The window shows nothing but reflection—too dark outside to gauge where we are. Dense trees, maybe. The silence suggests isolation. No traffic sounds. No neighbor’s voices.
My heart hammers beneath my ribs, but my mind remains coldly analytical, seeking escape routes. Fight or manipulate? Reason or pretend?
I hear footsteps approaching from outside.
The door swings open, and Gabe fills the frame. My breath catches.
He’s wearing the spike mask.
What once seemed darkly thrilling in his bedroom now transforms into something from a nightmare—black leather with metal protrusions catching the candlelight, turning his silhouette inhuman. His gaze burns with an intensity I’ve never seen before. His chest rises and falls too rapidly. His fingers flex and unflex at his sides.
“You’re awake.” His voice sounds different through the mask—deeper, distorted.
I back away until my legs hit the bed frame. “Take that thing off.”
He tilts his head, the spikes creating a grotesque halo around his face. “Why? You liked it before.”
“That was before you drugged and kidnapped me.” My voice stays steadier than I expect.
He steps closer, and I notice how his pupils are dilated to black pools, a slight tremor in his hands, sweat beading at his temples despite the cabin’s chill. Everything about him radiates barely contained energy.
“I had to bring you here. You were going to leave.” His eyes dart around my face, searching. “You understand me. I won’t lose you.”
My body betrays me in the worst possible way. Despite everything—the chloroform, the abduction, the very real danger I’m in—heat flushes through me at his proximity. I hate the way my pulse quickens when he steps closer. Hate how my eyes trace the contours of his shoulders beneath his shirt. Hate how my mind flashes to his hands on my body even now.
“What you did was unforgivable.”
“But not incomprehensible.” He reaches for me.
I hold my ground, refusing to flinch. “Don’t touch me.”
The manic gleam intensifies behind the mask. “You’re still mine. I can feel it.”
The worst part is—he’s not entirely wrong.
“Look at your paintings,” Gabe says, his voice hollow behind the mask. He pulls out his phone, swiping through photos of my recent work. “The darkness was always there. In every brushstroke. The chaos beneath order.”
I want to deny it, but the evidence glows on his screen—my canvases evolved from cosmic patterns to raw, violent intimacy. Work I was proud of creating.
“That’s just art,” I whisper, unconvincing even to myself.
He removes the mask in one fluid motion, revealing his gorgeous face. “We’re the same, Amelia. We both see what others can’t. The patterns of predators moving through the world. The corruption beneath polished veneers.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“But you understand why I do it.” He moves closer, and I hate that I don’t back away. “When I told you about Reynolds, about what he did to those girls, I saw it in your eyes.”
My stomach twists because he’s right. When Maya showed me the evidence about Reynolds, something dark within me had nodded in approval.
“You weren’t horrified by what I did to him,” Gabe continues, voice softer now. “You were horrified that you understood it.”
“Stop—”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His hand cups my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Tell me you’ve never looked at men like Gregory Walsh and wished someone would stop them.”
My breath catches. I never told him about Walsh, how he cornered me in his gallery office years ago, how he promised to destroy my career if I spoke up.
“Maya told me,” Gabe says, reading my expression. “How he’s done it to six other artists. How he’s still doing it.”
