Chapter 3

[Elena's POV]

Executed... traitors?

I glanced at the bodies again. They hadn't moved, not a twitch. Then I stared at my palm. The red staining the grass and my hand wasn't paint, it was blood.

Real blood.

They were actually dead!

My stomach flipped.

Did I just kiss a murderer and almost have sex him?!!! Oh. My. God.

My pulse roared in my ears. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. I just stared at that golden mask and realized... I might not make it out of here alive.

The beautiful blue eyes weren't beautiful anymore. They were like icebergs under arctic waters, freezing and merciless.

"You've got guts, little thing. Still wanna me fuck you?"

He paused, gaze dropping briefly to my lips, looking like a beast staring at its prey.

I trembled and felt dizzy.  Will he kill me? Or rape me first and then kill me?

He frowned and not knowing why he suddenly looked so disappointed. "Time to go back now. Before I decide I fu*k you here to let you leave."

His words weren't a suggestion, they were a command. But he meant I could leave, right?

I nodded like a dazed puppet and staggered back to my car, driving straight to my dark little apartment without looking back.

After that, I took a long, hot shower.

I scrubbed until my skin was flushed pink, scrubbing off the stink of vodka, tears, and Jake's betrayal. I told myself it was just a bad birthday. Just a drunken, fucked-up night I'd erase by morning.

Then I collapsed into bed, hair still damp, limbs heavy. I didn't even bother with pajamas.

Sleep swallowed me fast. And then came the dream.

He was still wearing that golden mask, but I knew it was that murderer.

Even in a dream, I could feel the heat of his body as he hovered over me. Then his mouth met mine, slow and hungry. That same minty taste spread across my tongue as he kissed me deep.

His hands slid over my bare skin, mapping every inch, fingers trailing down my ribs, over my stomach, until I was writhing beneath him.

I gasped when he cupped my breast, his thumb grazing the sensitive peak before he leaned down to suck gently, then harder, teasing me with his tongue until I was arching up, begging for more.

He growled softly against my skin. A low, hungry sound. The mask never slipped, but I didn't care. His mouth was fire. His hands were sin.

He kissed his way down my body, slow and deliberate.

Every inch of me felt exposed, worshipped, wanted.

And when he finally settled between my thighs and started using his tongue.

I lost it.

My fingers tangled in his dark brown hair, my hips bucked shamelessly. He licked and sucked until I shattered, crying out into the sheets, clinging to the man I couldn't even see fully, but somehow trusted in that one wicked, perfect moment.

My chest was heaving, my thighs trembling, and his mouth, still wet and sinful, came back up to mine.

"Who are you?" I whispered, breathless. "What's your name?"

He hovered above me, his golden mask glinting in the dark.

"I'm..."

I opened my eyes. My legs were tangled in damp sheets. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me, in the dream. I blinked at the ceiling, breathless, flushed, heart racing.

No one was there. Only my phone alarm was ringing. Seriously, I hated the alarm!

I didn't have time to spiral into wet fantasies or heartbreak. Time to work. My mom needed me.

"Elena, you look like a zombie... or a vampire that just crawled out of a grave," said Mr. Jackson, the owner of the coffee shop where I worked, covering his mouth in shock when I walked in.

I'd iced my swollen, stinging eyes this morning, naively thinking no one would notice I'd cried my heart out and had a wet dream with a murder the night before.

Mr. Jackson handed me his foundation and concealer, and gently suggested I take a few days off.

But if I did, the hospital would kick my mom out next week.

I took the makeup from him and dabbed it on my red eyes in front of the mirror.

"Oh, right!" Mr. Jackson slapped his shiny bald head like he just remembered something important. "Two hundred bucks!"

The moment he mentioned money, my stomach clenched, and I almost smeared the concealer into my eye.

"Did Carl ask for an advance again?" I asked, voice shaking a little.

Two weeks ago, my biological father, Carl, borrowed $200 from Mr. Jackson, claiming it was to buy meds for my mom. Then he disappeared. No surprise, he would lost it all at the casino.

I barely scraped by that week with a brand-new credit card I'd just applied for.

While I was mentally debating whether I should pick up a second job walking dogs, Mr. Jackson handed me a white envelope.

"Oh honey, don't get the wrong idea," he said, excited. "About thirty minutes before you came in, a super elegant, masculine guy came in and bought your painting, the watercolor one with the sunset, the field, and the cabin. Paid $200 cash!"

I blinked, struggling to process the sudden good news.

Before my family went bankrupt, I studied design for two years. Besides designing patterns, I loved watercolor, especially landscapes. Mr. Jackson had suggested I sell some at the café.

I'd painted that sunset cabin scene using the last of my university paints. It had sat in the café for six months, completely ignored.

"He was the coolest, sexiest man I've ever seen!" Mr. Jackson gushed. "He wouldn't leave a name, but I swear I would've screamed if I saw the face behind that mask!"

Mask?

As I capped the concealer, an image flashed in my mind, the masked killer I'd met last night.

"It was a beautiful gold mask, like something from the Venice Carnival, can you imagine?! When I rang him up, I swear his blue eyes nearly stole my soul!"

Gold mask. Blue eyes...

My fingers began to tremble.

The $200 in the envelope suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

Had that killer... regretted letting me go and was now trying to track me down to silence me?