35. Clara

35

CLARA

I stretch in the enormous bed, my hand reaching across to find empty sheets where Silas should be. The mountain cabin’s massive windows frame a pristine blanket of snow outside, sparkling under the morning sun. It’s Christmas morning—my first real Christmas.

The silk sheets feel like heaven against my bare skin as I sit up, taking in the rustic yet luxurious room. Cedar beams cross the vaulted ceiling and a stone fireplace crackles with fresh logs. The scent of coffee and something sweet drifts up from downstairs.

My feet sink into the plush carpet as I pad to the window. The view takes my breath away. Endless white-capped peaks stretch to the horizon, completely isolated from civilization. There are no sirens, no police, and no James looking at me with betrayal in his eyes.

“Silas?” I call out, wrapping myself in one of his discarded shirts. It still holds his scent, making my pulse quicken.

A clatter from downstairs breaks my reverie. Part of me wants to run down and find him, but I take my time. This moment feels precious and surreal. After years of empty Christmases spent analyzing crime scenes or sitting beside my father’s chair in the care home, I’m finally experiencing what others take for granted.

The tree he had decorated before we arrived sparkles in the corner. My fingers trace the delicate silver turtle dove necklace he gave me, remembering how this all started.

A log shifts in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Outside, fresh snow begins to fall, adding to our isolation. The irony doesn’t escape me—that I find my sanctuary in a predator’s arms, my liberation in submission, and understanding in the eyes of a killer.

The smell of cinnamon grows stronger, along with the sound of movement downstairs. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since our hasty diner escape yesterday.

I descend the wooden staircase, each step creaking beneath my feet. The aroma of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls grows stronger, pulling me toward the open-concept kitchen.

My breath catches at the sight before me. Silas stands at the stove in nothing but a black apron and tight boxer briefs, his muscles rippling as he flips what looks like French toast. Steam rises from a nearby coffee pot and fresh fruit glistens in crystal bowls on the granite counter.

He turns at my approach and my heart skips. That smile, so genuine, so warm, transforms his entire face. Flour dusts his dark hair, and a batter spot marks his cheek. He looks... normal. Domestic. Beautiful.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” His voice carries a familiar depth that makes my skin tingle. “And Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” I murmur, leaning against the doorframe, taking in this surreal scene. This man has killed people. Arranged their bodies in artistic displays. Stalked me. Watched me through my computer. Yet here he is, making me breakfast on Christmas morning like we’re a normal couple.

Have I lost my mind? The thought hits me hard as I watch him plate the French toast with precise movements. Those same hands that wielded knives now sprinkle powdered sugar with careful attention. Those eyes that watched victims take their last breaths now crinkle with joy as they meet mine.

The scariest part? I don’t care. The woman I was before, the forensic psychologist who analyzed killers, who helped catch them, seems like a stranger now. That Clara would be horrified by my choices. But that Clara never felt this complete, this understood.

“Coffee’s ready,” Silas says. He pours two mugs, adding cream to mine just how I like it. When did he learn that detail about me? During all those nights of watching? I should find that disturbing, but instead, it makes me feel seen. Known.

The mug warms my hands as Silas closes the distance between us. His fingers thread through my messy bed hair, tilting my head back. His lips capture mine in a deep, consuming kiss that makes my toes curl against the hardwood floor. The coffee nearly slips from my grasp, but he steadies it without breaking contact.

When he pulls back, his blue eyes darken with desire. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

I laugh, gesturing at my disheveled state, his wrinkled shirt hanging off one shoulder, my hair a tangled mess, face bare of any makeup. “I literally just rolled out of bed and came to find you.”

His thumb traces my bottom lip. “You always look fucking gorgeous.” The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. “Especially like this, wearing my clothes, sleep-soft and natural.”

The honesty in his voice makes my cheeks flush. Here I am, completely undone, and he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not the polished professional I used to be or the carefully curated image I maintained. Just me, stripped of all pretense.

His hand slides down my neck, fingertips ghosting over the marks he left the other night. The touch sends shivers through my body, and I lean into him, craving more contact.

The warmth of his touch lingers as he guides me to the kitchen island. My bare feet swing from the barstool while he slides a plate of French toast in front of me, garnished with fresh berries and a dusting of powdered sugar.

“Eat first. Then we’ll open your gifts.”

My fork clatters against the plate. Gifts. My stomach twists. In the chaos of our escape, the manhunt, the desperate flight to freedom, I hadn’t even thought about?—

“Silas, I...” The words stick in my throat. “I didn’t get you anything. I’m so sorry, I?—”

He cuts me off with a finger to my lips. His blue eyes capture mine, intense and sincere. “Clara.” The way he says my name makes my skin tingle. “You’ve given me the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “You. Your trust.” He steps closer, pressing between my knees. “Your willingness to leave everything behind and choose this life with me.”

My chest tightens at his words. After years of hiding my fascinations, of pretending to be normal, of analyzing killers instead of admitting my attraction to them, here I am. Seen. Understood. Accepted.

“But that’s not really a gift,” I protest weakly, leaning into his touch.

