Page 17 of Carved Obsession

But first, I have to do more research on her. Her family. I need to see what impact her death would have on us. Or, at the very least, her sudden disappearance.

My phone vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket to find a text from Maddox.

Any updates?

I ponder for a few seconds, but as I start the car and pop it into gear, I relent and admit to myself that I have to let The Sanctum know. This concerns them as much as it concerns me. I swipe Maddox’s name on the phone screen, and he answers in two rings.

“Are you good?”he asks on the other line.

“Yes.”

“You found her, I presume. Is she . . . ?”

“No,” I say before he finishes the question he can’t ask over the phone.

“You sound frustrated.”

Do I?

“I’m good. Are you all at Midnight?”

“For now. I’m heading to The Fightclub to train for tomorrow, Finn has some business to tend to, and Vin is heading home before going to Morrigan’s club.”

What a great fucking idea Vincent has. Metamorphosis is just the place to replace the incessant image of the woman with dark eyes and silky walnut-colored hair.

I just need a play partner who can actually do the job, because I have a feeling removing that particular vixen out of my mind will be damn near impossible.

“I’m coming over to give you all an update.” I hang up before he can say anything else.

The drive goes by both too fast and too slow. Fifteen minutes didn’t seem like enough time to formulate a plan that would make sense to mybrothers.They’ll expect results. Retribution. And all I have to offer is fascination blended with confusion, and neither will satisfy their—our—need as The Sanctum.

I feel selfish, and I’m not sure how to justify this.

I’m not even sure any of them will expect me to justify it, but they will be curious. That’s why I’m standing in front of this back door, staring at the reinforced metal like it can give me an answer. I’m the heartless one of the group. I’m the one who gets the job done with no remorse or thought wasted. I hunt, I catch, and then I carve. No afterthought given when it’s all for us and our safety.

Yet...they’ll know something is different. That’s the problem when you let people get close for so long. And I have no idea how to show them it’s not different at all.

Because I don’t believe it myself.

Before I push the door open, I pull my phone out and do what I’ve been itching to do since leaving the jewelry store—I textMissBrasa-Glass.

Don’t get too comfortable, kitten. I’m coming for you.

Her number was one of the few things I found of hers. The small size of her online footprint was surprising. Almost shocking. She’s not even on social media. Any of them. I was close to checking her medical records in lieu of anything else, but that seemed unnecessary.

With a charged, deep breath in, I scan my watch, enter the code on the keypad, followed by my fingerprint, then walk inside the back corridor. It splits in a few directions; our office, storage rooms, down the steps to The Fightclub beneath, and finally, another short corridor leads to the main barroom of Midnight, which is where I’m headed.

The woodsy smell infused with leather and expensive cigar smoke soothes my previous spinning thoughts in an instant. Midnight is almost as comfortable to me as my home.

The guys wait for me, lounging on the mismatched sofa and comfortable armchairs around our usual table. Vincent, dressed in his usual all-black suit to match his eyes. Maddox, with his buzz-cut hair, wearing black cargos, heavy boots, and a gray T-shirt stretched hard over his stacked muscles. And preppy, pretty-boy Finnigan, with his blond curls, white shirt, and sky-blue chinos. The main lights are off, and they’re bathed in the dim, moody glow of the many lamps dotted around the space.

“We heard you finally found your mystery woman.” Finnigan breaks the ice.

She’s notmymystery woman, but I only offer him a raised eyebrow in response.

“And she’s still alive?” Vincent cocks his head. His question sounds more like stating the obvious.

I take a seat across from them, in a low-backed armchair upholstered in a decadent mustard velvet, and brace my right ankle over my left knee, settling in. Before I answer, I rub my hands against the armrests’ soft, electrifying texture. Only once. Enough for that sensation to soothe its way through my veins.