Chapter 18
Elena
T he bed I wake up in smells like Cullan and sex. The fog of sleep clings to me, but even before I open my eyes, I can tell from the sensation of the sheets, the weight of the duvet, and the rich, woodsy aroma that envelops me that I’m not in my own bed.
The room is dimly lit, and I sit up with a gasp. It’s morning. Why hasn’t the baby monitor woken me? I look over at the empty space beside me, a spot that’s clearly been slept in. It takes me a moment to realize who occupied that space not long ago.
Cullan.
Cullan slept beside me. I touch the indent in the pillow and smile to myself.
I’ve never woken up with a man before. Well, I still haven’t, technically, but he was here.
My mind turns back over the heart-pounding events of last night—dancing with Cullan, being chased by Cullan, having my virginity absolutely obliterated by Cullan—until the nagging that I’m forgetting something finally takes form in my mind.
“Rosie,” I gasp, and grab my phone. She’s not crying, but what if it’s because she’s given up hope that anyone’s coming? I’m about to leap out of bed when I notice I have a text message.
Cullan: You look beautiful in my bed. I’ve gone to get Rosie. Get plenty of rest.
Of course, Rosie stayed with Mr. Mercer last night. I smile to myself, thinking about Cullan getting up early to go and fetch his daughter. He must be missing her. I’m missing her myself.
I look down at myself and realize I’m wearing one of Cullan’s enormous—at least on me—white cotton T-shirts.
I could get changed, but I love the comfort of it.
Before we left the private garden, Cullan collected my shoes, underwear, and dress, but he insisted that they were too damp from dew for me to wear.
He gave me his shirt and drove us home bare-chested.
We showered together, and he tenderly washed me all over, kissing me throughout and murmuring how beautiful I am.
I’ve never felt more spoiled. I’ve definitely never had a better birthday.
We got into his bed together, and I fell asleep in his arms, cushioned against his strong chest. Sometime in the small hours of the morning, I awoke to feel something hard pressing against the backs of my thighs and hot breath on the back of my neck as Cullan kissed my nape.
I moaned and arched my back, growing more aroused by the second.
“Shh, go back to sleep,” he whispered. “You’re too sore. I’ve worn you out enough.”
But I reached around him and stroked my hand up and down his cock.
Still he resisted me. “I don’t need to fuck you. I just want to hold you.”
But I pumped my hand harder along his length, trying to discern from his breathing and groans what he liked.
Apparently he liked it all very much because he rolled on top of me, pushed my thighs apart with his knees, and sank inside of me.
There was a small pinch of pain, but it gave way to pleasure as he fucked me, slowly at first, and then more urgently.
As his breathing grew more ragged, he sat up and squeezed the flesh of my ass, his thrusts deep and purposeful.
“I fucking love your ass, darlin’.”
A moment later he groaned in my ear, and thrust twice more, three times, and then stilled, panting to catch his breath.
Cullan stayed where he was, lodged deep inside me, and stroked his fingers through my hair, over and over.
How wonderful it feels to be adored by him.
He reached beneath me and found my clit, and he sent hot sparks through me while his body was a deliciously heavy weight on me.
I panted and cried out as my orgasm rapidly approached.
He murmured, “Good girl. Good girl,” in a deep voice. Being told good girl while he made me come sent me into outer orbit.
My new high heels have been neatly and prominently placed on the dresser so that the red soles are visible.
They’re as clean and shiny as when I took them out of the box.
Cullan must have taken his time removing the dust and grass from them.
Remembering how he responded to me wearing these shoes, I imagine that it was a labor of love for him.
Just the sight of the shoes is enough to make me feel hot all over again.
I get out of bed and take a peek into Rosie’s empty nursery, looking forward to her being back here and happily playing with her toys.
The house is so quiet without Cullan and Rosie.
I open all the windows in the kitchen to let in the fresh breeze and bird sounds, and then I make myself a pot of coffee.
While I wait for them to come home, I sip a steaming mug and scroll through my phone.
Justine has posted an adorable photo of us from last night, and I like it and leave a comment with lots of hearts.
