Page 32 of Silent Stalker

She pauses outside her father’s room and red blooms across her cheeks. She’s thinking about last night, too. My cock pulses in response, and I curse under my breath. This woman will be my undoing if I’m not careful.

Watching her soft smile as she chats with the old man irritates me further. Her full red lips part as she laughs at something he says. That mouth, those sounds she made last night...

I undo my belt, freeing myself from the confines of my pants. My breath quickens as I stroke my length, watching her. Her innocence at this moment, the sweet tenderness with her father, only makes the contrast to our dark encounter that much more arousing.

I imagine her back arching in pleasure as I stand behind her, one hand on her throat and the other guiding my shaft into her cunt.

She crosses her legs, drawing my attention to the curve of her calves and the flawless skin above her knee-high boots. My thumb smears pre-cum over the tip, and I wish it was her tongue.

The need to have her again, to mark every inch of that smooth skin, overwhelms me. I’ll give her the scars she craves because I want her walking around with constant reminders of me.

Her head tilts back, exposing her slender neck, and my free hand curls into a fist, imagining squeezing her throat as I thrust into her. The thought of her desperate for air, but choosing my cock instead makes my stomach clench.

My hand moves faster, and I dig my teeth into my lip to muffle a groan. Clara’s face swims before my eyes, her flush, the way she bites her lip when she comes...

My orgasm hits, and I bite down harder to stifle my roar of release. Letting go of my shaft, I reach for a nearby tissue, cleaning myself. My breath is ragged, the ache in my balls a sweet satisfaction.

I lean back, eyes drifting to the screen where Clara remains, oblivious, chatting with her father. If she knew I was watching, how I was watching... A shudder moves through me at the possibilities.

For now, I’ll let her have this moment of peace. But soon, very soon, she’ll be mine again, writhing beneath me, our sweaty bodies moving in perfect sync. The memory of her pleasure-wracked face will fuel my fantasies until then.

I tap through the social media profiles of Evergreen Falls residents, frustration building with each swipe. The town’s population dwindles by the day as people flee from my Christmas gifts to Clara. Those who remain hardly qualify as worthy sacrifices.

I absently beat out my anxiety on the steering wheel, eyes locked on the YMCA’s entrance as I pass. The “Winter Swim Program” banner catches my eye. For some reason, I’m drawn inside. Pulling into the parking lot, I head in to scope it out.

Inside, middle-aged women splash through their morning aerobics class. Pathetic. None of them deserve the artistry I bring to death.

The indoor pool’s chlorine smell hits my nose as I walk the perimeter, pretending to check membership rates. A lifeguard whistles at kids running on wet tiles. Some teenage girls giggle in the shallow end. A swim coach barks instructions at the competitive team.

Then I spot her—Sandra Mills. She stands at the pool’s edge, screaming at a crying child who can’t get his breathing right.

“You’re worthless,” she snaps. “Get out of my pool.”

The boy scrambles out, tears mixing with pool water. Sandra’s face twists with disgust as she turns to berate her next victim.

My pulse quickens. Seven swans a-swimming. The symbolism clicks perfectly. Sandra will make a stunning addition to my collection. I picture her body floating face-down, arranged with six dead swans in the formation of Cygnus—the swan constellation.

Sandra’s cruelty has earned her the starring role. I leave the pool area, already planning the details. The chlorine will help mask certain evidence. And I know just the abandoned warehouse with a deep enough water tank to stage my scene.

Seven swans a-swimming. Clara will appreciate the astronomical reference when she sees it. Her brilliant mind will make the connection immediately.

My phone buzzes—a text from Clara. But I force myself to focus. I can’t let my obsession with her distract from the artistry of tonight’s performance. Sandra Mills has an appointment with death, and I intend to make it spectacular.

17

CLARA

The shrill ring of my phone pierces the silence. My hands shake as I check the caller ID.

“Clara, we’ve got another one.” James’s voice is tight. “Six swans arranged around the body in a tank of water.”

My stomach lurches. “Text me the address.”

I grab my coat and keys and rush toward the door. The handle turns, and I slam straight into a solid wall of muscle. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Whoa there.” Silas’s hands steady me, his touch sending electricity through my veins. Those glacier-blue eyes seize mine, a hint of darkness swimming in their depths. “Where are you running off to at this hour?”

The bruises from last night throb beneath my clothes. I struggle to form words, caught between the crime scene and his magnetic pull.

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