Page 80 of Silent Stalker

My breath catches at the sight before me. Silas stands at the stove in nothing but a black apron and tight boxer briefs, his muscles rippling as he flips what looks like French toast. Steam rises from a nearby coffee pot and fresh fruit glistens in crystal bowls on the granite counter.

He turns at my approach and my heart skips. That smile, so genuine, so warm, transforms his entire face. Flour dusts his dark hair, and a batter spot marks his cheek. He looks... normal. Domestic. Beautiful.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” His voice carries a familiar depth that makes my skin tingle. “And Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” I murmur, leaning against the doorframe, taking in this surreal scene. This man has killed people. Arranged their bodies in artistic displays. Stalked me. Watched me through my computer. Yet here he is, making me breakfast on Christmas morning like we’re a normal couple.

Have I lost my mind? The thought hits me hard as I watch him plate the French toast with precise movements. Those same hands that wielded knives now sprinkle powdered sugar with careful attention. Those eyes that watched victims take their last breaths now crinkle with joy as they meet mine.

The scariest part? I don’t care. The woman I was before, the forensic psychologist who analyzed killers, who helped catch them, seems like a stranger now. That Clara would be horrified by my choices. But that Clara never felt this complete, this understood.

“Coffee’s ready,” Silas says. He pours two mugs, adding cream to mine just how I like it. When did he learn that detail about me? During all those nights of watching? I should find that disturbing, but instead, it makes me feel seen. Known.

The mug warms my hands as Silas closes the distance between us. His fingers thread through my messy bed hair, tilting my head back. His lips capture mine in a deep, consuming kiss that makes my toes curl against the hardwood floor. The coffee nearly slips from my grasp, but he steadies it without breaking contact.

When he pulls back, his blue eyes darken with desire. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

I laugh, gesturing at my disheveled state, his wrinkled shirt hanging off one shoulder, my hair a tangled mess, face bare of any makeup. “I literally just rolled out of bed and came to find you.”

His thumb traces my bottom lip. “You always look fucking gorgeous.” The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. “Especially like this, wearing my clothes, sleep-soft and natural.”

The honesty in his voice makes my cheeks flush. Here I am, completely undone, and he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not the polished professional Iused to be or the carefully curated image I maintained. Just me, stripped of all pretense.

His hand slides down my neck, fingertips ghosting over the marks he left the other night. The touch sends shivers through my body, and I lean into him, craving more contact.

The warmth of his touch lingers as he guides me to the kitchen island. My bare feet swing from the barstool while he slides a plate of French toast in front of me, garnished with fresh berries and a dusting of powdered sugar.

“Eat first. Then we’ll open your gifts.”

My fork clatters against the plate. Gifts. My stomach twists. In the chaos of our escape, the manhunt, the desperate flight to freedom, I hadn’t even thought about?—

“Silas, I...” The words stick in my throat. “I didn’t get you anything. I’m so sorry, I?—”

He cuts me off with a finger to my lips. His blue eyes capture mine, intense and sincere. “Clara.” The way he says my name makes my skin tingle. “You’ve given me the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “You. Your trust.” He steps closer, pressing between my knees. “Your willingness to leave everything behind and choose this life with me.”

My chest tightens at his words. After years of hiding my fascinations, of pretending to be normal, of analyzing killers instead of admitting my attraction to them, here I am. Seen. Understood. Accepted.

“But that’s not really a gift,” I protest weakly, leaning into his touch.

“Isn’t it?” His other hand slides up my thigh beneath his borrowed shirt. “You’ve given me something I never thought possible. Someone who understands the beauty in darkness.Someone who doesn’t flinch away from what I am.” His fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh, making me shiver. “Someone who sees the monster and chooses to stay.”

I kiss him, pouring all my gratitude and affection into it. His hands tighten on my thighs, but he breaks away with a groan.

“Eat your breakfast,” he commands, voice rough. “Then meet me in the living room.”

The French toast melts in my mouth, perfectly crispy on the outside and tender within. Each bite reminds me of mornings rushing through drive-throughs or skipping breakfast to get to crime scenes. Watching snowflakes dance outside while savoring homemade food, I feel a peace I’ve never known.

I take my time, knowing Silas wants me to actually eat rather than rush through it. The coffee is perfect, too, rich and smooth with just the right amount of cream. He’s paid attention to every detail, just like he pays attention to everything about me.

The domesticity of it all should feel strange, given who we are and what we’ve done. Instead, it feels right, natural, like finally stepping into a role I was always meant to play.

When I finish the last bite, I rinse my plate and place it in the dishwasher. Such a normal action in such an extraordinary situation. But that’s what I love about this; the blend of ordinary and extraordinary, comfort and danger.

I pad toward the living room, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The Christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and wrapped presents wait beneath it. Being looked after like this and having someone anticipate my needs and wants is entirely new to me. After years of being the caretaker, the professional, the responsible one, letting someone else take control feels like freedom.

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