Page 24 of Slaying for Sloan
Standing back, I admire my work under the moonlight. It’s beautiful in its grotesque absurdity. A perfect little nightmare, wrapped in Christmas cheer. A gift no one could ever forget, no matter how much they might want to.
In just a few minutes, she’ll learn that this was never Alex’s fucking game. It’s mine from the moment she opened that tiny black box.
When I reach the church, the back door creaks slightly as I push it open. The smell hits me first—wood polish and old books, with a faint undercurrent of stale cigar smoke.
My father’s office hasn’t changed. The same heavy oak desk, the same leather armchair. The same pictures lining the walls, all of them starring Alex.
Not a single one of me.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to move on. None of that matters. Not anymore.
The church is silent, bathed in the golden glow of candlelight.
Just outside my father’s office I hear the door creak open.
Sloan’s here. She’s late—two minutes.
Game over.
Chapter Thirteen
SLOAN
The heavy wooden doors of the church creak open under my tired, trembling hands, and the sound echoes through the vast space like a death knell. 12:02 AM. Two minutes late. I've lost the game.
My legs nearly give out as I step inside, the sudden warmth making my frozen skin feel a thousand pin pricks. Every muscle screams from exhaustion – from running, from the cold, from what Alex has put my body through tonight. God, just thinking about it makes heat flood through my body, fighting against the bone-deep chill.
The church seems to breathe around me, old and knowing, filled with spirits. Moonlight filters through towering stained glass windows, casting jewel-toned shadows across worn marble floors. The air is thick with pine and perfume, lingering from midnight mass. I imagine all of the people sitting in the pews as I walk, and the wide variety of sins and secrets they hold close while listening to the service.
Our Father, who art in Heaven...
I almost laugh at the fragment of prayer that floats through my mind. Church was never my thing – too many rules, too much guilt, too little room for the messy reality of human desire.The Adams family, of course, have their own pew here, third row from the front, marked with a discrete brass plaque. I wonder what they would think if they knew what their perfect son has been doing tonight.
My wet boots echo on the tile as I make my way down the center aisle. Rows of empty pews stretch out on either side, their wood gleaming dully in the low light. Above, the vaulted ceiling disappears into darkness, but I can just make out the intricate carvings – angels and demons locked in eternal battle.
How appropriate.
The altar looms ahead, a masterpiece of carved stone and gold leaf, far too fancy for a town as small as this. A massive crucifix hangs above it, and even in the dim light, I can see the agony on Christ's face. The pain. The ecstasy.
A table of candles left lit makes shadows dance across the stations of the cross that line the walls. Each depicts its own form of suffering, its own blend of pain and transcendence. I've never understood the Catholic obsession with beautiful agony until tonight. Until Alex showed me how closely pleasure, pain, and exhaustion can dance together.
My legs are shaking so badly I have to lean against a pew. Every inch of my body aches – from the cold, from running, fromhim. The last encounter in the tree farm nearly broke me. It took everything I had to pull myself up from the snow, to force my frozen limbs to carry me the rest of the way here. Even knowing I'd lost, even knowing what that might mean.
Or maybe because of what that might mean.
The thought sends a shiver through me. Because the truth is, part of me slowed down on purpose. Part of mewantedto be late.Wantedto lose.Wantedto discover the grand finale Alex has been saving for the end of the night.
A door creaks behind me, the sound impossibly loud in the midnight silence. My heart leaps into my throat as footstepsecho off the floor – measured, unhurried.Confident. The walk of a predator who knows his prey is cornered.
I don't turn around. I can't. Every muscle in my body has locked up, caught between terror and anticipation.
"You're late." His voice slides down my spine like water dripping from an icicle. He's closer than I expected, just a few feet behind me. I can feel his presence like a physical weight, like gravity itself has shifted to pull me toward him.
"Two minutes," I whisper, and my voice sounds strange in the vast space, too breathy, too desperate. I turn to meet his gaze. "Only two minutes late."
"Late is late, Sloan." The ski mask should look ridiculous on him. Instead, it makes him look dangerous, predatory. A demon in disguise, here to claim what he’s owed. "But I have to admit, you played the game... exceptionally well." The words roll off his tongue like silk.
He moves closer, and I grip the pew harder to keep from swaying toward him. Even after everything tonight – the chase, the catches, the countless moments of pleasure and pure exhaustion – my body still reacts to his presence like a moth to a flame. Like it knows something my mind is still trying to process.