Page 50 of Silent Stalker
“Stop it.” Clara’s voice cracks. “You don’t get to make those decisions. You’re not judge, jury, and executioner.”
“But I am.” The truth of it fills me with purpose. “I see what others miss. The darkness they hide behind their masks. I deliver justice where the law fails.”
“Justice?” Her laugh holds no humor. “You’re delusional. Murder is murder. These people deserved a trial, not execution.”
“A trial?” I scoff. “So they could hire expensive lawyers? Manipulate the system like they manipulated everyone else?” My fingers flex at my sides. “I’m the only one with the strength to do what needs to be done.”
“You’re not God, Silas.”
“Aren’t I?” I close the distance between us. “I decide who lives and dies. I choose who deserves punishment. Their lives are in my hands—just like yours is now.”
Clara’s eyes flash with anger. “I hate what you’ve done. All those people...”
“No.” My hand possesses her chin, directing those defiant eyes to meet their destiny in my stare. “You hate that you understand why I did it. That some part of you sees the righteousness in my actions.”
She tries to pull away, but I hold firm. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Then why haven’t you called your detective friend? Why are you still wearing my gift?”
Her resistance only feeds my need. Every step she takes backward, I match. The space between us crackles with electricity.
“You can’t run from this, Clara. From us.” My voice drops low, intimate. “You’re in my blood now. Every thought, every breath – it’s all you.”
“Stop.” She presses against the wall, trapped. “This isn’t right.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel it, too.” I cage her with my arms. “This connection. This pull. It consumes me, Clara. Burns me alive.”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The silver turtledoves catch the light as she swallows. “You’re a murderer.”
“I’m your destiny.” I lean closer, breathing in her scent. “Everything I’ve done has led me to you. Each death and carefully arranged scene are love letters written in blood.”
“Will you...” She hesitates, fingers curling against the wall behind her. “If I stay with you, will you stop the murders?”
I stare at Clara, her question hanging in the air between us. My fingers trace the silver turtledoves at her throat. Stop the murders? The very thought makes my skin crawl.
Three more deaths. Three more carefully orchestrated scenes to complete my masterpiece. The compulsion to finish burns through my veins like acid. I’ve never left anything incomplete. Each kill has been meticulously planned, each victim chosen with purpose. The thought of stopping now feels like suffocation.
Her gaze locks with mine, and the predator within me falters—something deeper than bloodlust clawing its way through my carefully constructed void. She’s become my obsession, my addiction. The way she trembles under my touch, how she fights her attraction to my darkness – it feeds something in me I never knew existed.
My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race against my palm. “You’d stay? Accept everything I am?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
The word hits me like a physical blow. Eleven bodies already laid at her feet like offerings, and she’s willing to accept me. To stop the final three deaths would leave my work unfinished and imperfect. The mere thought makes me want to scream.
But losing Clara? The idea tears at my insides worse than any incomplete pattern ever could.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. My control splinters as competing urges war inside me. The need to complete my masterpiece versus this all-consuming desire to possess Clara completely.
“You’re asking me to go against my nature,” I growl against her skin. “To leave my work unfinished.”
“I’m asking you to choose me instead.”
My fingers tighten on her throat. She doesn’t flinch. My perfect, twisted goddess understands the battle raging inside me. For the first time since I started killing, I’m considering leaving a project incomplete. The thought should repulse me. Instead, I find myself drowning in the possibility of her.
23
CLARA