Chapter 27
AMELIA
My body is a map of delicious ache and soreness as I wake. The throbbing pulse in my shoulder draws my attention first—where Gabe carved his initials into my skin. My initials now. His mark. I touch it gingerly, feeling the raised edges of scabbing cuts, and a twisted thrill runs through me.
What kind of woman asks a man to cut his name into her flesh? The same kind who gets wet thinking about watching a predatory gallery owner bleed out, apparently.
Gabe’s arm tightens around my waist as I shift, pulling me back against his hard chest. The rigid length of his erection presses against my backside, and despite the soreness between my legs, heat floods my core again.
“Morning,” he murmurs, lips against my neck.
I shouldn’t feel this. Shouldn’t want this. He drugged me and brought me here against my will. He’s a killer who preserves his victims like grotesque sculptures. Everything I know about psychology, about self-preservation, screams that I should be plotting my escape, not melting into his touch.
Yet when his hand slides up to cup my breast, my nipple hardens instantly.
“Is your shoulder okay?” His fingers trace along the cuts he made.
“It hurts,” I whisper. “But I like it.”
I’m not just accepting the darkness anymore; I’m embracing it. I see the beauty in his work—the composition, the intention, the meaning behind each preserved body. And now I’m becoming part of his collection in a different way, marked permanently as his.
“I’ve never carved my initials into anyone before,” he confesses, thumb brushing over the wound. “I’ve not even cut someone I wanted to keep alive.”
I turn to face him, wincing as my shoulder protests. “Is that what I am? Someone you want to keep alive?”
His eyes—those intense eyes that see everything—hold mine. “You’re the only one I couldn’t bear to lose.”
His words pierce something deep inside me. I reach up, fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. The face of a killer. The face of a man who sees me—truly sees me—in ways no one else ever has.
“I should be terrified of you,” I whisper. “I should be plotting how to escape. How to turn you in.”
“But you’re not.” It’s not a question.
“No.” I pull his face closer to mine. “I’m plotting how we’ll take down Walsh together.”
The smile that spreads across his face is dangerous and beautiful—like witnessing a predator in its natural state. He bridges the remaining distance between us, capturing my mouth with his. His lips move against mine with aching softness, tongue seeking entry which I eagerly grant.
I moan into his mouth as his hand cradles the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. The kiss deepens, becomes a conversation without words. An exploration. A promise.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, I find myself blurting out, “It scares me how much I need you already.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, a rare moment of genuine surprise on his face.
“I mean it,” I continue, words tumbling out before I can filter them. “I barely know you—the real you—and already I can’t imagine being without this. Without you. It’s like... you’ve unlocked something in me I didn’t know was there. Or maybe I knew, but was afraid to acknowledge.”
Gabe pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine. “You’re the first girl who’s ever seen all of me and stayed,” he murmurs.
“I’m not just staying,” I tell him, fingers trailing down his chest. “I’m diving in headfirst.”
His hand captures mine as it travels down his torso, bringing my fingers to his lips. He kisses each fingertip slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving mine.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he murmurs. “Not just your body. Your mind. The way you see everything. The way you understand my work.”
I can’t help but smile, even as something twists in my chest. “Most people would call that sick, not beautiful.”
“Most people live boring, conventional lives governed by arbitrary rules they never question.” He releases my hand, traces the line of my collarbone. “You and I—we see beyond those limitations. We understand there’s beauty in darkness, purpose in destruction.”
His words resonate deep within me, just like the perfect chord struck on a piano. It’s terrifying how well he understands me—perhaps better than I understand myself.
“Tell me more about Walsh,” I say, shifting to ease the pressure on my shoulder. “What exactly did you have in mind for him?”
Gabe’s eyes darken with anticipation. “I was thinking we should keep him alive for a while. Let him experience true fear before the end.”
“I want him to know it’s me,” I whisper, surprised by the venom in my voice. “I want him to know it’s because of what he did to all those women.”
“He’ll know.” Gabe cups my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. “We’ll make sure of it.”
