Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Hmm.
I stepped back inside and closed the door, locking the deadbolt with a quiet click. I left the box on the desk and walked back to the nightstand to set down my gun, , safe but always within reach.
I folded my arms over my chest and looked back at the carefully wrapped box, curiosity burning through my veins. I wasn’t sure if I should open it or not. It could be dangerous, or…
Well, damn it. I was too curious for my own good.
Before I could question my choices, I strode back to the desk, picked up the package, and tore the brown paper away. It was a plain cardboard box. There was no tape, and the flaps were simply folded shut, easy to open.
Maybe I should have been smarter.
Unfortunately, my choices lately have been questionable.
Because I opened the box.
The smell hit me first, copper and vaguely chemical, as if it was trying to mask the rot.
And then I saw it.
A hand.
A severed hand.
Real and human.
Oh God—
I blinked in utter shock, my heart leaping to my throat, and I tasted the bitter bile of nausea on my tongue.
It was severed cleanly at the wrist, the stump still bloodied, the fingers curled slightly inward as though still reaching for something it would never grasp again.
The skin was waxy, the nails trimmed and clean. A man’s hand. Large. The pinky finger bore a silver ring I somewhat recognized but couldn’t exactly place where I remembered it from.
The hand looked fresh. Hours old, perhaps. The flesh hadn’t even begun to discolor yet.
Oh my God.
Horror coursed through my body as realization finally dawned on me.
I dropped the box. It hit the carpet with a muffled thump, and the hand slid free, landing on the rug, fingers splayed open in grotesque invitation.
A thin smear of dark blood trailed from the severed wrist.
My stomach churned violently, and I swallowed back the urge to retch.
It wasn’t from the evidence of this perceived violence… I had seen worse, after all. But from the intentionality of it.
This wasn’t an accident or collateral damage.
It was a cold, calculated message, carefully delivered to my door in the dead of night by someone who knew exactly which room was mine.
And I knew only one person who had that information.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice came from behind me, low and unhurried, and every muscle in my body locked into place.
I knew that voice the way I knew my own heartbeat—the dark, ruthless cadence of it, the way it dropped to a near-whisper at the edges of certain words, the quiet controlled tone that proved he was always composed.
I turned.
And finally came face to face with my dear husband.
I wasn’t trapped between a wall and his body this time.
Adrian stood in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his pants, so nonchalantly, like he owned every space of it.
My fists clenched at my sides.
“Serafina,” he drawled, his tongue rolling over every syllable as if he were tasting my name.
I peeked over my shoulder at the door I had locked, and it remained locked.
The windows behind him were also closed, and yet, somehow, Adrian was in my room.
“How did you get in this room?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite everything else I was feeling.
Adrian simply shrugged a shoulder, his lips twitching in that arrogant way I despised so much. “I was always here. I’m actually a little offended you didn’t realize that sooner.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Almost like he could hear my confusion, a low chuckle escaped him. He jerked his head to the side, motioning toward the bed.
My brow furrowed. Huh?
“Under the bed, wife.”
My jaw dropped. Disbelief crashed through me, but I barely had a chance to process it before reckless violence took over. I dashed for the knife on the coffee table at the same time he anticipated my move and lunged for me.
This time, I was quicker.
The knife found its way to his throat with the fluid efficiency of muscle memory. The tip rested against the soft hollow beneath his jaw, pressed into the warm skin where his pulse beat steady and unhurried. It was a lethal promise.
My hand was steady despite the fury pounding through my veins.
One small push. That was all it would take to cut through his jugular. Adrian Salvatore wasn’t as invincible as he thought he was.
He was, after all, only flesh and blood. Like the man he severed the hand from.
“You moved again. I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured, and his voice was low and infuriatingly calm.
I pressed harder. The blade bit through the surface of his skin. It wasn’t deep, not yet, but it was enough.
A crimson bead welled beneath the sharp edge before trailing down the powerful column of his neck in a thin, deliberate line. It traced the tendon before disappearing beneath the open collar of his black shirt.