In His Hands

Chapter 1 – The Embroidered Dream

The alley behind Rue des Ombres smelled of wet brick, copper, and something sweeter—something that didn’t belong.

Rain had turned the narrow passage into a shallow black mirror. Silas Reed stepped under the single stuttering streetlamp and felt the cold immediately settle into the meat of his shoulders. His boots made soft, deliberate slaps against the pooling water as he ducked beneath the yellow crime-scene tape. The wind carried the low murmur of uniforms talking, radios crackling, but the sound seemed to die the moment it reached the body.

She lay exactly in the center of the alley, face-up, arms arranged in soft supplication across what used to be her ribcage.

Silas stopped three paces away.

The first thing that registered was the wings.

Someone had peeled the skin from her back in one continuous sheet—clean, surgical, no ragged tearing. Then they had sliced that sheet neatly into four equal quadrants and fanned them outward behind her like enormous, wet petals. Each “wing” was still connected at the base of her spine by thin red threads of remaining fascia. Blood had drained from the edges in slow, syrupy rivulets, pooling beneath her in a perfect dark halo that reflected the sodium light in trembling orange coins. The skin itself was pale, almost luminous against the filthy asphalt, stretched taut and glistening. In the flickering lamplight the four flaps looked alive, as though they might flutter if the wind shifted just right.

Silas exhaled through his nose. The air tasted like iron.

He moved closer.

Her face came into focus next.

The eyes were sewn shut—thick black thread, neat blanket stitches, the kind a child might use on a stuffed toy. The mouth had been cut wider than humanly possible: from the corners of her lips straight back toward the ears in two clean, curving lines. The flesh gaped in a permanent, ecstatic smile, teeth gleaming wetly inside. Rainwater had collected in the hollows of her cheeks and trickled down like tears she could no longer shed. The expression was peaceful in the most obscene way imaginable—sleeping, smiling, dreaming of something beautiful while the rest of her had been turned inside out.

Silas crouched.

The chest cavity had been opened with precision. No frantic hacking, no broken ribs. A single vertical incision, sternum to navel, then the ribs cracked outward like a book left open too long. Everything inside was gone. Lungs, liver, stomach—taken. Only the heart was conspicuously missing, the empty space dark and glossy, already beginning to fill with rainwater. A small, perfect lake inside her.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. Her hair—long, dark blonde—was fanned out around her head in a sodden halo, strands plastered across her smiling mouth. A silver stud still glittered in one earlobe. Her nails were painted pale lavender, chipped at the tips. She had been someone who laughed, who texted her friends at 2 a.m., who maybe still believed the world could be gentle.

Silas felt the familiar weight settle behind his sternum.

He was thirty-four and already tired of counting how many faces like hers he had seen arranged like this—pretty things turned into grotesque art. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against his palm. His breath fogged briefly in the cold.

“Young,” he muttered, the word flat and useless in the rain.

Behind him, a uniform cleared his throat. “Forensics is ten minutes out, Detective. Coroner’s office said Dr. Drayce is coming personally.”

Silas didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on the girl’s sewn-shut lids, on the faint purple bruising already blooming beneath the stitches.

“Drayce,” he repeated, quieter.

The name hung in the wet air like smoke.

He stood slowly, knees cracking, shoulders rolling back until the leather of his jacket creaked. The movement made his shirt pull tight across the broad swell of his chest, the slight give of his stomach pressing against the fabric. He didn’t notice. He was still looking at her—at the impossible smile, at the four wings of skin spread behind her like she had tried to fly and someone had pinned her down instead.

The rain kept falling.

Somewhere deeper in the city, a gloved hand was already moving again—calm, methodical, almost tender.

Silas took one last look at the girl who would never wake up from that smiling dream.

Then he turned toward the mouth of the alley, where the shadows thickened and waited.

The rain had thickened into a steady, whispering curtain by the time headlights sliced through the mouth of the alley.

