Page 11 of Date Night

I've spent my entire life blending in to the shadows.

Tonight is no different.

My eyes drag over the group of people across the street, all of them so drunk they wouldn't even be able to find me if I were standing right in front of their faces. It's a good thing. I don't want to have to worry about them tonight. Tonight all I can think about is sweet inquisitive Starla.

I saw her today at Lover's Bluff.

She was there. Standing right on the spot where I had my way with Brynn.

I close my eyes as the memories of that night so long ago comes rushing back to me. The memories aren't as vibrant as they once were. I wish there was a way for me to make new memories.

"No, no more." I slam the heel of my hand against my temple. Trying to fight against my urges to kill is getting harder andharder but so far I haven't slipped up. It's been years since I've killed. Years since I felt that thrill.

Now with Starla and her group of ragtag documentarians running around the need to release this deadly tension is at an all time high.

Moving from my hiding spot behind the house, I walk to the back door. It's shrouded in tall shrubs. Perfect for what I have in mind.

At first, I turn the knob, and it doesn't budge but I can tell by the way it jiggles that it won't take long for me to get in. I slide a thin card into the frame and push with only a little force.

The lock gives under my touch like it’s inviting me inside. Weak. Useless. I step in without a sound, shutting the door behind me with care. No wasted time. No hesitation. I already know she’s alone. I made sure of it.

The house is silent except for the faint hum of the fridge, the distant tick of a clock. The air smells like her—soft, warm, something sweet that lingers in the walls, in the fabric of the couch, in the very breath of this place. It makes my teeth ache.

I move through the shadows like I belong here, trailing my fingers along the cool walls. I don’t need to look around. I know where to go. I always know where to go.

The bedroom door is cracked open, just enough.

I slip in.

She’s there, curled up beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. So peaceful. So unaware. The faint glow from the moonlight outside spills through the window, tracing soft shadows along her cheekbones, her bare shoulder peeking from beneath the blanket.

And then I see it.

The knife.

A small thing, delicate, gripped loosely in her fingers even as she sleeps. A safety blanket of cold steel.

A grin tugs at my lips. Oh, Starla. You make me proud. You’re not stupid. Not an easy target. You know something’s out there in the dark, waiting. Watching.

You just don’t know it’s already inside.

I lean against the doorframe, drinking her in, my pulse steady, measured. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this electric hum beneath my skin, this bone-deep hunger to be close to something fragile, something that thinks it’s safe.

I step closer. Slow. Silent.

I could leave. I should.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hover at the edge of the bed, watching her fingers twitch against the handle of that useless little blade. It wouldn’t stop me. Not if I really wanted her. Not if I reached out, plucked it from her hand, and replaced it with something far worse.

My breath is steady, quiet, but my pulse… my pulse is alive.

She stirs, shifting slightly, a small sound escaping her lips. My fingers flex.

I shouldn’t be here.

But as long as I don’t wake her, as long as I don’t touch, what’s the harm?

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