Page 25 of Carved Obsession

Scrape her out of my fucking mind once and for all.

Without a second thought, I lock my screens, rise, and head straight out of my office and toward the dressing room attached to my bedroom. I quickly change the sweatpants to a pair of dark-blue slacks, then pull on a shirt, roll the sleeves, and finish off with a light gray tweed waistcoat, socks, and brown leather shoes.

I pass by the mirror, forcing myself to leave the house without fixing my messy hair at the top of my head. But as I approach the bedroom door to leave, the compulsion makes my palms itch and my teeth clench. With a deep sigh, I turn on my heels and head to the en suite bathroom. I attempt to rush, but in the end, I still make sure my hair looks as it’s supposed to—perfectly neat. Slicked back, as always.

With one final look in the mirror, I hurry to the garage, straight to the F-type Jag parked there. The mood calls for something agile. Then I’m out the door, waiting for my gates to open, rolling my fists around the leather steering wheel that threatens to bend beneath my hold.

My phone rings and almost makes me jump.

“Yes,” I say more aggressively than I should.

“Good morning to you too.”

Vincent.

“You left your Range Rover at the club last night, right?”he continues.

“I did.”

“I think you should come here.”

“I’m busy.”

I make a right after the gates close behind me and drive toward Queenscove’s outskirts.

“Carter, your driver’s side door is cracked open. Only enough that you can see it if you’re close, but it’s clearly unlocked.”

I almost slam on the brake at those words.

“Is mine the only one broken into?” I keep calm as I run through the list of what they could have taken from my car, but there’s barely anything in there.

For security reasons, I refrain from keeping things in my cars. Especially if I plan on leaving them away from my home overnight. Which I usually do, either in Midnight’s or Metamorphosis’ parking lot if I’m drinking more than a couple. The difference is that the speakeasy has a gated, secured lot.

“I had a look. There are only five cars here, and yours seems to be the only one broken into.”

Fuck.

I have something more important to deal with right now, and it grates me that this break-in sounds targeted.

“There’s something else,”he adds.

“What?”

“Did you leave anything on your driver’s seat?”

I frown, squeezing the steering wheel a little too hard. “No.”

“They left something for you.”

“Don’t touch anything.” I rush through the words as I slam on the brake and turn the car around, heading back toward the club. “Check around and underneath for a—”

“Already done. No bombs. But I’m not sure about the inside.”

“I think it’s clean.”I hear Morrigan, his wife, in the background.

“I’m on my way.” I hit a button on my car and hang up.

Why the hell would someone break intomycar?