Knots.

Chapter Eight: Knots

Ian hunched over his desk, the blue glow of the laptop screen the only light in the room.

The photos from the USB drive were grim, but a restless energy buzzed under his skin.

This was his chance. He could feel it. This time, he would break the case open on his own.

He loved Zhedya’s help, sure, but he was starting to feel like a puppet, his strings pulled by pale, skilled hands.

The door creaked open without a knock. Ian jumped, his heart lurching.

Zhedya strode in as if he owned the place, a bag of groceries in one hand, already shrugging off his expensive coat.

“You never knock!” Ian snapped, frustration boiling over. “You just walk in like you own this place. I don’t even have my privacy anymore.”

Zhedya’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. He walked over and patted Ian’s head like he was a pet.

“I guess fate has brought us together. We are soulmates, Ian. We share what we own.”

“Stop saying a bunch of rubbish,” Ian grumbled, swatting his hand away.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Zhedya stated, his tone shifting to one of gentle scolding. He held up the groceries.

“I had my secretary get these and came straight here. I’ll cook us something, then feed you like a sick cat.”

His eyes, however, weren’t on the food. They were locked on Ian’s laptop screen. “What are you working on?”

The question was casual, but his gaze was intense, peeling Ian open layer by layer.

Ian quickly tilted the screen down, his cheeks flushing. “Just something. Working on an article,” he lied, his voice a little too high.

“You’re working on the Thread Man story… alone?” Zhedya’s voice was deceptively soft.

Ian just threw him a defiant why not look.

“Must be one hell of an article for you to hide it like a top-secret government file,” Zhedya mused, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips.

“Why do I have to tell you everything?” Ian whispered, the fight slowly draining out of him.

Zhedya leaned in close, so close Ian could see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. The air grew cold.

“Ian,” he began, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “Remember the last time you did something behind my back?”

“You got stalked, and I had to go to extreme lengths to save you. When the BSI got suspicious of you in the Strangler case, who shut it down?”

His eyes hardened. “If you hide anything from me this time, I might not know where or when to step in. I’m not asking for too much. Just trust. Trust is non-negotiable with me.”

A violent shiver wracked Ian’s spine. For a terrifying second, it wasn’t Zhedya looking back at him, but someone else…someone ancient and predatory. He pushed him back, his hands trembling.

“Fine! You don’t have to get in my face,” Ian relented, his voice shaky. He reluctantly opened his laptop, turning the screen toward Zhedya.

Zhedya leaned forward, his eyes scanning the images not like a reader, but like a scholar. A hunter.

“He used a thread,” Zhedya stated, his voice calm and analytical.

“It’s definitely not to restrain her. It’s a mark. His signature. He’s not binding her; he’s claiming her.” He pointed a slender finger at the screen.

“See her hand? That’s not random. It’s like he was making her point to something only he could understand. That’s a language. A language between him and the dead.”

Ian’s journalist instincts kicked in, overpowering his fear.

He quickly grabbed his notepad, scribbling down every word. This was gold. This would make his article stand out from all the rest.

Zhedya straightened up and walked back toward the kitchen, pausing at the doorway.

He glanced back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“If you want to write something good, Ian, you have to stop thinking like the victim. You have to start thinking like the killer.” Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

Ian stared at the empty doorway, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. Weird, he whispered, trying to brush off the chilling advice.

*****

“Dinner’s almost done. Get your ass up and come eat, Ian,” Zhedya called out, his voice back to its usual, smooth cadence.

“I’m almost done! I just need to wrap this up!” Ian called back, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

“You work too hard,” Zhedya said, coming up behind him and gently brushing his hair back. The touch was surprisingly tender.

“You don’t understand this feeling,” Ian rambled, his excitement bubbling over.

“This feeling of getting close to writing something really good, of being on the edge of discovering something no one else knows…”

Zhedya hardly listened to the words, but he loved the sound of Ian’s voice, the passionate energy that radiated from him.

He loved having this control over Ian’s focus, his world.

“Are you even listening to me?” Ian snapped his fingers, pulling Zhedya from his thoughts.

“You just have to stick close to me,” Zhedya said, ignoring the question, his voice a low promise. “And I will show you how the world works.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ian said, shoving him lightly before rushing to the dining room. He sat down and hungrily dug into the food Zhedya had prepared.

“What are you looking at?” Ian mumbled through a full mouth.

“You were this hungry, and you found it hard to leave that desk all day,” Zhedya scolded playfully, though his eyes held a darker glint.

“Do you need a spanking to learn the right thing to do?”

Ian choked on his food, his face turning bright red. “I will never let you near my ass!”

“We’ll see about that,” Zhedya smirked.

Just then, Ian’s phone buzzed on the table. A news alert.

“No phone at the table,” Zhedya teased. Ian shot him a side-eye before looking down at the screen. His face went pale.

Another Thread Man killing. At Creeklord University. The victim’s name was Alisa Banks. A fashion student.

“Alisa…” Ian’s breath hitched. His fork clattered onto his plate. “I know her. She was my junior back in university. She… she once helped me with a photo piece.”

His breathing quickened, turning into shallow gasps. “I can’t believe it. It’s her.”

“What’s wrong, Ian?” Zhedya’s voice was soft as he took the phone from Ian’s trembling hands.

He read the news brief, his expression unreadable. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”

He reached out to touch Ian’s shoulder. “You need to go to bed. You’re in shock.”

“No!” Ian shoved his hand away, standing up so fast his chair screeched back.

“I need to find what I can so she gets the justice she deserves!”

His eyes were wild, glistening with unshed tears and a burning determination. “I’m visiting the murder scene. There might be a clue there. You never can tell.”

He turned to grab his coat.

“No, wait! You can’t do that! It’s an active murder scene, for goodness sake! It’s fucking dangerous!” Zhedya moved to block his path.

Ian took a few determined steps toward the door, but then a wave of intense dizziness washed over him.

The room spun. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Then… THUD.

He collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Zhedya let out a slow, deep breath. A smirk twisted his lips as he looked down at Ian’s still form. “Just too stubborn for your own good.”

He bent down and gathered Ian effortlessly into his arms. “It’s bedtime, my love.”

This was the second time he’d had to do this…slipping a fast-acting hypnotic into Ian’s drink.

The first time was the night he went after Zack. Ian’s fierce independence was a problem, but it was a problem Zhedya knew exactly how to manage.

He carried Ian to the bedroom and tucked him gently into bed. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Ian’s forehead, his touch lingering.

“I would do anything for you, Ian,” he whispered into the quiet, dark room. “When it comes to you, I don’t think twice.”

With one last, possessive look, Zhedya turned and left the apartment. He had somewhere to be. He had a predator to catch.

The hunt was on.