don't. She was beautiful, wasn't she? The bruising pattern..." He traces the marks in the photo with his finger, his touch reverent. "Whoever killed her understood anatomy. See how the pressure points align?"

My stomach twists. Of course, he'd know about Mom. He probably knows things even the police missed. "How long have you known?"

"I have files on everything about you, Clara." He kneels beside me, and his fingers slide up to mirror the marks in the photo against my own neck. "Your mother's case sparked it all, didn’t it? That delicious obsession with killers."

I should pull away, but his touch grounds me. "You make it sound romantic."

"Isn't it?" His eyes gleam with that predatory light I've come to crave. "Death shaped you. Molded you into someone who could understand me. Accept me." His grip tightens slightly. "Have you made peace with it?"

"I don't know if peace is the right word." I lean into his touch. "But I understand things now that I didn't before. About power. Control. The rush that comes with holding someone's life in your hands."

"My perfect, twisted goddess." He presses his lips to my temple. "We're the same now, aren't we?"

"What shaped you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Silas's hand freezes against my throat. The warmth drains from his touch, replaced by something cold and sharp. His fingers dig into my skin hard, but not enough to hurt. Even so, it’s enough to remind me of what those hands are capable of.

When he turns to look at me, my breath catches. Gone is the man who held me through the night, who whispered dark promises against my skin. In his place sits a predator, eyes flat and empty as a shark's. No emotion, no humanity—just endless darkness stretching behind those blue irises.

A chill runs through me. This is the face his victims saw in their final moments. This is the Christmas Reaper who arranged bodies like decorations and painted the snow red with artistic precision.

My psychology training screams at me to run, to get as far away from those dead eyes as possible. But the part of me that's always been drawn to the darkness, that's collected newspaper clippings of murders and studied serial killers with obsessive fascination—that part of me wants to lean in closer.

I've spent my whole career trying to understand what creates someone like him. Now he's here, that carefully constructed mask slipping, showing me exactly what lurks beneath.

His grip hasn't loosened. Each small movement of his fingers reminds me how easily he could squeeze tighter, how completely I've placed myself in the hands of a killer. The same hands that arranged those murder scenes I'd analyzed, that wielded the knife with surgical precision.

"You really want to know?" His voice has changed, too—flat and emotionless, like his eyes. The cultured accent is gone, replaced by something inhumane.

I should be terrified. Instead, I feel a twisted thrill at seeing him stripped bare like this, at being allowed past his perfect facade to the monster underneath.

"Yes," I breathe, not breaking eye contact with those deadly eyes.

I watch the predator fade from Silas's eyes, replaced by something distant and cold as he speaks. His hand drops from my throat, and he turns to stare out my bedroom window.

"Mother made it clear I was her biggest regret. A drunken mistake with Father that ruined her life." His jaw clenches. "Father couldn't stand the sight of me. Said I had the devil's eyes."

The winter wind howls outside, and Silas's expression darkens. "They'd lock me out when I displeased them. Seven years old, pounding on doors until my fists bled. Sleeping in the tool shed, stealing bird feed to survive."

My chest tightens as I picture a small boy huddled in the dark, hunger gnawing at his stomach. "How long would they leave you out there?"

"Days sometimes. The barn became my sanctuary in winter. At least the horses provided warmth." His voice carries no self-pity, just a cold statement of facts. "I learned to pick locks by nine. Started keeping food stashed away."

The psychological profile clicks into place—neglect, abandonment, early signs of adaptation to survive. "You were alone."

"Entirely." His lips curve into a mirthless smile. "The moment I turned eighteen, I vanished. My mind was always sharp—numbers, patterns, systems. Finance came naturally."

He meets my gaze, and I see that familiar darkness swirling behind his eyes. "But pushing numbers couldn't satisfy what grew inside me. The first kill..." He pauses, studying my reaction. "It filled a void I didn't know existed."

I should feel revulsion at his casual mention of murder. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to this raw honesty. The damaged boy became a predator. The neglected child who learned to take ultimate control.

The shadows in my childhood bedroom grow longer as Silas's confession hangs in the air. His eyes are fixed on a point beyond the window, lost in memory.

"Two years after my first taste of control, I knew what to do." His fingers tap against the windowsill. "Father's wealth was trapped in their hands. I couldn't let that continue."

My breath catches. "Your parents?"

"A tragic accident." His voice carries no emotion. "Brake lines are so delicate, especially on mountain roads. The investigation found nothing suspicious, my parents were just another wealthy couple who took a curve too fast."

The chill that runs through me isn't entirely from fear. Part of me understands the calculated precision, the perfect execution. "And their fortune?"

