4. Silas

4

SILAS

I cradle the cup between my palms, savoring the bitter taste of black coffee while watching the officers mill around the crime scene. My masterpiece. The bustle of shoppers adds a delightful backdrop to my stage.

A flash of golden hair catches my eye. Clara. My pulse quickens as she approaches the cafe, her curves accentuated by her fitted blazer. Such beauty should be preserved, molded, and shaped into something greater.

She heads to the counter and orders her drink. I time my movements perfectly, rising as she turns from the counter with her drink. Our bodies collide. Hot liquid splashes across her chest, and she gasps. The sound sends electricity through my veins.

“I’m so sorry.” My voice drips with concern as I grab napkins. “Please, let me help.” My fingers brush against her collarbone as I dab at the stain, feeling her warmth beneath the fabric.

“It’s okay.” Her green eyes meet mine, and I see it—that flicker of attraction, the way her pupils dilate. She’s already mine; she doesn’t know it yet.

“I insist on buying you another drink. It’s the least I can do.” I flash my most disarming smile, which I’ve perfected over years of blending in. “I’m Silas.”

“Clara.” She absently fixes her hair, unaware of how that simple movement feeds the predator inside me, desperate to seize control.

“What were you drinking? I’ll replace it right away.” I guide her back to the counter, my hand hovering near the small of her back. The proximity intoxicates me. Her scent—vanilla and something uniquely her—fills my senses.

She shifts closer, unconsciously seeking my touch. How perfect she is, how ready for corruption. Each breath she takes, each flutter of her lashes, confirms what I already know—she’s meant to be my masterpiece, my greatest work.

“A vanilla latte,” she says, and I can hear the slight tremor in her voice.

If only she knew the thoughts racing through my mind while I order her drink. The things I want to do to her. The ways I’ll make her bloom into her true self.

I hand Clara her fresh drink, watching her delicate fingers wrap around the cup.

“Would you care to join me? I’ve been sitting alone, and company would be welcome.”

She hesitates, but I notice how her body leans toward mine. Prey always gives these subtle signals before they submit.

“Sure, why not?” She follows me to a corner table, away from prying eyes.

“Terrible business, these murders.” I gesture toward the crime scene, tape visible through the window. My masterpiece lies just beyond, growing cold. “Especially during Christmas.”

“You heard about that?” Her shoulders tense.

“It’s all over the news.” I take a slow sip of my coffee, remembering the exquisite moment when life drained from my victims’ eyes. The way their blood painted crimson rivers in the snow. “The Christmas Reaper, they’re calling him.”

“They shouldn’t give killers names like that. The Christmas Reaper is ridiculous.”

I suppress a smile. If she only knew how much pleasure it brings me to hear my title on her lips. “You seem knowledgeable about this sort of thing.”

“I’m a forensic psychologist.” She tucks that loose strand of hair again. I imagine wrapping her locks around my fist to guide her movements.

“Fascinating. You must have unique insights into the killer’s mind.” My heart races at the game we’re playing—hunter and hunted, sharing coffee while she remains oblivious to the blood on my hands. Not literally, of course; I always wear gloves.

“It’s complicated.” She shifts in her seat.

“I imagine he must feel powerful.” The memory of their final breaths sends a delicious shiver down my spine. “To play God like that.”

I lean forward, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. My cock stiffens as I imagine marking that delicate skin, claiming every inch of her body as mine.

“Have dinner with me tonight, Clara.”

She bites her lower lip, and I picture those teeth drawing blood. “I don’t usually date strangers.”

A laugh escapes me. If only she knew how long I’d watched, studied, and memorized every detail of her existence. “Strange men are often the most fun. Besides, aren’t you curious?”

Her private moments of pleasure replay in my mind—those desperate touches as she watches masked figures online, each moan feeding the beast that will claim her. Such a dirty girl, pretending to be so proper in public.

“I suppose...” She traces the rim of her cup, and my dick throbs imagining those fingers wrapped around me instead.

“Life’s too short to play it safe.” I know exactly how short it can be. The couple at the mall learned that lesson. “Let me show you something different.”

Her pupils dilate. The same way they do when she’s alone in her room, writhing against her fingers. “Different can be dangerous.”

“Isn’t that what makes it exciting?” I shift in my seat, adjusting myself discreetly. The urge to bend her over this table and take her in front of everyone burns through me. “You strike me as someone who craves a little danger.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks. She has no idea how beautiful she’ll look covered in someone else’s. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I know I am.” Like I know how she sounds when she comes, how her back arches off the bed, how she begs those masked strangers through her screen.

“Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.” I slide a napkin with my number across the table, my fingers lingering near hers. “Text me your address.”

“I can meet you there.” Clara’s resistance only fuels my desire. Even now, she tries to maintain control.

“I insist.” My tone brooks no argument. “A proper date deserves a proper gentleman.”

She takes the napkin, her fingers trembling slightly. “Okay. Eight it is.”

My cock throbs as I watch her walk away, her hips swaying. The memory of her touching herself floods my mind—how she spreads her legs, how she moans for those masked men in her videos. Tonight, I’ll be close enough to smell her arousal to see if reality matches my surveillance.

I head out of the mall and back to the parking lot. Once back in my car, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The anticipation burns through my veins. I’ve orchestrated everything perfectly—from our “accidental” meeting to her inevitable surrender. But I know Clara. She’ll resist giving in completely, at least at first. Her proper facade won’t crumble in one night.

I meet my gaze in the rear-view mirror, admiring how well I’ve crafted this facade of humanity. My blue eyes darken with desire. Tonight, I’ll give her a taste of what she craves. I’ll push her boundaries just enough to leave her wanting more. Make her think about me when she’s alone with her toys.

My phone buzzes with her address as if I didn’t know exactly where she lives, which window faces east, and how the moonlight spills across her bed at night.

I type back: “Looking forward to it.”

Four simple words make my pulse race because I know what’s coming, how she’ll respond to my touch, and how her breath will catch when I lean in close. I’ve studied her long enough to predict her every reaction.

But I’ll have to be patient. Can’t rush this part of the game. Clara needs to feel safe before she’ll let her guard down completely. Before she’ll let me show her who she really is.