There’s also a private message from her sent just after three in the morning, probably as she was getting into bed.
Justine: Did you?????
I reply with three monkey-covering-his-eyes emojis. Justine doesn’t reply because she’s probably still sleeping.
I keep scrolling and see that one of the waitresses I worked with at Archer’s has shared a news article, and what she’s written makes the smile fade from my face.
This is straight out of a horror film.
I read the accompanying headline. “Police Say Man in Red Mask is a Person of Interest in Blackport Killings.”
Clicking through, I scan the article. Despite the dramatic headline, the content is vague.
Police have connected the attack of a suburban man and the slaying of a family, but they don’t reveal how they’re connected.
The red mask is prominently mentioned, but they don’t describe it, and there’s no picture or sketch.
In the comments section, someone recommends a website called Murder Diaries for anyone who wants more information.
I open a new browser and search for it, and I’m taken to a blog with a noir-style black theme and logo.
There’s a photo of the blog owner, a woman with curly hair, winged eyeliner, and thick-framed black glasses. She looks both intellectual and quirky.
The most recent post on her website is titled, “Is There An Active Serial Killer in Blackport?”
I click on the link and start to read.
In Blackport, we’re no strangers to violence.
Robberies and home invasions turning bloody happen just about daily.
Organized crime executions are commonplace.
Even so, there’s one kind of killer whose cruelty and senselessness are enough to send a shiver down our spines.
A killer who strikes without warning and seemingly without reason.
A killer who lurks in the shadows and wears a normal face by day.
A killer who murders to sate his twisted desires .
Even though I’ve never been interested in true crime, something about this piece has me forgetting to drink my coffee.
The post contains more information about the murders than the news article did.
It appears that the police have connected the crimes by how the people were killed, though they haven’t given any details.
The victims seem to have been chosen at random, but careful planning went into the home invasion.
They don’t say what kind of careful planning.
The police know about the killer’s appearance based on CCTV footage that they’re holding back from the public, but they describe him.
The killer is fit, he dresses in dark clothing with a hood up, he’s unusually tall and stands at over six-foot-six, and he wears a lurid red mask that covers his face with only eye holes cut into it.
The author of Murder Diaries points out that red was probably chosen for a reason.
She guesses that he wears the red mask to taunt the police, conceal his identity, and strike fear into the heart of his victims. The author points out that the killer knows he’ll be caught on camera, or wants to be caught on camera, but he’s clever enough to slip into the shadows unseen.
I vividly picture a tall, muscular man dressed in black clothing with a hood over his eyes, and his face concealed behind a bright red mask. Does he use a knife? A gun? There must be so much blood at the crime scenes. I remember there was blood everywhere the day Cullan rescued me in Fenton.
I’m examining the dates of the killings when the door from the garage suddenly opens, and a tall figure in dark clothing fills the doorway. I jump and gasp in fright as a primitive part of my brain takes over, screaming danger .
A moment later, I realize that it’s Cullan, and he has Rosie in his arms. I put a hand over my pounding heart and sigh in relief.
Cullan’s brows draw together in concern. “Is there something wrong?”
I shake my head and smile at him. “I’ve just been reading the news about some murders in Blackport. I think I was really absorbed by it.”
Cullan locks the door behind him. “If that sort of thing upsets you, it’s probably a good idea not to read too much about it. You’re safe in this house. I know all the tricks someone might use to get past my security.”
I relax a little at that thought. This is probably the safest house in Blackport, thanks to Cullan. “Did Rosie have a good sleepover?”
He turns to his daughter with a smile. “Did you, sweetheart? Did you have fun with Aunty Vivienne and Uncle Tyrant?”
“Vee-vee,” Rosie says, beaming up at him.
“And can you say Tyrant?” he prompts.
Rosie thinks for a moment. “Tyra.”
“That’s right,” Cullan praises, and Rosie giggles in delight.
I come forward and touch Rosie’s curls. It doesn’t matter that it’s my day off, I still want to hold her. It would be rude to ask to hold his child when I’m just the nanny, but Cullan must see the longing in my eyes as he gently deposits the child in my arms.