The storm had gentled to a soft drizzle, whispering against the top windows of the mortuary. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingling with the sterile bite of embalming chemicals. A gust of wind slithered through the open door, carrying with it the damp chill of the night and the faintest scent of wild jasmine, a scent that did not belong here. Ethan’s gaze settled on the woman before him. She stood motionless just beyond the threshold, her presence unsettlingly still, as if she were waiting to be invited in. The flickering fluorescent light caught the damp sheen of her skin, illuminating the sharp contrasts of her face,a delicate sculpture of pale ivory, dusted with freckles like faint constellations against a winter sky. Her eyes, deep brown with golden embers, held an intensity that made his breath tighten. They were large, framed by dark lashes that curled slightly at the tips, giving them a heavy-lidded, almost hypnotic quality.The light shimmered in them. catching the gleam of something unreadable, an emotion that teetered between hunger and amusement.
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Her hair, a wild tumble of chestnut curls, dripped with rain, loose tendrils clinging to her cheekbones. With a slow, deliberate motion, she lifted a slender hand and pushed the damp strands back, revealing the elegant curve of her jaw and the soft hollow of her throat. Her lips, full and dark like wine-stained velvet, parted slightly, as if savoring a secret. And then she stepped forward. Her boots made no harsh click against the tile; instead, they whispered, a soft hush of leather against the cold floor.
The air seemed to thicken with each step she took, her movements measured, almost catlike,a predator sizing up its prey, though her smile remained serene. Ethan forced himself to speak. “You never answered my question,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Why are you here?” A slow, almost lazy smile curled across her lips.
Her expression was unreadable,half amusement, half something deeper. “You’re an artist,” she said, her voice soft, smoky,a whisper wrapped in silk. Ethan’s brow furrowed.
“I’m a mortician.” Lillian tilted her head slightly, her damp curls shifting over her shoulder. “And I’m a painter.”
A single drop of water slipped from her hair, rolling down the side of her neck, disappearing beneath the high collar of her burgundy coat. “We do the same thing, really.
Our priority is to preserve. We make the decayed beautiful again. ”Something dark and electric curled inside him at her words.
He had spent years surrounded by the dead. untouched by judgment or understanding But now, standing before him, was a woman who spoke of his work not with unease, but with reverence. She took another step forward, the air between them growing charged. Ethan could see the faint smudge of charcoal beneath her fingernails, the artist’s mark—a contrast against the paleness of her slender fingers. “I paint death,” she murmured. His pulse quickened. Reaching into her coat, she retrieved a small, leather-bound sketchbook. The cover was aged, worn smooth by time and touch. She held it out to him, her fingers lingering just long enough for him to feel their warmth as he took it. Ethan turned through the pages, and his breath slowed. The sketches were haunting. Faces of the dead, their features painstakingly detailed,some frozen in eternal serenity, others captured in the raw moment before decay set in. Eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted as if they might still whisper. And then, his fingers stilled. His own mortuary. The last sketch was a near-perfect rendering of the very room they stood in,the embalming table, the flickering light, the cold metal cabinets . And at the center, drawn with unsettling precision, was Ethan himself. His breath hitched. “You’ve been here before.” Lillian’s eyes gleamed, her lips curving slightly. “Not physically.” His fingers clenched around the edges of the sketchbook. “Then how,” “I dream of places before I find them.” Her voice had softened, turning almost wistful. “And I’ve dreamt of this place for a long time.” The weight of her words settled between them, thick as smoke. Ethan’s gaze flickered back to the drawing. The details were too precise, too intimate— not just his stance or the sharpness of his jawline beneath the sterile light. It was his expression that made his stomach tighten. In the sketch, he was smiling. A slow, creeping unease slid down his spine. He had never smiled in this room. Not once. Lillian watched him, her head tilting slightly, studying him as if he were a subject on her canvas. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached forward, plucked the sketchbook from his hands, and tucked it back into her coat. “I wanted to see it for myself,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, almost reverent. “The place where you create.” Ethan studied her carefully. She spoke of death the way others spoke of poetry,with devotion, with longing. And yet, beneath that fascination, there was something else. Something darker. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Lillian smiled, slow and knowing, her golden-flecked eyes glinting beneath the dim light. “And yet, here I am.” A gust of wind rattled the window, sending shadows flickering across the walls. Outside, the last remnants of the storm whispered through the trees, rain-laden leaves trembling against their branches. Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a low, haunting call, its sound swallowed by the night.Ethan had spent his entire life among the dead, untouched by warmth, untouched by love .But now, standing before him was a woman who spoke his language. A woman who didn’t flinch at death but embraced it.And for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether he had met a kindred spirit or something far more dangerous. https://forsakenpages.blogspot.com/2025/06/chapter-2-predator-in-plain-sight-hells.html
