Page 34 of Silent Night

"Here you go, sweetheart," he cooed, handing the rabbit back to the girl. Internally, he recoiled from the interaction, but he kept his expression friendly and warm. As the girl hesitantly reached for her toy, her blue eyes flickered uncertainly between the rabbit and Jenson's face. Her mother watched the exchange closely, her body tense and ready to intervene.

Jenson's smile widened, though one of his cheeks twitched involuntarily. "It's alright," he reassured the mother, masking his annoyance at her scrutiny. "Just wanted to make sure she got her toy back."

"Thank you," the mother replied cautiously, her eyes never leaving Jenson's face as she guided her daughter away from him.

At least she knows to keep her distance from strange men, he thought.

As the mother and daughter disappeared into the crowd, Jenson's gaze flicked impatiently to the mall entrance once more, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. The din of conversations and laughter swirled around him, muffling the distant sound of a fountain and the soft tapping of footsteps on gleaming marble floors. Families and friends bustled past, weighed down with shopping bags and sugary treats, their faces flushed with excitement.

But all he could think about was Heather.

"Where is she?" he muttered under his breath. He clenched his jaw, thumbing through images of her dating profile in his mind. Her hobbies – hiking, cooking, painting – all seemed so trivial. Like a caricature of a person, not someone real.

He thought about the profile he'd created for himself, embellished with lies and half-truths designed to lure her in. It was shallow, too, nothing more than a carefully crafted façade. And yet, here he was, waiting for this woman who had agreed to meet him despite it all. Did she not sense the danger lurking beneath his words?

As Jenson's thoughts spiraled, a young woman approached from the entrance, her stride purposeful. His heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be Heather. But as she drew closer, he saw that her hair was the wrong color, her eyes not the same shade of green. Disappointment settled like a heavy weight on his chest.

"Stood up," he growled to himself, anger bubbling up inside him. "She couldn't even bother to show up."

Jenson's anger simmered just beneath the surface, as relentless as the pulsing of his temples. The clamor of the mall faded into a dull roar in his ears, the vibrant colors of the storefronts blurring into a monotonous haze. He clenched and unclenched his fists, each flex of his fingers driving home the humiliation he felt.

"Smart girl," he mused darkly, the words dripping with venom. "Maybe she's not as shallow as I thought." His eyes darted across the faces passing by, seeking another potential target for the rage that demanded an outlet. "If she's wise enough to stay away from me, maybe she deserves to live another day."

With a heavy sigh and a subtle grind of his teeth, Jenson pushed himself off the bench, his muscles tense with barely suppressed fury. As he turned to leave, however, a tentative voice called out behind him.

"Jenson?"

He froze, every nerve in his body poised like a tightly coiled spring. Slowly, he pivoted on his heel, and there she was: Heather, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, framing a face that was equal parts vulnerability and uncertainty. Her green eyes shimmered with an almost imperceptible trepidation, her lower lip held captive between her teeth.

"Sorry I'm late," she said softly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I got caught in traffic."

"Of course," Jenson replied, his voice cool and measured. Yet, inside, his thoughts raced like an engine revved to its limits. A part of him admired her boldness for showing up; another part seethed at the thought of what he'd been planning to do to her. Had she sensed the danger?

She looked even more attractive than her profile picture, and he couldn't help but admire her in the warm light. "You're even more beautiful than your photo," he said, his voice an expertly crafted blend of sincerity and warmth.

A delicate flush spread across her cheeks as she smiled shyly. "Thank you," she murmured, tucking a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Why don't we walk around and check out some shops?"

"Sounds great," Jenson agreed, his heart pounding with anticipation. He fell into step beside her, keeping his thoughts guarded as they strolled through the bustling mall.

Heather's perfume was a subtle floral scent that brought to mind a summer garden, and it tickled Jenson's senses as they entered a quaint gift shop near the food court. The narrow aisles were lined with shelves filled with trinkets and treasures—scented candles flickered invitingly, while delicate figurines posed gracefully on display. The air was rich with the mingled aromas of lavender and sandalwood, and the soft music of wind chimes tinkling in the background added a touch of whimsy to the atmosphere.

"Look at these," Heather said, gesturing toward a collection of hand-painted vases. "I love how each one is unique. You can really see the artist's touch."

"True," Jenson replied, studying the intricate patterns etched into the porcelain. But beneath his calm exterior, his mind raced with darker thoughts, struggling to conceal his true intentions from the woman beside him.

"What do you think of this?" Heather asked, picking up a sterling silver locket adorned with a single rose. She clasped it between her fingers, holding it up for Jenson to inspect.

"Beautiful," he said, his eyes briefly flicking to her face before focusing on the locket. "It really suits you."

"Thanks!" Heather grinned, a sparkle in her green eyes as she continued to browse. She reached for a stack of diaries with ornate covers and flipped through one, her fingers tracing the intricate designs. "I've always loved writing. There's something so therapeutic about putting your thoughts down on paper."

"I can see that," Jenson replied, feigning interest while covertly observing her slender neck, imagining the vulnerable pulse hidden beneath the soft skin. He fought the urge to tighten his grip on a nearby crystal paperweight, the cold glass sending chills up his spine.

"Are you much of a writer?" she asked, turning to him with an expectant smile.

"Not really," Jenson admitted, his voice measured. "I prefer more...hands-on activities."

"Ah, I see," she said, nodding. Little did she know just how true his words were—and how close she was to learning the truth for herself.

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