Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Though it’s clear to me why he might be hesitating and I don’t like it one bit.
He licks his lips, staring down the narrow flight of stairs leading to the bowels of my home. I can see the exact moment he makes his decision when he swallows and takes a deep breath before grabbing my hand with his warm fingers. “I need to see it.”
His hand is slender, but his grip is strong, as if he’s seeking reassurance, and I’m more than happy to give it.
I lead the way down feeling like a winner. He trusts me. I showed him who I am today on our date. My creative side when decorating cookies, how playful I can be at the ice rink, and that I’m willing to try new things when we sampled boar pâté. Now, he’ll get to know all of me.
He’s silent and tense when we pass the cell in which I held him, but past it is my workshop, and as I switch on the light, revealing my kingdom, he squeezes my hand more firmly.
The space is extensive, as I gathered many tools here over the years. A large table of raw wood occupies one side while my finished trophies stand on a shelf opposite the work space.
“It’s a bit messy, sorry, I wasn’t expecting a guest,” I say, leading him inside. I’m feeling a bit vulnerable, as though I’m letting him touch my beating heart without gloves, but a part of me knows he’ll be gentle. I can see it in his eyes that deep down he’s very sensitive.
Blake steps toward the shelf full of large snow globes with wooden bottoms just as I switch on the lights illuminating my work. His jaw goes slack with recognition, and he looks back at me, pointing to the lone car standing in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by naked trees and snow, a human head displayed on the hood and wrapped with a red ribbon.
“The George Howe murder,” Blake says in a breathy voice before examining the other pieces in my collection. “Iris Shakti. And Donald Robson. You made these?” he asks excitedly and rubs his chin, shifting his weight. “What is it? Wood? Resin? 3D print?”
“Yes, I make them. They’re cast in resin for pieces that are unique and some elements, like the car, I bought. They’re the kind of miniatures I can’t exactly put in the tiny town in the shop.” My heart beats faster at the fascination in his eyes. “Each one represents an official Christmas Killer murder. So the copycat isn’t included and the like. And I even have one for the killing in 1912, but there’s no snow in it because—let me show you.”
I pick up the Howe one and hand it to Blake. When he looks at it with adoration, I know I’ve found my person. He’s just slower to acknowledge how well we fit together. But that’s okay. I’ll give him time.
“Shake it,” I encourage Blake with a smile, and when he does, a flurry of white whirls in the liquid.
Blake frowns and sends me a curious glance, as if asking what he’s supposed to notice.
“That’s the teeth. I shave them into the tiniest flakes. I like to think that it’s poetic justice to take a predator’s teeth. Each of the globes contains the shavings from the specific kill.” I point to the shelf as his eyes widen.
“Oh. My. God,” he utters and shakes the globe again, marvelling at the spiralling motion of the shavings. “That’s so—”
Cool? Creative? Morbid?
Air leaves Blake’s lungs as he puts the globe down with the care it deserves as a one-of-a-kind artefact. “Those are the best trophies in the history of serial killings.”
I stand taller, filled with pride. “Thank you! They take a lot of time and effort to make. But I get to relive all the details whenever I handle them. Come, I’ll show you the other trinkets,” I say excitedly and pull on his hand, leading him to my table, where teeth are carefully arranged on a steel tray. “They’re the copycat’s, I’ve been experimenting with making them into a tiny ornament.” I hand him a magnifying glass so he can see the details of my carvings. “They’re supposed to be snowman heads, but I’ll add the carrot noses when I’m done linking them all with a chain.”
“Oh, wow,” Blake utters, resting his elbows on the table as he manoeuvres the magnifying glass to see every little detail. He’s so focused he doesn’t know how tempting his ass looks when he pushes back his hips, and I don’t plan on making it known. But eventually, he rises to face me, and I place my unfinished project on a cabinet by the wall, where it can’t be as easily pushed off.
“You are an artist! You should take commissions. I mean, not with teeth, obviously, but maybe custom snow globes?”