Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
“This isn’t a fucking kill room,” Axle muttered behind me, his voice low with disgust.
My flashlight drifted slowly over the shelves again. “It’s an archive.”
This was creepy as fuck. Unlike typical serial killers, Magnus wasn’t just collecting trophies. He thought he was preserving history.
Shifter opened one of the storage boxes carefully while Century moved deeper into the room with his weapon drawn. Inside the box sat dozens of handwritten notes, old photographs, restoration sketches, and ritual diagrams preserved in plastic sleeves.
“All cataloged just as carefully,” Shifter murmured.
I moved toward another shelf and pulled one of the journals free. The pages were filled with neat handwriting detailing symbolic pairings, historical references, ceremonial staging, body positioning, herb usage, clothing selection, and ritual timelines. There were side-by-side comparisons between historical memorial portraits and Magnus’s intended recreations.
My jaw locked tighter the further I read. The psychotic motherfucker wasn’t improvising any of this. He’d built an entire methodology around it.
“Son of a bitch,” Century muttered from somewhere deeper in the room. “Asshole isn’t fucking here.”
I stepped toward a large worktable near the center of the room, where dozens of papers sat spread beneath a green banker’s lamp.
It was clearly Magnus’s desk. And as I looked it over, that was when shit hit the fan.
The files spread across the surface weren’t random notes or historical research anymore. They were women.
Fuck. This was victim research.
Photographs paper-clipped beside typed behavioral notes. Schedules. Work routines. Symbolic matching criteria based on appearance, education, profession, and personality traits. Magnus had reduced human beings into historical components he could organize and classify.
My pulse slowed dangerously, my body and mind going cold as I got even more focused and fucking lethal.
I flipped through page after page while fury built inside me with every detail I absorbed. Then my hand stopped abruptly. Surveillance photographs. Looking at the dates, they were recent ones—going back to shortly after I stopped seeing signs of someone watching the compound.
They were all of one woman. A young blonde who resembled Delaney in a lot of ways, except for the round glasses often perched on her nose. She was mid-twenties, maybe. According to his notes, she was a museum employee, and her badge was visible in several shots. The photos tracked her movements—coffee shop, parking garage, university archive building, apartment entrance. Every image had handwritten notes in the margins. Observed behaviors and isolation tendencies. Physical similarities. Symbolic suitability.
Then I spotted a photo that wasn’t from a modern camera. It was just as Delaney described. A funerary portrait of two women, ones who closely matched the appearance of Delaney and the woman in the photographs. It all turned my stomach.
Until I flipped that over to scan the final page, clipped neatly to the stack. It was a preparation schedule. Then my blood went ice cold.
“Fuck,” I growled.
The room went still behind me, and Axle appeared at my side. “What?”
My tone was low and deadly as I held up the sheaf of papers.
“He’s already picked his replacement.”
14
DELANEY
Ifelt more at home in the compound with every passing day. Protected behind their gates, I was developing friendships that I hoped would last a lifetime.
I sat by the pool with Hadley and Lark, enjoying an unusually hot December afternoon. Hadley lounged in a chair, her six-month pregnant belly rounded with twins, while Lark sat beside her with a peaceful smile. Lark’s pregnancy was still early and barely showed, and her seven-month-old daughter Isabella was napping inside the clubhouse.
“You’re glowing, Delaney,” Hadley teased, sipping her lemonade.
Lark grinned and nodded. “Seriously. The way Rev looks at you? It’s only a matter of time before you’ve got a property patch on your back.”
“I’m not his old lady,” I protested with a laugh, shaking my head as heat rushed into my cheeks. “We’re…I don’t even know what we are right now.”
Hadley raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You’re living in his room, wearing his shirts half the time, and he snarls at any brother who gets too close. Lark is right, it’s just a matter of time.”
Before I could argue further, Soren crossed the patio with a purposeful stride, his eyes locked on me the entire way. When he got close, he dropped onto the chair beside mine and pulled me onto his lap, one strong arm wrapping around my waist as he settled me against his chest.
“Missed you,” he murmured against my temple, just loud enough for Hadley and Lark to hear. His hand spread possessively over my hip, his fingers stroking lightly as he held me close.
My heart fluttered hard at the open claim. I liked that he didn’t hide how much he wanted me, and how everyone accepted it as though the way he acted like I was his so soon was completely natural. Even if it meant I got teased by my new friends sometimes.
It also terrified me. I wanted a future with Soren more than anything in a long time, but I was convinced he wouldn’t want me long-term if I refused to give him children, given how often he talked about getting me pregnant. Although if I didn’t stop letting him come inside me, it might happen whether I wanted it to or not. He was just so freaking irresistible, I couldn’t think straight when he had his hands and body all over me.