A sleek black sedan eased to a stop just beyond the tape. The engine cut off with a soft click that felt too polite for a place like this. The driver’s door opened, and Cassius Drayce stepped out.

Even in the piss-poor lighting, he moved like someone who had never once doubted gravity would obey him. Long coat of charcoal wool draped over broad shoulders, collar turned up against the wet. He paused for half a second to survey the scene—head tilted slightly, as though listening to music no one else could hear—then ducked under the tape with the same unhurried grace he might use to enter a ballroom.

Silas watched him approach from the corner of his eye.

Cassius was tall enough that most people had to tilt their heads to meet his gaze, but he never loomed. He simply occupied space the way a blade occupies its sheath: perfectly fitted, perfectly still, until it wasn’t. Raindrops caught in his dark hair and slid down the sharp planes of his face without ever seeming to disturb him. Pale gray-green eyes scanned the body first—clinical, appreciative—then lifted to find Silas.

A small smile curved his mouth. Not wide. Not warm. Just enough to acknowledge that they were both here, both breathing, both looking at the same ruin.

Silas felt the familiar prickle along his nape.

They had crossed paths maybe six times in the last two years—autopsies, case briefings, the occasional late-night consult when the bodies refused to give up their secrets easily. Not enough for real familiarity. Just enough for Silas to notice things he probably shouldn’t.

The way Cassius’s gaze sometimes lingered a beat too long.

The way his voice dropped half an octave when he said Silas’s name.

The way those elegant hands—always gloved—moved with a kind of deliberate care, as though every touch was measured for maximum effect.

Silas was gay. He knew attraction when it looked at him.

And Cassius Drayce looked at him like a man who had already decided what he wanted to do with something fragile and beautiful.

Silas gave a short nod in return—tight, professional. Nothing more. He didn’t trust smiles that precise.

Cassius returned the nod, smile never quite fading, then stepped past him toward the body.

The forensic pathologist crouched beside the girl with the same fluid economy Silas had seen him use at every scene. Coat parted just enough to reveal the tailored shirt beneath, sleeves already rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean, dry muscle. He didn’t touch her yet. He simply studied the arrangement: the four wings of skin, the sewn eyes, the Glasgow smile, the hollowed chest.

“Exquisite,” Cassius murmured, almost to himself. The word was so soft it could have been lost in the rain, but Silas heard it anyway.

Silas’s jaw tightened.

He turned away before the word could settle too deeply in his chest. He needed to move. Needed to do something useful before the cold and the smell and the weight of Cassius’s presence started pressing too hard against his ribs.

He walked a slow perimeter around the body, boots splashing through shallow puddles. Flashlight beam swept the brick walls, the overflowing dumpster, the rusted fire escape that led nowhere. He was looking for drag marks, footprints that didn’t match the uniforms, anything the rain hadn’t already erased. His breath came out in short clouds. His shoulders felt heavy—thick muscle shifting under damp fabric, the slight give of his middle pressing against his belt when he bent to examine a smear of something dark near the wall.

Blood? Paint? Too early to tell.

Behind him, Cassius spoke again, voice calm and low, carrying just far enough.

“Silas.”

He didn’t turn immediately. Let the name hang there for a second.

“Yeah?”

“The stitching on the eyelids. It’s not surgical thread. Too coarse. Almost… decorative. Like embroidery floss.”

Silas finally looked back.

Cassius was still crouched, one gloved finger hovering an inch above the black thread without touching it. His eyes lifted to meet Silas’s—steady, unreadable, yet somehow brighter than they should have been in the sodium gloom.

“Someone took their time,” Cassius continued. That small smile again. “They wanted her to look peaceful.”

Silas held the gaze a second longer than he meant to.

Something moved behind those pale eyes—not hunger, not exactly. More like recognition. Like a predator catching the scent of another creature that might, under different circumstances, have been prey.

Or partner.

Silas broke eye contact first.

He clicked off the flashlight and shoved it into his coat pocket. “I’m going to check the far end of the alley. See if the rain missed anything.”