"Sole heir." He turns to face me, the moonlight casting half his face in shadow. "One hundred million dollars. Father never bothered changing the will; probably thought I'd died in the streets somewhere."

I should be horrified. A son orchestrating his parents' deaths for money and revenge. But I find myself thinking of my own father, how many times I'd wished him gone during those drunken years instead of Mom.

"Did it feel like justice?" I ask.

"No." Silas's eyes meet mine. "It felt like freedom."

I reach out and place my hand on his arm, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch. "Thank you for telling me."

Silas's jaw tightens, and he shifts away from my hand as if the gentle contact burns. His shoulders become rigid, and his spine straightens into that perfect posture I've come to recognize as his defense mechanism.

"I've never..." He stops, swallowing hard. The moonlight catches the sharp edge of his cheekbone as he turns his face away. "You're the first person I've told any of this."

The admission hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I think of all his carefully constructed walls and the perfect masks he wears. How many years has he carried these memories alone?

"Silas." I keep my voice soft, reaching for him again despite his earlier withdrawal. "Look at me."

He doesn't move at first, but I wait. Finally, those blue eyes meet mine, and I glimpse something raw and vulnerable beneath his usual predatory gaze.

"You don't have to hide from me." My fingers brush his cheek. "I see you. All of you."

His breath catches, and for a moment, I think he might pull away again. Instead, he leans into my touch ever so slightly. It's a tiny movement, but from Silas, it feels monumental.

"I know you do." His voice comes out rough. "That's what makes you dangerous."

"I'm not dangerous," I whisper, tracing my fingers along his jaw. "But together? We'll be unstoppable."

I press my lips to him, pouring every ounce of understanding and acceptance into the kiss. For a heartbeat, Silas remains still, like a statue beneath my touch.

Then something snaps.

His hands fist in my hair, yanking my head back as his mouth crashes against mine. Gone is his calculated control – this is pure animal instinct. His teeth sink into my bottom lip, the sharp sting making me gasp. The metallic taste of blood mingles with our kiss.

I clutch at his shoulders as he backs me against the wall, his body caging mine. One hand releases my hair to grip my throat, my thumb pressing against my pulse point. His other hand tears at my clothes, desperate and demanding.

His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. Each bite sends sparks of pleasure-pain through my body. I arch into him, wanting more, wanting everything he's willing to give.

This isn't the controlled, meticulous Silas I've known. This is the beast beneath the mask, raw and primal. His growl vibrates against my throat as he marks me, claiming me as his.

It happens fast. One moment, I'm standing there, my breath catching as Silas's hands tighten on my body, and the next, I'm pressed against the wall, his weight holding me in place.

I can't breathe, pinned by the hard planes of his body, his mouth on my throat. The plaster digs into my back, his hands gripping my hips, lifting me off the ground. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, seeking purchase, my body already aching with the need for more.

The moment his cock thrusts into me, I shatter. It's a brutal invasion, the harsh scrape of teeth and tongue giving way to something deeper and more primal. He's ravenous, devouring me, and I'm consumed by the fire in his kiss.

His fingers dig into my thighs as he lifts me higher, angling me to take him deeper. Everything else fades away. The world could end outside this bedroom, and I wouldn't be able to care about it.

His tongue invades my mouth, kissing me as if he needs me as badly as he needs oxygen. His grip on my thigh tightens almost to the point of pain, but I crave it, urging him on with my own hungry kiss. My nails scrape down his back, relishing his hiss of pleasure. He feels so good inside me, filling me. I want to keep him here, locked in this moment forever.

When I climax again, it takes me by surprise, ripping a cry from my throat. He silences me with another bruising kiss, muffling my pleasured moans. Each thrust brings a new wave, pulsing around him, my body alive and thrumming with each stroke. Silas's grip tightens in response, his movements becoming more frantic, more urgent. I cling to him, riding out the waves, knowing he won't be far behind.

Every muscle in his powerful frame goes rigid as he pulses inside me, savage pants burning trails across my sensitive skin. He muffles his groan in my shoulder, his weight pressing me harder against the wall.

As our heart rates slow, he sets me down, his lips warm against my shoulder. I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in—his scent, taste, and skin against mine.

"Clara." He speaks my name like a prayer, his voice raw and unguarded.

I turn my face into his neck, kissing him softly, feeling the wild beat of his pulse beneath my lips. "I'm here."

His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back as his lips brush mine. "This is madness."

I kiss him, silencing his doubts, showing him without words how much I want this, him. "Maybe," I breathe against his mouth. "But it's our madness."