The house was completely silent, save for the gentle snoring of its occupants, and the steady drip of the kitchen tap downstairs.
Tate Langdon crept stealthily down the hallway with catlike grace. Every footstep was utterly silent. The black latex suit covered him from head to toe, as if he was slicked in oil. It clung to his every curve, but was surprisingly flexible, and allowed him to sneak through the house without uttering so much as a whisper.
Violet's room was empty: Tate knew this as soon as he stepped inside. Her presence was warm and welcoming; he was drawn to her like a moth to a bright light. When she was near, his world was a kaleidoscope of vibrant colour—when she was gone, Tate felt empty, stuck in a colourless void.
He spotted himself in her mirror: a tall, lean figure, shining like liquid night. He unzipped the mask, revealing pale skin and a shock of tousled blonde hair. Tate saw the familiar purple rings under his dark eyes, the small scar on his cheek that brought back childhood memories.
But he didn't see Tate Langdon. He saw a monster. He saw a cruel, heartless murderer who raped mothers and torched stepfathers.
Tate detested himself.
Tate hated everything he had done—all because he had met Violet. She'd been right—he was the darkness, no matter how desperately he tried to change it.
His only hope was Violet—sweet, sweet Violet. She was as good as he was bad. His love for her was like the hope trapped in Pandora's box, weak sunlight filtering through the riot of bad thoughts spinning around his head.
Violet. Violet was all he needed.