Cassius inclined his head, elegant even in agreement. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

Silas walked deeper into the shadows, rain drumming against his shoulders, the girl’s smiling face burned behind his eyelids.

He told himself it was the crime scene making his pulse kick harder.

The gore.

The artistry of it.

Not the man still crouched beside her, gloved hands folded neatly, watching Silas go with the quiet patience of someone who already knew exactly how this would end.

The alley stretched on.

And the rain kept falling, soft and relentless, washing everything clean except the things that refused to be washed away.

Silas found Officer Torres near the mouth of the alley, clipboard in hand, rain dripping off the brim of her cap. She was one of the good ones—quiet, thorough, didn’t waste words. She looked up as he approached, already flipping pages.

“Victim’s ID’d,” she said without preamble. “Lena Moreau. Twenty-three. Senior at St. Augustine University—art history major. Last seen yesterday afternoon leaving her 4 p.m. seminar. Professor reported her missing when she didn’t show for a group project meeting this morning. Phone’s off, no activity on socials since 3:47 p.m. yesterday.”

Silas took the slim file she handed him. A printed photo was clipped to the front: Lena smiling in a sunlit quad, hair loose, lavender nail polish catching the light. The same nails that were now chipped and blood-streaked on the asphalt behind him.

“Family?” he asked.

“Parents in Portland. They’re being notified now. No siblings. We’ve got her roommate and two closest classmates en route to the station for interviews. Tech’s pulling her phone records and campus security footage. Should have a preliminary relationship map by morning.”

Silas nodded, scanning the rest of the page—class schedule, dorm address, part-time barista job at a coffee shop two blocks from campus. Nothing jumped out yet. Nothing ever did at first.

“Good. I’ll head to the roommate first. See if she was acting off, if anyone was following her, if she mentioned anyone new.” He closed the file, tucking it inside his jacket. “Tell the team to cross-check her social circle against any recent campus incidents—stalking reports, restraining orders, even petty shit like harassment in group chats.”

Torres gave a sharp nod and stepped away to relay the orders.

Silas turned back toward the body, already mentally mapping the next twelve hours: roommate interview, coffee-shop coworkers, last-seen timeline, retrace her walk from the lecture hall. The rain was starting to feel personal, soaking through the shoulders of his jacket, chilling the thick muscle there until it ached.

He was two steps toward his car when movement caught his eye.

Cassius Drayce had finished with the body.

The pathologist straightened in one smooth motion, peeling off his gloves with practiced care. He dropped them into a biohazard bag held open by an assistant, then moved to the portable sink station the techs had set up under a tarp. Water hissed as he scrubbed his hands—long, deliberate strokes, suds sliding over corded forearms. Even washing his hands looked elegant, like a ritual. He dried them on a sterile towel, folded it once, set it aside. Then he turned and walked straight toward Silas.

Silas felt his brows draw together before he could stop them.

He didn’t want this conversation.

Not now.

Not with the man who had just crouched over a mutilated girl and called the carnage exquisite.

Cassius stopped a respectful distance away—close enough to speak quietly, far enough that Silas didn’t feel crowded. Raindrops slid down the collar of his coat and disappeared without leaving a mark. Those pale eyes met Silas’s again, calm, unhurried.

“Detective Reed,” Cassius said, voice low enough that the rain almost swallowed it. “A moment, if you don’t mind.”

Silas crossed his arms. The motion pulled his shirt tight across his chest and the softer curve of his middle. He kept his expression flat—professional, nothing more.

“What is it, Dr. Drayce?”

Cassius tilted his head slightly, studying Silas the way he had studied the body moments earlier. Not predatory exactly. More… appreciative. Like he was cataloguing details for later use.

“I’ve completed the preliminary external exam,” he said. “I’ll have a full autopsy report by tomorrow afternoon, but there are a few observations I thought you should hear now.”

Silas waited. Didn’t prompt. Didn’t give him anything extra.

