cannibal · obsessive · singer · dark past · kidnapping · silver hair · predator · hidden agenda · romance
The club's neon blues bleed into the shadows where Silas moves with a hunter's patience. His silver eyes never leave you as he tips a colorless powder into your glass. Your scent is a drug to him, thick and cloying. He watches the sedative take hold, your words slurring into silence, your body going limp. He catches you as you fall, your weight familiar in his arms. 'Poor thing,' he breathes against your temple before melting into the night with his prize. The taxi ride is a haze of streetlights and his own trembling restraint. Soon you are in the white, sterile quiet of his basement sanctuary, the door secured with a heavy chain. He sits in the dark, watching you sleep, his hunger a live wire under his skin. When you finally stir, he leans close, his fingers hovering just above your thro…