25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Iris

I hang up the phone with an irritated huff, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room. Detective Reeves' incessant questions and theories grate on my last nerve. As if I have any special insight into why the abductions suddenly stopped at six women. I'm psychotic, not psychic.

My gaze drifts to the ornate silver tray on the kitchen counter, laden with a carefully prepared breakfast for our guest. Fresh fruit glistens with moisture, arranged in an artful pattern around a small bowl of Greek yogurt. A croissant, still warm from the oven, nestles next to a tiny pot of homemade raspberry jam. The delicate china cup steams gently, the rich aroma of coffee wafting through the air.

All of it growing cold as I waste time on pointless phone calls.

I drum my perfectly manicured nails against the marble countertop, impatience thrumming through my veins. The memory of Mason's goodbye kiss lingers on my lips, a promise of darker pleasures to come. But for now, I have Elijah all to myself, and I'm itching to return to him.

My mind drifts to our captive, imagining him spread out on the St. Andrew's cross, his golden skin glistening with sweat. I picture the way his muscles strain against the restraints, the defiant glint in those icy blue eyes even as his body betrays him with its responses to our touch.

A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine as I recall Mason's whispered parting words. The drug he administered should be in full effect by now, leaving Elijah a writhing, needy mess. The thought of him desperate and aching, completely at my mercy, sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.

I smooth down my silk robe, adjusting the sash to ensure it falls just so, hinting at the lacy lingerie beneath. With practiced ease, I lift the breakfast tray and make my way towards the stairs, my steps quickening with each passing moment.

As I ascend, my mind races with possibilities. How will I find him? Will he be straining against his bonds, desperate for any kind of touch? Or perhaps he'll have retreated into himself, trying to fight the effects of the drug through sheer force of will?

Either way, I look forward to breaking him down, piece by exquisite piece.

"Oh, Elijah," I purr, halfway up the stairs. "I hope you're hungry..."

The words die on my lips as a figure steps into view at the top of the stairs. My breath catches and my steps freeze. Elijah stands there, his hands wrapped tightly around two of our knives.

He looks feral, his golden skin glistening with a sheen of sweat in the soft morning light filtering through the windows. His chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths, every muscle taut and trembling. The drug is clearly still raging through his system—his pupils are blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of icy blue around the edges. His cock stands out proudly, angry red and weeping, a testament to the potency of the aphrodisiac.

But it's his eyes that truly capture my attention. Gone is the playful defiance, the sardonic wit we've come to expect. In its place is something wild, dangerous, predatory. A psychotic gleam dances in those blue depths. I’ve seen the same look in Mason’s eyes, it sends a chill down my spine even as heat pools low in my belly.

The knives in his hands catch the light as he shifts his stance, the razor-sharp blades promising exquisite pain. I should be terrified. I should be calling for help, running away, doing anything but standing here frozen in place. But all I can feel is a heady rush of excitement and arousal.

"You know," Elijah says, his voice a dangerous growl that barely sounds human, "I was fine with letting you destroy my own Christmas plans because you're both hot as fuck and it's actually been fun. I didn't even mind the drug."

He takes a step down towards me, movements fluid and predatory despite his obvious arousal. "But knowing you plan to kill me?" A feral grin spreads across his face, all teeth and no warmth. "That changes things."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "Elijah," I start, shaking my head, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture of one knife.

"No," he snarls. "No more games. No more pretending."

He descends another step, and I find myself backing away instinctively. The breakfast tray trembles in my hands, china rattling ominously.

"Did you really think," Elijah continues, his voice dropping to a seductive purr that sends shivers racing down my spine, "that you were the only monsters in this house?"

Another step down. Another step back for me.

"You see," Elijah purrs, continuing his slow descent down the stairs, "I had it all planned out. Twelve women, one for each day of Christmas. I'd spent weeks—no, months—meticulously plotting every detail."

He pauses, a twisted smile playing at his lips. "Do you know how hard it is to find twelve women who fit the exact specifications I needed? The right height, build, hair color... it was like putting together the world's most fucked up puzzle."

I take another step back, my heart racing.

"I had six of them already," Elijah continues, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "Hidden away, waiting for their moment in the spotlight. And then suddenly, I wake up here, strapped to your wall like some kind of demented Christmas ornament."

He lets out a bark of laughter, the sound sharp and unhinged. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The masterpiece you've interrupted?"

I shake my head mutely, unable to form words as the full impact of his revelation washes over me.

"Picture it," Elijah says, his eyes gleaming with manic excitement. "Christmas Eve. The town fucking square. A tree made entirely of bodies, artfully arranged and decorated with pretty little twinkling lights. Twelve women, frozen in various poses of terror and agony, creating the most macabre Christmas display this godforsaken town has ever seen."

He sighs wistfully, twirling one of the knives between his fingers with practiced ease. "It would have been beautiful. A true work of art."

I can't help the shudder that runs through me at his words. The image he paints is horrifying, yet I find myself morbidly fascinated and turned on by the depth of his depravity.

"But you know what?" Elijah says, taking another step closer. "I was willing to let it go. To forgive you for ruining my plans. Because this?" He gestures between us with one of the knives. "This has been fun. More fun than I've had in years, if I'm being honest."

