Page 42 of The Darkest Gift

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. Hischest 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.

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