Page 62 of Carved Obsession

Piercing pain slices through my finger when I press it, and I hiss as I pull it back.

“What happened?” Maddox leans closer, looking at the string of blood flowing from the tip of my finger.

“It pricked me,” I whisper in disbelief.

“Look, it’s open.”

I’m worried it might have injected me with something, but as I look at the small, crimson-covered metal shard popping out right under the divot I pressed, I realize it’s much more sinister than that. This was a blood sacrifice. A minuscule sacrifice, but a sacrifice, nonetheless. The small shard is strategically placed to release just as you press the button.

I put away the box inside my armrest and unroll the small parchment I grabbed from inside it.

“You seemed awfully enthusiastic solving that puzzle box.”

I whip my head around, holding his honey-laced gaze dripping with challenge. One of his eyebrows arches so high that it risks joining his buzz-cut hairline. But he doesn’t press further. I’m grateful. I’ve beaten myself up plenty already for this clear failure on my part.

“Any more clues about who’s doing this?”

“Just hunches,” I offer, because it’s true.

I want it to be Scarlet, but there’s no proof pointing to her. And I’m struggling to distinguish the buzzing in my gut—is it instinct or wishful thinking?

I turn my attention to the scroll, noting the shortened link and one oddly familiar line.

And I was told about this torture, that it was the Hell of carnal sins when reasons give way to...

“Desire . . .” I whisper on an awe-stricken breath.

“What?”

“It’s from Dante’sDivine Comedy. The last word of that sentence is ‘desire.’” I pluck my phone from my jacket’s inner pocket, fingers rushing over the screen as I type in the website link and then the password on the prompt.

“That’s your—”

“Mhm.” I watch the camera feed of my own fucking house.

The lights turn on, bathing the large living space in a soft glow. The same hooded figure I’ve seen in the CCTV footage after my car was broken into appears in the shot. They’re wearing black sweatpants and a bulky sweatshirt. It’s hard to tell if it’s a man or woman. Their steps are light as they casually stroll through my house without a care in the world. No rush. No pressure.

We watch in silence as they walk through the space, running one gloved hand over various surfaces and objects. But it’s only a taunt. Their path has been clearly planned, the direction set since the moment they walked in.

They stop in front of my violin. My Crimson Stradivarius.

No.

They lean over it, a tortured bend at the hips.

Do not fucking touch that.

They run one finger over the tuned strings, stopping for a single moment, before they wrap their hand around its neck and lift it off of its stand.

Put that down, goddammit!

But they do no such thing. Instead, with a spring in their steps and eyes trained on their phone, they walk in the direction of the camera I’m staring through. Then stop. Dead center in the frame, tucking the phone away.

My heart rushes on maddening beats as they reach up and pull off their face-covering, but the hood obstructs part of my view, and the downward angle doesn’t allow me to see their face. Thumps reverberate through my chest. Its beats echo in my ears, and I’m shifting to the edge of the seat.

Then that organ stalls behind my ribs as the hood falls back in an excruciating movement, revealing exactly what I wanted.Hoped.Fucking wished for.

Scarlet Brasa-Glass stands in my goddamn house, a serene, taunting smile curving her pretty fucking lips and crinkling her dark eyes. A whirlwind of unexplainable sensations ravages my thoughts, my muscles, and worst of all, my soul. That in itself is inexplicable. How can one feel their soul? Or effects on it? It’s senseless. It does not exist.