He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, see the fine tremors running through his muscles as he fights against the drug's effects.

"The games, the pain, the pleasure," he continues, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "It's been exquisite. You and Mason... you understand. You see the beauty in the darkness, just like I do."

"But then I heard Mason's little comment about dead men telling no tales," he growls, all pretense of playfulness vanishing. "And well, that just won't do. I have no intention of becoming just another nameless victim in your twisted game."

He takes another step down.

"Oh, Iris. Yes, I am hungry. I'm absolutely famished," he croons, using my own words against me.

Elijah suddenly lunges at me with inhuman speed, his eyes wild and feral. I drop the breakfast tray with a resounding crash, fine china shattering across the marble floor as I turn and flee. My heart pounds in my chest as I race down the rest of the stairs, bare feet slapping against the cool marble.

I can hear Elijah behind me, his ragged breathing and heavy footfalls spurring me on. The drug may have heightened his arousal to unbearable levels, but it's also given him a manic energy that makes him terrifyingly fast.

I dart through the foyer, knocking over an antique vase in my haste. It explodes into a shower of porcelain shards and Elijah curses as he stumbles over the debris, buying me precious seconds.

I race down the hallway towards my study where I know I have a weapon, my silk robe billowing behind me like wings. As I round the corner, the delicate fabric catches on a protruding door hinge. There's a heart-stopping moment of resistance before the robe tears away completely, leaving me clad only in the lacy black lingerie I'd chosen to tease Elijah with.

The cool air kisses my exposed skin, sending goosebumps racing across my flesh. I can hear Elijah's appreciative growl, the sound sending an inappropriate jolt of heat straight to my core.

"Oh, Iris," he calls out, his voice a dangerous purr. "You shouldn't have dressed up just for me."

I risk a glance over my shoulder and immediately regret it. Elijah is closer than I thought. As he rounds the corner, his shoulder clips the doorframe. One of the knives goes flying, skittering across the polished floor and disappearing under a nearby cabinet.

For a split second, relief floods through me. But then I see the way Elijah's grip tightens on the remaining blade, the manic gleam in his eyes intensifying. He's down to one weapon, but somehow that only makes him more dangerous.

I push myself harder, legs burning as I sprint towards the study. If I can just make it there, lock the door behind me...

But Elijah is too fast, too driven by the cocktail of drugs and adrenaline coursing through his system. Just as my fingers brush the doorknob of the study, I feel his body slam into mine from behind.

We go down hard, the impact driving the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. Elijah's weight pins me to the floor, his heated skin searing against my back. I can feel every hard plane of his body, every trembling muscle. His cock, still achingly hard from the drug, presses insistently against my ass.

In one fluid motion, Elijah flips me onto my back, straddling my hips in a single, powerful movement. The knife gleams wickedly in the soft light filtering through the hallway windows as he brings it to rest against my throat. The cold steel kisses my skin, sending a shiver through my body that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a twisted sort of arousal.

Elijah looms over me, his body a furnace of heat and barely contained energy. Sweat glistens on his golden skin, highlighting the cut of his muscles and the angry red marks left by us last night. His chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths, each exhale ghosting across my face. The scent of him—an intoxicating blend of masculine musk, soap, and something purely him—fills my senses.

I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us. The weight of him pressing me into the cool marble floor. The trembling muscles of his thighs as they bracket my hips. The insistent pressure of his cock, rock-hard and leaking, against my stomach. The sharp edge of the blade resting in the hollow of my throat, a hair's breadth away from drawing blood.

Elijah's eyes lock onto mine, a maelstrom of emotions swirling in those icy blue depths. The feral hunger is still there, burning bright and hot, but behind it I can finally see the true predator lurking. The mask has slipped completely now, revealing the cold, calculating killer beneath.

The knife at my throat doesn't waver, but neither does it press deeper.

"You know," he says, his voice rough and strained, "in another life, this could have been so different. We could have met under normal circumstances—exactly like we did at the gala, perhaps. I was drawn to you immediately, captivated by your beauty and that dangerous glint in your eye."

A wistful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "We would have danced, flirted, played our little games of seduction. Spent our days in bed together—consensually for a change. I could have even stalked you a little. And then, when the moment was right, I would have revealed my true nature to you. Shown you the darkness that lurks beneath this carefully crafted exterior."

His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, the touch surprisingly gentle. "And you, my dear Iris, you would have understood. You and Mason both. Because you're just like me, aren't you? Monsters wearing human skin, reveling in the shadows while the rest of the world remains blissfully ignorant."

Elijah's thumb traces my bottom lip, his touch feather-light. "We fit together so perfectly," he murmurs. "The three of us. It's almost poetic, isn't it? A trio of beautiful, brilliant psychopaths, ready to paint the world red."

I feel the sharp edge of the blade press ever-so-slightly harder against my throat as Elijah leans in closer. His breath ghosts across my lips, warm and inviting. For a moment, I think he might kiss me.

But then, suddenly, Elijah goes very still. His eyes widen fractionally, and I feel rather than see the new tension in his body. A bead of blood drips down on me from his own throat.

"Well now," Mason's low voice cuts through the suddenly tense silence. "This is quite the predicament we find ourselves in."