Page 16

?? Witness

Ember

I’ve followed murderers before.

Interviewed families. Dug through sealed records. Even sat across from a few psychopaths still pretending to be misunderstood.

But I’ve never followed someone like Dorian Vale.

He won another case a few weeks ago, Trent Heller, age forty-three. Accused of strangling two teenage girls, then tossing their bodies in the river like trash. There was DNA. A confession. A fucking survivor.

And Dorian still got him off.

I watched him walk out of that courtroom unfazed, unbothered, untouched by shame. Like justice was something you could bend if you wore enough cologne and spoke in Latin.

He didn’t celebrate. No post-verdict dinner, no champagne. He just disappeared. That’s how I knew.

He was waiting. For the right time. For the right kill. So I followed him.

For days.

He barely left his house. A mansion surrounded by woods like a crown of glass and quiet judgment.

Until tonight.

He left just past midnight, black coat, black gloves, walking like death dressed in designer clothes.

I followed him to the edge of the city. To the place where the buildings rotted and the ghosts learned how to scream again.

The old meatpacking plant. It smelled like iron and rot the moment I stepped inside. I pressed record on my mic, whispering into my phone.

“ Dead Wrong , entry seventy-nine. I followed my own hunch about the defense attorney who’s never lost a case, Dorian Vale. Bodies appear after his trials. Always acquitted. Always carved.”

A shadow flickered across a broken window pane. I ducked lower behind a rusted rack of chains, stomach coiled tight.

Then, a scream. Raw. Wet. Cut short by something sharp. My heart kicked into overdrive. I creeped forward. Quiet. Careful. And then… I saw him.

Dorian Vale.

Kneeling beside a man half-flayed, blood glistening on his hands like red, silk gloves. The corpse’s chest was split wide, organs arranged with surgical reverence. Symbols burned along his ribs, glowing, faintly alive, as if the blood was speaking.

And the shadows … they moved for him. Wrapped around his legs like worshippers. Curled into his coat like lovers.

He hummed to himself. Classical. Chopin . A lullaby for the damned.

My hand shook. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t look away.

“I knew you were interesting,” I said, forcing the words out. “But I didn’t realize you moonlighted as Satan’s butcher.”

He didn’t flinch. Just lifted his head. Calm. Composed.

The elegance of his defense… the cold precision… I didn’t know why he stood out.

Not at first.

But the moment he lifted his head, suddenly, I understood.

He wasn’t just beautiful. He was sculpted, designed by something cruel and divine in equal measure. Skin like warm, burnished gold, too tanned for a man who seems to belong to the night. It made no sense, but nothing about him did.

High cheekbones cut like marble. A nose too perfect to have ever been broken. Dark brown hair fell in effortless waves, just long enough to tempt fingers into it. And those lips, God, thin, kissable, shaped like sin whispered against skin.

But it was his eyes that undid me.

Hazel green. Not soft. Not kind. Shattered glass under moonlight. Beautiful, but lethal.

He carried himself like a god forced to walk amongst mortals, broad shoulders beneath tailored suits, a body that promised power with every silent step. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t his strength that terrified me.

It was the silence.

He didn’t need to speak to command the room. He didn’t need to smile to seduce. He didn’t need to move to make you fall.

He just needed to exist.

And in that moment, he existed entirely for me.

And I knew I’d never be the same again.

His eyes locked on mine, and something inside me jolted. Like I just looked at a wolf and saw it smile.

“Ember Carr,” he said, lips curling. “I’ve listened to your podcast. Bit dramatic, but I enjoy the voice.”

Snapping out of it, I lifted my phone. “Recording. So if you try anything—”

In a blur, he’s there .

One hand around my wrist. The other plucked the phone gently from my fingers. “You don’t bring a podcast to a murder scene, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Jesus!” I gasped.

“Took the night off.”

His voice was molten. Measured. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he’s already undressing my panic.

He studied me. His pupils blown wide, magic dancing just beneath his skin.

I felt it. Like a hand at my throat that didn’t touch. Like a spell wrapping around my ribs, pulling tighter with every breath.

He pocketed my phone. A sigh escaped him. “Now the question is… what do I do with you?”

I yanked my arm back, adrenaline battling lust, fury mixing with something darker. “Let me go. Or I swear to God I’ll—”

He chuckled.

Slow. Low. Unforgivable.

“God again. You really think he’s tuned into this zip code?”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“And you’re trespassing,” he said, turning back to the corpse. “Technically, you’re interfering with a sentencing.”

I glanced at the body. My stomach flipped. “You killed a man.”

“No,” he said without turning. “I killed a monster in human skin. He murdered five boys. Wore their teeth in a pouch. The court gave him a second chance. I gave him a verdict.”

Silence swelled between us. It felt like it was watching.

“You’re not going to kill me,” I whispered.

He looked over his shoulder, head tilted. “Bold assumption.”

“If you were, you’d have done it already.”

He stepped closer. Too close. “No,” he admitted softly. “I’m not going to kill you.” I exhaled, barely. “But I am going to keep you.”

My heart stopped.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t have you running your pretty mouth about me to your listeners,” he said, already turning again. “And clearly, I can’t trust you to mind your own business.”

“So what? You’re kidnapping me now?”

“Detaining,” he replied. “You’re a danger to yourself. And to my work.”

I folded my arms, trying to shield myself from his stare, and failing. “You’re enjoying this.”

He smirked, dark and slow. “Immensely.”

I glared. “I’ll escape.”

He hummed, stepping past me. Paused at the door. “I hope so,” he murmured. “Chase makes everything more fun.”

Then he was gone.

Or so I thought.

The shadows rippled in his wake and I was left standing there with my skin flushed, my breathing uneven, and my thighs aching in ways I didn’t want to admit.

Then, I heard laughing, followed by the word… “Sleep.”