Page 16 of Silent Stalker

“Let me put these in water,” she says, retreating into her house.

I follow, uninvited. I track her to the kitchen. She has a vase ready next to the one holding my previous bouquet. Those flowers are still fresh, perfectly preserved, just like my victims.

“You kept the others.” Pride swells in my chest. She’s learning to appreciate my gifts, even if she doesn’t understand their significance.

“Yes, well...” She busies herself with the vase, avoiding my gaze. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

Poor Clara is so conflicted by her attraction to darkness. I’ll help her embrace it.

I guide Clara to my car, savoring how her curves are so perfectly framed in her dress. The memory of my latest victims in their choir robes floods my mind, but I push it aside. Tonight requires focus.

“I made reservations at Antonio’s,” I say, opening her door. Her eyes light up—exactly the reaction I anticipated after tracking her credit card purchases for months. The small pizzeria appears in her bank statements anytime she visits her dad.

“That’s my favorite place.” She slides into the leather seat, her dress riding up her thigh. “How did you know?”

I shrug, circling to the driver’s side. “Lucky guess.”

The drive takes seven minutes. I count each second, measuring her breathing against the ticking of my watch. She fidgets with her purse strap—a sign of excitement rather than nervousness. That’s good. The fear can come later.

Antonio’s glows warm against the winter night, strings of white lights framing the windows. Clara practically bounces in her seat as we park. Such innocent enthusiasm. It would be touching if I were capable of being touched.

The hostess leads us to a corner booth—the one I specifically requested for its poor surveillance camera coverage. Clara doesn’t notice how I position myself to block the camera’s view of her face. She’s too busy scanning the menu she surely knows by heart.

“I can’t believe you chose this place,” she says. “Most guys try to impress with fancy restaurants.”

“I prefer authenticity.” The word tastes like ash in my mouth. “Besides, the best conversations happen over comfort food.”

She beams at me, unaware I’ve orchestrated every moment of this evening. Being here at her favorite restaurant and booth is all by my design. My chest tightens with anticipation. Soon, she’ll understand how perfectly we fit together, how I can satisfy the darkness she tries to deny.

The waiter approaches, and Clara orders her usual Margherita pizza without looking at the menu. Just as I knew she would.

The waiter brings our wine. Her lipstick leaves a perfect crimson mark on the glass—like the stains my victims leave behind.

I slide closer to Clara, the leather booth creaking beneath me. Her perfume fills my nostrils—vanilla and jasmine, pure temptation. The candlelight dances across her face as she takes another sip of wine, her third glass. The alcohol has painted her cheeks a delightful shade of pink.

“You seem tense.” I rest my hand on the booth behind her shoulders, not quite touching. “Long day at work?”

She shifts, her thigh brushing against mine. The contact sends electricity through my veins. “Just... complicated cases.”

“Ah yes, your fascinating work.” I lean in, dropping my voice. “Tell me, Clara, what draws you to study the minds of killers?”

Her breath catches. I watch her pupils dilate, drinking in the sight of her arousal warring with unease. Perfect.

“I...” She wets her lips. “Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me. The way I’m drawn to darkness.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” I trace my finger along the rim of my wine glass. “We all have shadows inside us. Some of us just aren’t afraid to look deeper.”

Clara turns toward me, our faces inches apart. “And what about your shadows, Silas?”

I cup her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my thumb. “Oh, sweetheart, my shadows would devour you whole.”

She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, proving every calculation I’ve made about her correct. The waiter approaches with our food, and I reluctantly release her, though I keep my thigh pressed firmly against hers.

“Maybe I want to be devoured,” she whispers so quietly I almost miss it.

My fingers twitch with the urge to wrap around her throat again.

A flush creeps up her neck, spreading across her skin like a fever. My thumb moves to her pulse point, feeling her erratic heartbeat. I want to press harder—to feel her fragile and fleeting life pulse against my fingers. Instead, I trace the delicate arch of her jaw, my fingertips skimming her skin.

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