Page 58 of Silent Stalker

“You’re asking me to abandon everything. My career, my father?—”

“I’m asking you to embrace who you truly are.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “The woman who gets excited by crime scenes and understands the artistry in death as much as I do.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. Before they connect the final pieces.”

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of his request. Everything I’ve built in New York, everything I am in this town—he’s asking me to walk away from it all.

“If I say no?”

“Then I disappear alone.” His grip tightens slightly. “And you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if you made the right choice, drowning in the mundane while craving the extraordinary.”

I press my forehead against Silas’s chest, inhaling his scent. That damning cologne that could lead James right to him. My fingers curl into his shirt as the weight of his request crashes over me.

“My whole life is in New York.” The words catch in my throat. “Everything I’ve built...”

“Is it everything?” His fingers thread through my hair. “Or is it just what you settled for?”

My job in the city flashes through my mind; the corner office I fought so hard for, the respect I’ve earned. All those years of study, of proving myself. But how much of that was real, and how much was a mask I wore to hide my true fascination with the darkness?

And Dad... My chest tightens. He barely recognizes me anymore. Our visits consist of blank stares and repeated stories. Sometimes, he calls me by Mom’s name. Growing up, he wasn’t there when I needed him, always buried in work or a bottle. Now he’s just... fading. The guilt of even considering leaving him burns in my throat.

“He’s all I have left,” I whisper against Silas’s shirt.

“Is he?” Silas’s hand slides down to grip my chin, tilting my face to his. “When was the last time he truly saw you? The real you?”

The truth stings. Dad never saw me—not when I was acing my psych classes, not when I graduated top of my class, not even when I got my first big case. He was physically present but mentally absent, lost in his world of regrets and whiskey.

“I don’t know if I can—” My voice breaks. The want is there, burning under my skin. The desire to run away with Silas, to embrace this darkness that’s always inside me. But years of conditioning, playing by the rules, being the good daughter and dedicated professional... they’re hard chains to break.

Silas’s thumb traces my bottom lip. “You can. You’re stronger than you think, Clara. Braver than you let yourself believe.”

I press my lips against his, desperate to silence the storm of thoughts in my head. His response is a deep growl that rumbles through his chest as his arms lock around me. My feet leave the ground as he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

The kiss deepens, his tongue claiming my mouth with possessive hunger. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

His fingers sear a trail of possession up my spine before tangling in my hair. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes me gasp. My head falls back, giving him better access.

“Mine,” he growls against my skin, teeth grazing my pulse point.

My body responds to his touch, to his dominance, with a rush of heat. I rock against him, seeking friction, needing more. His grip on my thigh tightens in warning, making me whimper.

He captures my mouth again, this time with bruising force. This kiss has no gentleness—all teeth, tongue, and desperate need. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt as he presses me against the wall.

The hard planes of his body pin me in place as he devours my mouth. I taste blood—mine or his, I’m not sure. It only adds to the intoxicating blend of danger and desire that always surrounds us.

His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher. His touch burns, marking me, claiming me. Each brush of his fingers leaves trails of fire in their wake.

I break the kiss, gasping for air. His eyes meet mine and they're dark with desire, sparkling with something wilder, something that should terrify me but only makes me want him more. I recognize that look—I've studied it in case files,seen it in interview rooms. But experiencing it, craving it, is different. In my line of work, we form profound connections in moments of intensity. We dive deep into the darkest parts of humanity without hesitation, because sometimes that's what the job demands. Time stretches and contracts like a living thing, warping around the gravity of each case, each revelation.

"Please, Silas. Fuck me." The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. We're teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that mirrors the intensity of my work—where a single moment can reveal everything about a person's psyche, where understanding comes in lightning flashes rather than gradual revelations. My career has taught me that the most significant moments happen in the blink of an eye—a killer's confession, a victim's breakthrough, a profound understanding of the darkness within. This feels just as natural, just as inevitable.

His eyes glitter with that feverish intensity I've come to crave. He backs me against the hallway wall again, one hand pressing against my throat, not enough to choke but enough to remind me of his strength. I should be thinking about my career, my reputation, but when you spend your life analyzing the darkest human impulses, conventional boundaries blur. Time becomes meaningless in the face of such raw connection, and right now, years of professional experience are collapsing into this single, burning moment with him.

“Please, what, Clara?” His voice rumbles against my lips.

“I need you inside me.” I bite my lip, knowing he can sense my urgency.

---