Page 23 of Silent Stalker

My breath catches. I shouldn't admit this, especially not with an active serial killer case, but something about Silas makes mewant to confess everything. "Yes. The power they hold shouldn't turn me on, but it does. The thought of being completely at their mercy..."

His grip tightens on my hip. "You want someone to strip away your control? Make you surrender?"

"God, yes." The words tumble out in a rush. "I watch those masked men videos and imagine being taken by someone like that. Someone who sees the darkness within and wants me anyway."

"And that's why you study killers?" His voice drops lower. "To understand your desires?"

I nod, unable to meet his eyes. "I thought if I could understand their psychology, maybe I could understand why I'm so drawn to that kind of danger; why normal relationships feel... empty."

His fingers slide into my hair, tugging my head back to meet his gaze. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the darkness, thriving in it even. Some of us are simply built differently."

My breath catches as Silas reaches into his pocket. The flash of white latex makes my knees weak—a Ghostface mask—the one I've watched countless times on TikTok.

"Is this what you like?" His voice drops an octave. "What do you think about when you touch yourself?"

"How did you..." The words stick in my throat. Heat floods between my legs at the sight of the mask dangling from his fingers.

"I pay attention." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "Want me to put it on?"

A whimper escapes me. My darkest fantasy stands before me, offered up like a gift. The rational part of my brain screams to stop because I barely know him. But my body responds on its own, arching toward him.

"Yes," I gasp. "Please."

His eyes darken with desire as he lifts the mask. The latex catches the dim light from my living room lamp. My heart pounds against my ribs as he slides it over his face, transforming into the figure from my midnight fantasies.

A moan slips past my lips. I can't believe this is happening. Can't believe he somehow knew exactly what I wanted.

"Is this what you imagined?" His voice comes muffled through the mask, sending shivers down my spine.

"Yes," I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away from the ghostly white face. My inhibitions crumble, replaced by raw need. "God, yes."

My breath catches as Silas's demeanor shifts. The playful tension evaporates, replaced by something darker and colder. His fingers dig into my hips, pressing me harder against the wall. Through the mask, his blue eyes turn ice cold.

"Partridge is your safe word," he whispers against my ear, making my skin prickle.

My pulse races, fear and arousal flooding my system. This isn't the charming man from the restaurant anymore. This is someone else entirely; dangerous, methodical, controlled.

His grip tightens, one hand sliding up to wrap around my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Possessing.

"I'm going to defile you, Clara." His voice comes low and dark through the mask. "Break down every wall you've built. Strip away that perfect facade until there's nothing left but ravenous need."

A whimper escapes my lips. My legs shake, my core clenching at his words. This is everything I've fantasized about—everything I've tried to suppress.

"By the time I'm done with you..." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "You'll never be satisfied with anything less than me again."

The clinical part of my brain tries to analyze this shift in his personality to categorize and understand it. But my body responds without rational thought, arching into his touch despite the scientific part of my brain screaming at me to run.

His fingers flex against my throat. "Are you ready to surrender to the darkness, Clara? To let me show you who you are?"

I'm ready to fall into the abyss. I've dreamed of this for so long, but as reality creeps closer, a sliver of fear pierces my chest. What if I can't handle it? What if?—

Silas reads my hesitation and lets out a groan that vibrates against my body, sending a bolt of desire straight between my legs. He slams me harder against the wall, our chests pressed together. It's the spark that ignites my surrender.

"Get on your knees." His tone turns dark; icey. His hands drop from my throat to my shoulders, fingers digging into me with a commanding force. "Be my good slut, and show me how much you want to be mine.”

A shiver runs through me, but it's not from fear. This is what I've wanted—what I've fantasized about. My hesitation isn't about backing out but about embracing the fantasy fully.

I open my mouth, not to agree but to deny him. "No," I whisper. It's a lie, but I want to play the role of the struggling victim, giving him a challenge.

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