Page 32 of Carnival

James

“T his is her past week.’’

Casper tosses a thick file toward me, and I grab it, the chains around my wrists jiggling. My eyes flick toward his, and he’s passive, though I can tell he’s getting annoyed from following her around twenty-four hours a day. If he’s not near, someone else is, and she’s never unsupervised.

The file is packed with printed-out images from various places: her university, the park she took a walk in, and those stupidly irritating studying sessions she seems to be having as of late.

Not only does it piss me off that there’s a man who’s so desperate for her attention, but it pisses me off that she doesn’t know who he is.

One photo grabs my attention.

Rosalie’s sitting on the bench in the park, next to Aria. She’s dressed in thicker clothes, but nothing short of fashionable. Her tastes may have changed over the past two years, but she always looks like she came straight out of a magazine. Hair, makeup, and clothes to perfection.

It’s zoomed in, and her eyes are focused on the camera, almost as if she’d spotted it. Rosalie Ashford is a stunning woman, but there’s something far more alluring.

Her beauty is like rays of sunshine wrapped in a thick, callous storm. The light lurks beneath, peeking through the thick grey clouds. And when she smiles? It’s like the brightest star reborn, as if her whole purpose in life is to outshine everyone, to light up the world.

“Anything to report?” I ask, tapping the image with my index finger. Despite directing the question to my friend, I can’t tear my gaze off the image. There’s a slight smile on Rose’s face, and I’m getting fucking pissed that it’s not directed toward me.

She should only smile for me.

“Actually…’’ he responds, then takes a seat across from me. I force my eyes away from the image, then look at him. “Yes. But before you let your anger consume you, I need you to listen.’’

“Speak,’’ I say, jaw clenching.

“Approximately an hour ago, Aria De Santis went to her uncles and requested you to be released.’’

Immediately, I straighten in my seat. “Why?”

“Rosalie was kidnapped.’’

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Casper takes a deep breath. “Rosalie was kidnapped.’’

I don’t allow myself to process his words. I lunge for him across the table that’s separating us, and my hands immediately wrap around his throat. His eyes bulge out ever so slightly, a gasp coming from his mouth.

My fingers tighten around his neck, my nails digging into his flesh, slightly drawing blood. All reason leaves my body as I stare into his pleading eyes, and no matter how much I’d like to pull back and listen to him, my mind doesn’t allow it.

Casper’s face gets red, his hands clawing at my wrists to try and pry me off him, but it’s futile — my anger always fuels my strength, and unless he pulls his gun out and shoots me where I’m standing, nothing’s getting me off him.

“James,’’ he croaks, a blood vessel bursting in his right eye. “I can’t breathe.’’

“Evidently, you can,’’ I hiss, squeezing his throat. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you here, motherfucker. You had one job. One. Fucking. Job. And it was to keep an eye out for her, not let her get fucking kidnapped!’’

“It wasn’t Vivian,’’ he manages to utter, and I can barely hear him over the sound of my rapid heartbeat. I falter for a moment, loosening the grip enough for him to breathe in. Casper takes advantage of the situation to shove me back into my chair, and I don’t struggle against his hold.

“Jesus fucking Christ,’’ he gasps. “You’re one insane motherfucker. Why am I putting up with your mad-ass self?”

“Casper,’’ I warn, my tone low. “Speak before I pull your tongue out.’’

“Hudson’s been monitoring Vivian closely.’’ He sits back down, touching the spot where I’d strangled him. “Well, the organization itself. Aside from the shit you already know, nothing happened. So, earlier today, Rose came home, and well… someone waited.’’

Chills spread through my body, anger bubbling beneath the surface. I don’t interrupt him, allowing him to speak, but my hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles turning white.

“It’s Wyatt. Aria’s ex-boyfriend, which is why Aria wants you out. And congratulations, you’ll be out soon.’’

“Does she know where Rose is?”

“She suspects, but all of them are looking for her.’’

“That Wyatt bastard… tell me everything you know about him.’’

Casper immediately starts filling me in on the Aria and Wyatt situation, as well as the part Rose played in it.

I knew she was helping Aria with something and that they went to scout for information a while ago, but I didn’t know they were planning to kill the motherfucker.

Well, knowing Aria — which I don’t, I can only assume— she’ll get Wyatt alive and have him participate in the game of Kortlek.

The game is rather intriguing.

Aria, Arlo, Cove, and Blair are the hunters.

They gather the lowest of the low, the worst criminals possible, put them in one location, and then hunt them for fun.

Each prey is given a single weapon of their choosing, and the reward for killing the four hunters is massive, but it hasn’t happened.

It will never happen. Those four, as much as I fucking hate to admit it, are very fucking good at what they do.

“So,’’ I grip the table more, and if it weren’t metal, I’m pretty sure it would’ve snapped in half. “Let me get this straight. You were supposedly monitoring Rosalie, and somehow, you didn’t see her get fucking kidnapped?”

“I can’t be at two places at fucking once, James,’’ he scoffs. “I was on my way here when I got a message from Aria. So, I’m here now, telling you this. I’m unsure whether or not you have any belongings in here, but if you don’t, pack up. You’ll be a free man soon.’’

I don’t get to respond; the door opens, and two guards enter. They don’t ask anything, nor do they utter a word. Instead, each grabs me by the forearm and starts dragging me out of the room. I don’t fight it — my thoughts are preoccupied with Rose.

Once I’m alone in my cell, I sit on the most uncomfortable bed ever, lean against the filthy wall, and stare at the one across from me. There isn’t a single inch that is bare —all of it is covered in images of Rose.

From the past two years. Everything I’ve missed. Every smile, every night she spent alone, every milestone I wasn’t there to support her. Everything was documented, and everything is on the wall as a reminder of why I’m here, why I’m doing this.

To protect her.

Everything I’ve done in my life was to protect her. Everything I’ve ever done was to ensure she couldn’t be killed or worse, taken away from me. Not now.

My eyes skim through every individual photo stuck to the wall, and the desire to see her, to touch and own her, almost wins. I take a deep breath, holding onto the blazing fury in my veins. It’s the sole reason I’ve survived so long without her.

And one of the first people I’ll kill will be the motherfucker that dared to kiss her.