Page 7 of Take Her to the Grave

"Next?" His smile grows wider. "Next, I hunt you properly. Court you with darkness until you're mad with wanting it. Until you're willing to give up everything –light, life, safety – just to know what it feels like to truly belong to a monster."

A whimper escapes me – fear or desire, I'm not sure which. Perhaps both. His other hand slides into my hair, gripping gently but firmly enough to tilt my head back.

"I'm going to take you apart piece by piece," he continues, his voice hypnotic. "Break down every wall you've built, every defense, every illusion of safety. And when you're completely undone..." His lips brush my ear, making me shudder. "When you're desperate and aching and begging for the darkness... that's when I'll make you mine forever."

"You're trying to frighten me," I manage to say.

He laughs softly. "No, little ghost. I'm trying to warn you. This is your last chance to run."

Instead of answering, I reach up and touch his face. His skin is cool and smooth under my fingers, impossibly perfect. He goes very still at the contact, watching me with those ancient eyes.

The words I know I shouldn’t be saying come out in a whisper. “Maybe I'm tired of running.”

For a moment, something wild and hungry flashes across his face. Then he steps back, breaking contact so suddenly I sway on my feet.

"We'll see," he says, and his voice has returned to that cultured smoothness. "Sweet dreams, Elena. Write well."

Then he's gone, leaving me trembling and alone in my office. Only the lingering chill in the air and the black rose on my desk prove he was ever here at all.

I sink into my chair, breathing hard. What am I doing? What game am I playing with a creature who could kill me without a second thought? But even as these questions race through my mind, my fingers are already moving across the keyboard, desperate to capture every detail of our encounter while it's fresh.

Hours pass as I write, the sun eventually rising to find me still at my desk. When I finally pause to flex my cramping hands, I realize I've produced nearly fifty pages of raw, intense material. It's some of the best writing I've ever done.

Of course it is, I think with a mixture of hysteria and resignation.You're not writing fiction anymore. You're living it.

I drag myself upstairs to shower, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his touch. But as I'm drying off, I catch sight of something in the fogged mirror – words written in elegant script across the steamed glass:

Until tonight, little ghost.

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with being wet and cold. As I watch, the words fade like they were never there, leaving me to wonder if I imagined them. But I know I didn't. Just like I know, with bone-deep certainty, that my life has irrevocably changed.

I've spent years writing about women who dance with darkness. Now it's my turn to learn the steps.

Chapter Four

THE PREDATOR’S GAME

I've been staringat the gates of Ravencrest Cemetery for twenty minutes, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The sun has just set, painting the sky in shades of blood and shadow that seem entirely too appropriate for what I'm about to do.

This is insane, my rational mind protests.You're actually going back? Deliberately walking into a predator's lair?

But there's another voice in my head now – darker, more seductive. It whispers that I've already crossed a line from which there's no return. The moment I touched Torrin's face instead of running, I made my choice. Everything since then has just been pretense.

"Stop overthinking," I tell myself firmly. "You're here for research. Character development. Professional curiosity."

The lie sounds weak even to my own ears.

I've spent the past three days writing like a woman possessed, pouring out scene after scene of dark romance and forbidden desire. My editor would be thrilled – if I ever find the courage to show her the pages. But these words aren't meant for publication. They're too raw, too personal, too close to the terrifying truth of what's happening to me.

Taking a deep breath, I finally leave the safety of my car. The iron gates seem to welcome me now, their familiar creak almost inviting. The fog is already rolling in, right on cue, but it doesn't frighten me the way it did before. If anything, it feels like cominghome.

Listen to yourself, my inner voice scoffs.'Coming home' to a graveyard? You're losing your fucking mind, Elena.

Maybe I am. But as I walk the twisting paths between the stones, I feel more alive than I have in years. Every sense seems heightened – the whisper of wind through autumn leaves, the cool kiss of mist on my skin, the rich scent of earth and decay. I've written about moments like this dozens of times, but I never truly understood them until now.

My feet carry me automatically toward my parents' graves, but I catch myself halfway there. That's not why I'm here tonight. That's notwhoI'm here for.

"Where are you?" I whisper to the gathering darkness. "I know you're watching."

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