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The bar was almost empty. Just the kind of place where the unwanted came to vanish into brown liquor and busted neon lights. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, and the smell of old smoke clung to the wood-paneled walls like a second skin. Sienna Fields sat at the end of the counter, her black leather gloves still on. She sipped whiskey neat, her lipstick perfect, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t here for conversation. She was here because she liked the dark. It kept her urges company. Her target had already left. A man she’d followed from the gas station didn’t meet her standards—too cautious. Too clean. She was about to call the night a loss when a voice cut through the silence beside her. "You planning to drink that man to death, or were you waiting for something stronger?" She turned her head slowly. He was tall, lean, dressed in black like her, with tired eyes and a crooked grin that suggested he knew more about death than most. He stirred his bourbon but hadn’t touched it. His hands were still. Still and calm. Sienna studied him. “You always open with serial killer lines, or am I just special?” The man chuckled. “Only for women who sit with their back to the door and order whiskey without blinking.” She arched a brow. “You profile everyone this hard?” “No. Just the dangerous ones.” Their eyes locked. Something passed between them—an understanding. A pulse of recognition. Not the kind lovers share. The kind predators feel when they recognize another beast in the room. He offered his hand. “Cameron.” She took it. “Sienna.” They didn't smile. Didn’t need to. The storm outside grew louder, but inside, time slowed. For two killers who lived by instinct and impulse, this wasn’t chance. This was fate. By midnight, they were in a motel off Route 17. The sheets were scratchy, the wallpaper peeled in corners, and the room smelled of old cigarettes and forgotten secrets. It was perfect. He asked nothing. She offered no explanations. Their hands explored each other like maps made of scars and bruises. There was no love. Not yet. Only fire. When it was over, Sienna stood naked at the window, the rain cascading down the glass like blood on marble. Cameron lit a cigarette and watched her. Then she said, “There’s a man in Room 203. He watched me earlier in the bar. I think he followed me here.” Cameron exhaled smoke. “You want him gone?” She turned, eyes blazing with something other than fear. “I want to bury him.” He grinned. Ten minutes later, Room 203 was silent. By dawn, they were back in Cameron’s car, muddy and breathless, a shallow grave behind them and something new burning in their chests. Not guilt. Not shame. Joy. The kind only monsters in love can feel.

Lover's Lane

ProudMommy0321

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The First Spark

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About Author

Ceria Mcgrone

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