Cassius’s small smile returned—barely there, almost tender.

“The wings,” he began, “were not cut post-mortem. The edges show active bleeding—small vessel transections, microvascular rupture. She was alive when he started peeling. Conscious, most likely. The pain would have been… exquisite.” He paused, as though tasting the word again. “But he didn’t want her to scream. The mouth was cut after death—post-mortem lividity confirms it. The sewing of the eyes, however, was done while her heart was still beating. The thread tension indicates she was still blinking against it.”

Silas’s stomach turned, slow and heavy.

He kept his face blank.

Cassius continued, voice never rising. “The heart was removed with surgical precision—median sternotomy, ribs spread with a standard retractor pattern. No hesitation marks. Whoever did this has done it before. Or has studied it extensively.”

Silas exhaled through his nose. “Anything else?”

Cassius’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second—to Silas’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “Only that she fought. Fingernail scrapings under her own nails. Skin cells, possibly the killer’s. I’ve already bagged them for DNA. And there’s a faint contusion at the base of her skull—enough to stun, not enough to kill. He took her down quickly, then took his time.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the tarp overhead.

Silas felt the prickle again—that same awareness from earlier. Cassius wasn’t just delivering facts. He was watching Silas receive them. Watching the way Silas’s jaw flexed, the way his thick shoulders shifted under the damp leather.

Silas didn’t like being watched like that.

He stepped back half a pace. “Appreciate the prelim. Send the full report when it’s ready.”

Cassius inclined his head—graceful, accepting. “Of course. I’ll make sure you get it first.”

Silas turned to go.

“Detective,” Cassius said softly.

Silas paused, back still to him.

Cassius’s voice dropped even lower. “Be careful with this one. He’s… particular. He likes his work to be seen.”

Silas didn’t answer.

He walked away through the rain, boots splashing, the file inside his jacket pressing against his chest like a cold hand.

Behind him, Cassius remained where he was—hands in his coat pockets, posture straight and still, rain tracing clean paths down his perfect features.

Watching.

Always watching.

The rain had eased to a fine, cold mist by the time Silas pulled up outside St. Augustine University’s east dorms. The campus looked softer in the dark—streetlamps haloed, brick walkways glistening like they’d been polished. He parked crooked in a visitor spot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment with the file open on his lap. Lena Moreau’s photo stared back at him: bright eyes, easy smile, the kind of youth that made the crime scene feel even more obscene.

He zipped his jacket higher, stepped out, and headed for Hawthorne Hall.

The resident advisor met him in the lobby—a tired grad student named Priya who smelled faintly of instant coffee and anxiety. She led him up three flights of stairs that smelled of damp carpet and cheap body spray.

“Lena’s room is 312,” Priya said, voice hushed like the hallway might be listening. “Her roommate’s waiting. Mara Voss. She’s… shaken.”

Silas nodded. “Anyone else on the floor notice anything off yesterday?”

Priya shook her head. “She was in and out like normal before class. Said hi in the kitchen around noon, grabbed lunch, headed out. No weird vibes from anyone. Just… quiet after that.”

They stopped outside 312. Priya knocked once, then stepped aside.

The door opened almost immediately.

Mara Voss was small, dark-haired, freckled, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry now, like she’d already cried herself empty. She looked Silas up and down—taking in the broad shoulders, the damp leather jacket stretched tight across his chest, the way he filled the doorway without trying—and stepped back to let him in.

The room was small, lived-in, split down the middle by an invisible line. Lena’s side: art prints taped to the wall, textbooks stacked neatly, a half-dead succulent on the windowsill. Mara’s side: more chaotic—clothes draped over the chair, laptop glowing with paused Netflix.

Silas stayed near the door. No need to crowd her yet.

“Mara,” he said, keeping his voice low and even. “I’m Detective Reed. I’m sorry about Lena.”

Mara’s throat worked. She nodded, arms wrapped tight around herself.

“Mind if we talk?”

She gestured to the desk chair. Silas took it carefully, the wood creaking under his weight. Mara perched on the edge of Lena’s bed, knees drawn up.

Priya excused herself with a murmur about checking on the floor. The door clicked shut.

Silas opened his notebook but didn’t write yet. He let the silence sit.

Mara broke first.

“She was fine,” she said, voice small. “Like, really fine. All week she was humming, smiling at her phone. I thought maybe she’d met someone. She’s been on this app—Velvet, I think? She didn’t talk about it much, just said he was ‘different.’ Older, maybe. Charming. She showed me one picture once—dark hair, nice jaw—but she wouldn’t let me swipe through. Said it felt private.”

Silas nodded slowly. “She mention a name?”

Mara shook her head. “No. Just… she lit up when the notifications came in. I teased her about it. She laughed. Said he made her feel seen.”

“Yesterday?”

Mara’s gaze dropped to her hands. Her expression flickered—concern, quick and raw. Silas caught it, filed it away.

“Yesterday morning, she was different,” Mara said quietly. “We had breakfast together around 10 a.m. She seemed off—distracted, checking her phone every two minutes, then turning it face-down like she was mad at it. I asked if everything was okay. She said yeah, just a rough night. But she looked like she’d been crying a little. Puffy eyes, you know?”

Silas leaned forward slightly. “Angry? Scared?”

“More… hurt. Disappointed, maybe. Like someone let her down. She kept flexing her hands, and that’s when I noticed her nails—there was stuff under them. Like skin flakes. Or dried blood. Tiny bits. I asked her about it. She sighed, rolled her eyes a bit, and said she got into a small fight the night before. Nothing serious. Just grabbed someone’s arm too hard or something during an argument. She washed them right after, said it was fine, that she handled it.”

Silas felt the prickle again, sharper this time.

“Did she say who? Or what the fight was about?”

“No. Just brushed it off. Changed the subject to class stuff. She left for her 4 p.m. seminar around 3:30, bag over her shoulder, still seeming a little down but not enough to worry me then. That was the last time I saw her. She didn’t come back last night. I figured maybe she crashed at a friend’s or something. Until the professor called this morning…”

Mara looked up at him then, eyes glassy. “I should’ve pushed. I should’ve asked more.”

Silas closed the notebook. “You couldn’t have known. No one could’ve.”

He stood, slow so he wouldn’t startle her. The chair groaned in relief.

“I’ll need her phone records, any screenshots she might’ve shown you, the app login if you know it. We’ll get her device from evidence soon, but anything you remember—messages, nicknames, places they talked about meeting—write it down. Even small stuff helps.”

Mara nodded, swallowing hard.

Silas paused at the door. “One more thing. Did she ever bring anyone here? Meet anyone in person that you saw?”

“No. She was careful. Said she liked keeping it online until she was sure. But lately… she mentioned maybe meeting up soon. With him, I think.”

Silas gave her a small nod—professional, not pitying.

“Thank you, Mara. We’ll be in touch.”

He stepped into the hallway. The door closed softly behind him.

Outside, the mist had turned to drizzle again. Silas walked back to his car, mind turning over the pieces: a dating app, a sudden mood shift that morning, skin under her nails from a “small fight” the night before, a man who made her feel “seen.”

He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and let the heater blast warm air against his chilled skin.

His phone buzzed—Torres.

Preliminary canvas from the coffee shop: Lena worked closing shift two nights ago. Coworker says she seemed distracted, kept smiling at her phone. Left at 10:15 p.m. alone. No one saw her after. Campus security pulling footage from her last class exit now.

Silas stared at the message, thumb hovering.

Somewhere in the city, a man with dark hair and a nice jaw was probably still smiling at his own phone.

Or maybe not smiling at all.

He pulled out of the lot, tires hissing on wet pavement, heading toward the station.

The night felt heavier now.

And somewhere behind those perfect stitches and elegant wings, something was still arranging its next move.