“Isn’t it?” His other hand slides up my thigh beneath his borrowed shirt. “You’ve given me something I never thought possible. Someone who understands the beauty in darkness. Someone who doesn’t flinch away from what I am.” His fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh, making me shiver. “Someone who sees the monster and chooses to stay.”

I kiss him, pouring all my gratitude and affection into it. His hands tighten on my thighs, but he breaks away with a groan.

“Eat your breakfast,” he commands, voice rough. “Then meet me in the living room.”

The French toast melts in my mouth, perfectly crispy on the outside and tender within. Each bite reminds me of mornings rushing through drive-throughs or skipping breakfast to get to crime scenes. Watching snowflakes dance outside while savoring homemade food, I feel a peace I’ve never known.

I take my time, knowing Silas wants me to actually eat rather than rush through it. The coffee is perfect, too, rich and smooth with just the right amount of cream. He’s paid attention to every detail, just like he pays attention to everything about me.

The domesticity of it all should feel strange, given who we are and what we’ve done. Instead, it feels right, natural, like finally stepping into a role I was always meant to play.

When I finish the last bite, I rinse my plate and place it in the dishwasher. Such a normal action in such an extraordinary situation. But that’s what I love about this; the blend of ordinary and extraordinary, comfort and danger.

I pad toward the living room, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The Christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and wrapped presents wait beneath it. Being looked after like this and having someone anticipate my needs and wants is entirely new to me. After years of being the caretaker, the professional, the responsible one, letting someone else take control feels like freedom.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me. Silas has built up the fire, and morning light streams through the windows, catching the silver ornaments on the tree. He’s waiting for me, and for once in my life, I don’t have to pretend to be anyone but exactly who I am.

I approach Silas by the tree, his blue eyes glinting with that familiar calculated intensity. My heart races at his predatory stillness, the way he tracks my every movement. I notice the neatly wrapped presents beneath the tree, some large, some small, all meticulously wrapped.

“Open them,” he commands softly.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the first box. It’s a beautiful leather-bound journal with my initials embossed in silver. The pages are thick, high-quality paper perfect for case notes and psychological profiles.

“For your observations,” he explains. “I know how much you love analyzing behavior.”

The next gift is a vintage psychology textbook—a first-edition Freud that makes my academic heart skip. Each present shows how deeply he understands me; how carefully he studies my interests and desires.

A larger box contains what appears to be some kind of costume. I recognize the mask immediately—it’s Ghost from Call of Duty. The tactical gear looks authentic, and my pulse quickens as I realize his intentions.

“For our special games,” he says with a knowing smile that makes me shiver.

The pile of ripped wrapping paper grows at my feet. Silas watches, his eyes full of heat. Earlier, he mentioned something about “special games.” Now, his vision unfolds, gift by gift.

I lift the next box, heavy in my hands. The paper comes off to reveal a selection of erotically-shaped items. My breath hitches at the sight of anal beads, gags, vibrators, lube, and dildos of various shapes and sizes. Silas’s eyes sparkle with mischief and hunger, making my core clench.

“So, what do you think?” His voice is a deep rumble.

I run my fingers over the cold metal gag and the soft silicone of the dildos. “I think you’re planning to keep me very busy,” I say.

I can feel Silas’s eyes on me like a physical touch as I take in the array of toys laid on the soft rug before us. A surge of heat washes over my body. The man knows me too well. “Definitely. I think you’ll enjoy everything I plan on doing to you, baby.”

I let my gaze linger on the paddle with the soft, padded center. The truth is, I’m aching to explore this side of myself with him. All those years spent lurking in the shadows of my desires, and now I can finally step into the light, without fear of being judged.

Silas groans and rubs his dick, which is straining in a pair of gray sweatpants he changed into.

I wet my lips, feeling my desire pool between my thighs. “Am I really?”

He stands and walks closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “You have no idea, baby.”

My pulse quickens at his words. I know he’s planning to corrupt me, to push the boundaries of my sanity, and damn if that isn’t the most thrilling prospect I’ve ever faced. The thought of exploring my darkest fantasies with him, of surrendering control and seeing where he takes me, it makes my head spin.

I gasp as Silas lifts me over his shoulder, his firm grip secure around my legs. The blood rushes to my head as he bends to collect the box of presents with his free hand. My hair cascades down, swaying with his purposeful strides toward the staircase.

“Time to unwrap my Christmas gift,” he says, his voice deep with anticipation.

The wooden steps creak beneath his feet, and I grasp his shirt for balance, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath. The scent of his skin fills my senses—cedar and something uniquely him.

“I can walk, you know,” I protest half-heartedly, though my heart races.

“And risk you running away?” His hand squeezes my thigh playfully. “Not a chance, Dr. Hart.”

The formal title sends a shiver through me. He knows exactly what that does to me, how it reminds me of my carefully constructed former life, now gleefully abandoned.

We reach the bedroom, sunlight still streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Snow continues to fall outside, creating a white cocoon separating us from the rest of the world. Up here in our mountain sanctuary, we exist in our own universe.