Page 69 of Silent Stalker

His tongue invades my mouth, kissing me as if he needs me as badly as he needs oxygen. His grip on my thigh tightens almost to the point of pain, but I crave it, urging him on with my own hungry kiss. My nails scrape down his back, relishing his hiss of pleasure. He feels so good inside me, filling me. I want to keep him here, locked in this moment forever.

When I climax again, it takes me by surprise, ripping a cry from my throat. He silences me with another bruising kiss, muffling my pleasured moans. Each thrust brings a new wave, pulsing around him, my body alive and thrumming with each stroke. Silas's grip tightens in response, his movements becoming more frantic, more urgent. I cling to him, riding out the waves, knowing he won't be far behind.

Every muscle in his powerful frame goes rigid as he pulses inside me, savage pants burning trails across my sensitive skin. He muffles his groan in my shoulder, his weight pressing me harder against the wall.

As our heart rates slow, he sets me down, his lips warm against my shoulder. I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in—his scent, taste, and skin against mine.

"Clara." He speaks my name like a prayer, his voice raw and unguarded.

I turn my face into his neck, kissing him softly, feeling the wild beat of his pulse beneath my lips. "I'm here."

His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back as his lips brush mine. "This is madness."

I kiss him, silencing his doubts, showing him without words how much I want this, him. "Maybe," I breathe against his mouth. "But it's our madness."

30

SILAS

Clara's car disappears around the corner. My mind races with the endless details of our escape plan while I maintain perfect awareness of my surroundings. I can't afford mistakes—not now.

The burner phone buzzes. My contact confirms that our new passports are ready—Clara Evans and Simon Kane. Simple, forgettable names—perfect. I transfer the agreed amount through an untraceable offshore account.

My laptop screen flickers with police radio frequencies I've tapped into. Background chatter provides a soothing rhythm as I double check our trail of breadcrumbs: plane tickets to Paris under false names, hotel reservations in Rome, and a car rental in Madrid. Each step is designed to send law enforcement on a wild chase across Europe while we disappear into Canada.

A familiar voice cuts through the radio static. "Chief, DNA results are in from the Matthews scene."

My fingers are still on the keyboard. Something in the detective's tone makes my skin prickle with electricity.

"There were two distinct DNA profiles, sir. One matches our suspect, but..."

The pause stretches like a garrote wire.

"The second profile is female. And it's in our system."

Ice crystallizes in my veins. Impossible. I never leave DNA unless I want to. And I only left one profile of DNA to force Clara’s hand. My scenes are immaculate. Unless...

I slam my fist against the steering wheel. Clara's hair. It has to be. That night, she clung to me, and her golden strands must have transferred to my jacket. It was an amateur mistake, sloppy, the kind of error that gets people caught.

My phone lights up with a message from Clara.

James wants me to come in. Says it's urgent.

My jaw clenches. They'll take her DNA. Compare it. Question her. Break her.

The muscles in my neck tighten as I type back:

Don't go.

I have to. It'll look suspicious.

She's right. But the thought of Clara in an interrogation room makes my blood boil. I've watched enough suspects crack under pressure. Clara's strong, but she's not trained for this. One wrong word, one nervous tick, and everything falls apart.

I open up the police database which I hacked months ago. Clara's file appears—a complete psychological profile, background checks, and everything they have on her. Nothing ties her to the murders except that single strand of hair. But it's enough. It's always enough.

My fingers drum against the leather steering wheel as I calculate options. I could grab her now, force our escape ahead of schedule. But rushed plans fail. And failure means prison. Or death. For both of us.

Another message from Clara: