CHAPTER 6 - Madeline #2
He pulls our bodies together as we sway with the song. Slow. Controlled. Intentional.
“You shouldn’t say things like that here,” he murmurs near my neck. His voice is a low vibration, so quiet that no one else could possibly hear it over the music.
“But I’m right,” I say, my voice steady despite the hammer of my heart.
His breath brushes the side of my temple, and I feel his quiet amusement before I even hear it.
“You’re very observant, Madeline.”
The way he says my name makes heat crawl to places it definitely shouldn’t. It’s not just a name to him; it’s a claim.
“But that kind of curiosity,” he continues softly.
“Usually gets people killed.”
His hand slides up, his fingers gripping the back of my neck roughly. It’s not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me how easily he could. I don’t pull away. Instead I look straight into the dark lenses of his mask, searching for the man beneath the monster.
“My ex,” I breathe, the realization of the silence in the lounge finally hitting me.
“Where is he?”
“He won’t bother you anymore.”
His tone is serious now. Dead serious. The kind of finality that leaves no room for question.
His answer should terrify me. Maybe it does. But my body doesn’t move away. If anything, the remaining distance between us disappears completely. His hand settles against my lower back now. Obsessive. Certain.
People are dancing all around us, laughing, talking, completely unaware of who stands in the middle of their crowded dance floor. A killer. And me.
“Did you hurt him?”
Silence stretches between us. His expression is unreadable, hidden behind the mask, but I can feel the weight of his gaze. It feels like he’s memorizing every inch of my face, cataloging my reactions as if he already knows the answers to the questions I haven’t asked yet.
“You’re not denying it,” I whisper.
His head tilts, a slow, deliberate movement.
“Would it change anything if I did?”
I hesitate. Deep down, I already know the truth.
I’ve seen his work. I’ve touched the clinical precision he leaves behind on my autopsy table.
And somehow… standing here now… I understand something that none of the files ever captured.
The control. The lethal restraint. The quiet intensity humming beneath his calm exterior.
“You followed me,” I say instead.
His thumb brushes slowly along my lower back, tracing the curve of my spine through the silk of my dress.
“I observed,” he corrects softly.
“That’s not better.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance, but it’s failing.
His low chuckle is almost lost under the swell of the music, but his smile is magnetic. Intimidating. My front brushes his chest with every step, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. Calm. Too calm.
“For someone who was afraid of me,” he almost growls near my ear, his lips ghosting over my skin.
“You’re very comfortable standing this close.”
Heat rises to my face, a flush of embarrassment I can’t hide. My cheeks are suddenly burning.
“I wasn’t afraid,” I swallow hard, the lie tasting like ash.
“And I’m definitely not comfortable either.”
“Hmm.”
The sound vibrates deep in his throat, a dark, melodic rumble that makes my knees weak.
“Now you know who's hunting you.”
His demeanor shifts instantly. The words slide down my spine like liquid ice, leaving a trail of pure, unadulterated dread.
“You’re admitting it,” I breathe.
“Madeline,” he whispers.
“You already knew.”
His thumb continues its slow, rhythmic trace along my waist. It’s not gentle, but it’s not cruel either. Every movement is a calculated claim. My fingers curl instinctively against his arm, the expensive fabric of his suit bunching under my grip.
Because he’s right. I did. I did know. I’ve known since the first time I felt his eyes on me in the dark.
“But here’s the part you don’t understand yet,” he says, leaning closer until his lips are a mere inch from my ear. His voice drops into a register so dark it makes my blood hum.
“You’re not in danger.”
My heart stutters. For a split second, a wave of relief threatens to wash over me. But before it can take root, he severs it with a single sentence.
“You’re the hunt.”
The words knock the air right out of my lungs.
A slow, satisfied breath leaves him. When my eyes search his mask, desperate for answers, only one realization hits me. This is just a foreplay to him. He studies the shift in my expression as his lips curl into a cruel, beautiful smile.
“And I enjoy the chase far too much to let anyone else touch what’s mine,” he whispers.
Mine. That word burns a hole straight through my chest. It should feel like a cliché, hearing it from a man. I’ve heard it from cocky assholes before who thought a few dates gave them ownership. But hearing it from him? It feels different. Absolute. Like he actually means it.
And the most terrifying part? Being in the arms of a serial killer, I feel strangely protected. My work has definitely left some damage on my soul.
“You should run from me,” he murmurs softly, almost thoughtfully.
“You should be terrified every time you hear your name in the dark.”
He pauses, the silence between us heavy with everything left unsaid.
“But you won’t.”
Another slow turn across the dance floor. His lips brush dangerously against my own, his warmth a sharp contrast to the cold finality of his words.
“And that,” he whispers.
“Is what makes this so much fun.”
“You’re insane.”
It’s the only answer I can manage. My mind is a whirlwind of logic and fear, yet my body remains anchored to his.
“Possibly.”
I can feel his lips slip into the faintest smirk against my skin.
“You should go back to your friend,” he says, his voice softer now, almost dismissive.
The sudden change catches me off guard. My heart, which had been racing in his presence, skips a beat for an entirely different reason.
“Why?”
“Because,” he says calmly.
“The rest of my night requires privacy.”
Jake.
The realization hits instantly. My words die in my throat because his hand suddenly leaves my back. The loss of contact feels immediate and jarring, like something vital has just been ripped from the air between us.
He steps away. Just one step. But it’s enough for the swirling crowd to swallow him almost instantly. Black fabric. Mask. Movement. And then he’s simply… Gone.
I turn quickly, scanning the dance floor. People spin beneath the chandeliers. Laughter echoes. Someone spills a drink near the bar. A couple argues near the wall. But there’s no sign of him. No black mask. No pale streak of hair. Nothing.
“Jesus, there you are!”
Lucy's voice crashes into the moment like a brick.
I spin around just in time to catch her stumbling toward me through the crowd, one heel barely cooperating with the polished floor. Her cheeks are flushed, her mascara slightly smudged, and she’s holding a champagne glass like a trophy above her head.
“There you—“
She squints at me, blinking hard.
“Why do you look so flushed?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because across the room, somewhere beyond the moving bodies and flickering lights, I swear I feel it again. The same quiet pressure. Like eyes watching me from the dark.
Lucy hooks her arm through mine before I can say anything.
“Okay,” she declares loudly, already pulling me toward the exit.
“We're leaving before I embarrass myself in front of the entire pathology department.”
I let her drag me away. But as we reach the doors, I glance back at the dance floor one last time. And for a split second. I think I see smoke curling upward near the far wall. Thin. Gray. Fading into the shadows. Like someone just finished a cigarette.