I lean into his touch, my body humming with a strange mix of desire and anticipation. This should horrify me—planning someone’s death, no matter how deserving. Instead, it feels like unleashing something that’s been caged inside me for years.
“What have you awakened in me?” I ask.
“Nothing that wasn’t already there,” he replies. “I gave you permission to embrace it.”
Gabe’s lips are soft against mine, a stark contrast to the bruising, demanding kisses we’ve shared before. This tenderness feels more intimate, more vulnerable than anything we’ve done. When he pulls away, his eyes hold mine with unexpected warmth.
“How about pancakes?” His thumb traces my jawline. “I make excellent pancakes.”
The sudden shift to something so mundane, so normal, catches me off guard. I laugh, the sound surprising both of us.
“What’s funny?” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Just trying to reconcile pancake-making Gabe with spikey-mask-wearing Gabe.”
“They’re the same person.” He kisses my forehead. “Just different aspects. You’re getting all of me, remember?”
I nod, oddly touched. “I’d love pancakes.”
In his kitchen, I perch on a stool wearing nothing but his button-up shirt. Gabe measures flour, cracks eggs with one hand, whisks with the other. He adds blueberries to the batter, and the smell makes my stomach growl.
“I haven’t cooked for anyone in...” He pauses, spatula hovering over the pan. “I can’t remember when.”
“Not even Adrian?”
Gabe flips a pancake with an easy flick. “Adrian and I don’t do... this.”
The simplicity of the moment strikes me—morning light streaming through windows, coffee brewing, pancakes cooking. The domesticity feels surreal after everything else.
Gabe slides a plate toward me; pancakes are arranged in a perfect stack. He’s drizzled organic maple syrup in a spiral pattern, topped with fresh blueberries and a dusting of powdered sugar. Even his breakfast presentation is artistic.
“You take your pancakes seriously,” I note, cutting into the fluffy stack.
“I take everything seriously.” He sits beside me with his own plate, our knees touching. “Quality matters in everything—food, music, art...” His eyes meet mine. “Companionship.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. The pancakes are perfect—light, fluffy, with bursts of blueberry tartness against the sweet maple.
“These are amazing,” I admit, savoring another bite.
Gabe watches me eat with an intense focus. But there’s something else there too—a soft satisfaction at providing something I enjoy.
“So,” I say, licking a drop of syrup from my finger, “do you always make breakfast this good, or am I getting special treatment?”
Gabe’s mouth curves into that half-smile I’m starting to recognize. “I excel at everything I do. But yes, you’re getting special treatment.”
“Lucky me,” I murmur, taking another bite. “First, a man who’s amazing in bed, and now I find out you can cook too. What other talents are you hiding?”
“Besides piano and preservation techniques?” He refills my coffee cup without me asking. “I make my own furniture. That dining table is mine. The bed frame, too.”
I glance at the table—dark wood with intricate inlays, perfectly proportioned to the space. “Seriously? It’s amazing quality.”
“I appreciate beautiful things made with precision.” His eyes hold mine. “It’s why I was drawn to your art. And to you.”
We fall into easy conversation about woodworking techniques and artistic influences. It flows effortlessly between us—this exchange of ideas.
As Gabe describes the process of selecting the right wood for each project, I find myself watching his hands—those capable, dangerous hands that have taken lives, played haunting melodies, and traced every inch of my body.
I could get used to this, I realize. Mornings with pancakes and coffee.
Discussions about art and creation. The comfortable way our bodies occupy the same space, how he seems to anticipate my needs before I voice them.
The dangerous thrill of knowing what we’re planning together.
The way he sees me—truly sees me—and accepts all my jagged edges.
This feeling terrifies me more than his spikey leather mask or his collection of preserved bodies.
Because this—this intimacy, this connection—feels more permanent, more binding than any rope he could use to tie me up.
I’m not just attracted to the danger or the dominance anymore.
I’m attracted to him—to mornings and conversations and the strange comfort I feel in the presence of a killer who treats me with more genuine care than any man ever has.