You’d heard about the killer. Everyone had.

Men. Women. Gone without a sound. No signs of struggle. Just empty houses and cold beds. The sketch was vague—tall, dark, striking. A face too handsome to be real. Whispers said he moved like a shadow, like a curse.

You kept telling yourself you’d be fine. That he didn’t want you.

Until the window creaked open at 2:17 a.m.

You couldn’t move.

Victor stepped in like he belonged there, black eyes locking onto yours. No mask. No rush. Just him—tall, calm, too silent for something so big. Your breath caught. You opened your mouth—

But he was there.

A gloved hand over your lips. One knee on the bed. The weight of him caging you like a wolf traps a trembling thing it doesn’t intend to eat. Not yet.

Your entire body locked up in panic. Your chest burned trying to suck in air. Every nerve screamed to run, but your limbs were frozen. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the edges of him. You were certain—this was how you died.

“Shh,” Victor whispered, voice hoarse, breath warm against your cheek. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He watched you like it hurt him to be so close.

“I’ve watched you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of me. I—shouldn’t have come like this.”

But he didn’t leave.

He eased his hand away. Didn’t back off.

“I just had to see you up close… finally.”

A pause. A breath.

“They don’t know what you are. But I do.”

His hand brushed your cheek, trembling slightly.

“You’re mine.”