Page 16 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Carter

After the briefest detour at my house to change into something less constricting, I followed the young crescent moon to Scarlet’s family’s estate.

Recklessness burns through my bones, urging me to burst in and demand satisfaction for the fucking troubles she caused, regardless of the consequences and who could witness or record it. Such unfamiliar, stupid recklessness.

Unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

But I silence it with logic as I finish my check for perimeter cameras. I can’t go around the whole thing since they have so much land here. I should be okay, because surprisingly, they have no surveillance here.

Bit odd for such a large estate.

But it’s okay—I brought my own.

With one last look through the birches that shelter this side of the property from the quiet road, I grab onto the thick wisteria branches and scale the brick wall.

Before jumping to the other side, I peek over, noting the utter stillness between the multitude of trees and bushes dotted all around the grounds.

No people in sight. No obvious cameras, either.

I throw the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head and jump down. I land on my feet on the thick grass, the unopened puzzle heavy in the pocket of my sweatpants.

After checking the satellite map once again, I rush forward, my steps crunching over fresh grass, dead leaves, and small sticks as I head toward the smaller cottage on the property. I hope my instincts are right and that’s the home Scarlet lives in.

As I near the location, I soften my steps and stick to the trees’ shadows, keeping my senses alert for movement and CCTV or hidden trail cams.

My spine stiffens when splashes sound in the distance, intensifying the tension in my muscles, which has only grown since I left the speakeasy.

Anticipation weaves through the taut fibers beneath my skin, and unfamiliar heat spills into my chest. Though, it has a strange effect—my lips twitch. Upward.

Simmer the fuck down.

But I can’t. It takes conscious effort to stay put and not rush toward the swashing noise and the dim light flickering maybe thirty feet away.

A large pond comes into view, thick vegetation dotted around, and sleeping water lilies float on its disturbed surface.

And the source sweeps into view—a woman floats on her back, spreading her arms wide around her body as she settles.

There she is.

Still body carried by the water, she relaxes as the ripple slows around her, an ethereal image forcing lead through my legs until my feet freeze in place.

I’m closer now. Close enough to see the moonlight shimmering in the water droplets over her round cheek, slightly parted, full lips, and softly upturned nose. And the rest of her is hard to ignore. Because Miss Scarlet Brasa-Glass is stark naked.

The dim light of the flickering candle set on the shore throws an empyrean glow over her curves, sloping over the water.

And I map each and every one of them, from her full, soft breasts peeking above the surface, down the slight roundness of her abdomen, over hip bones continuing into beautifully taut thighs, and all the way down to her toes.

I map them all, etching them deep into my memory.

Too many seconds pass as I watch her. They stretch and turn into minutes, and between those growing moments, my feet move. Unconscious actions bring me closer to her, because she appears clearer before me.

Too clear.

Too wet.

Too . . . immersing.

I squeeze my fist until my short nails dig into my palm and pull me out of whatever this strange fixation is. The sting turns to pain, and only then does it actually work, my mind reeling back to my purpose. Just about.

I was hoping I would get here and catch her just as she returned home, with some sort of clear indication of her nefarious whereabouts. Some clue that it was she who broke into my establishment and left yet another puzzle box in my private space.

But judging by the empty wineglass sitting next to the large candle, the two fingers of liquid left in the bottle, and the crumbs on the plate next to it, Miss Scarlet has been here for a while.

Either she drinks and eats excessively fast, or.

..she somehow anticipated I would come here, scale her boundary wall, and stalk her in the night.

I almost scoff at that last theory. Could she have really thought I would do this?

It’s a dangerous question to ask myself, because it leads to another. One that holds an even more dire implication: did I honestly think she was the one behind these strange intrusions, or was I looking for a justifiable reason to come after her?

Such a dangerous, dangerous premise.

It implies that being a witness to a kill at my hands isn’t reason enough to come after her. Deeper than that, it suggests I might have changed my mind about her demise.

The thought gets lost as her arms glide high above her head, a gentle slosh following as she slowly pushes the water toward her feet and her body slides forward.

Rising, all but her shoulder hidden beneath the surface, she grabs something off the shore.

A small flame pops up a moment later, just before a thick waft of smoke streams out of her mouth.

By the way her head falls back after taking another long puff, and the fact that she doesn’t immediately exhale, I can bet it’s not a cigarette she’s smoking.

She’s so relaxed, so . . . serene. Worry-free.

There’s no way she thought I would come for her tonight, willingly risking being caught in this position. One does not await death by skinny dipping and smoking a joint.

I lean against a tree, crossing one leg over the other, and run through all the reasons why I should be moving, not settling in.

My fingers itch on my phone, and I bring it up, triggering the camera.

I don’t dare think twice as I slide over to video and press the big red button that sends an exhilarating feeling through my bones.

Three minutes pass. Then twelve. Twenty-three.

She floats. She swims. She throws her head back. Water drips over her lips. In the crook of her neck. Over the slopes of her breasts. Drops catch on the tips of her nipples. Down the slight swell of her belly and into the apex between her thighs that disappears just beneath the surface.

The joint is long finished, but the dim fog that has gathered over the surface of the pond looks like lingering smoke.

I’ve closed more of the distance between us, camera still aimed at this...creature. This calm, blissful creature made of velvet and sin.

Scarlet sinks beneath the ripple, then emerges two moments later toward the shore, moving at a slow, constant pace, inch by enthralling inch.

She tips her head back gently, squeezing the water out of her long hair that looks black in this absent light.

She lets it fall on the curve of her back, the tips dripping water onto the slope of her ass before she dips down and blows out the candle.

She grabs the glass and plate in one hand, then tips the wine bottle back and drinks the last few milliliters with the other. Just like nobody’s watching...

One corner of my lips curves at the ungracious gesture. She makes it look sexy as hell. Especially in her sultry nakedness with her creamy, unmarked skin on full display. How perfect she would look against my heavily tattooed complexion.

She walks toward the old stone cottage, and I match her steps, keeping to the shadows of the trees.

Low garden lights hidden within the flower beds dimly illuminate her path, and one antique outdoor lamp lights up her front door.

She presses the handle, looking behind her for a moment before she steps inside and closes the door. Then the porch light goes off.

She doesn’t notice me. Not in this darkness.

It pleases me, but it angers me, too. What if someone else was watching her? What if others have in the past?

I circle the house at a slow pace, looking for cameras that could catch me in the act. Once again, there are none.

What I do note are the dim lights turning on inside, window by window brightening as she walks through her house, stopping behind one that’s frosted—the bathroom. I stand here, listening through the sounds of the crickets, until the toilet flushes and the shower runs.

My need to gather evidence justifies my next move. Inside this house, I could find an indication that she is the person who broke into my car. My bar. Or maybe at least some clues as to who Scarlet Brasa-Glass is, this mystery woman with no social-media presence and almost no trace online.

I use this reasoning as I head back to a dark window I noticed was slightly cracked. I keep using it as I open it and slowly lift myself until I can climb through. I use it again when my steps guide me through this dark room, toward a cracked door, and into the light.

The shower runs in the distance, and I walk into the main hallway of the house. I called it a cottage, but it’s definitely bigger than that.

A disabled alarm blinks slowly by the front door, and I memorize the model for later, but that’s not the first thing I notice in her space; it’s the display tables.

Old and new. High and low, sturdy and skinny, filled neatly with everything.

Art in all of its forms. Sculptures. Gold and silver knick-knacks.

And bones. So many bones. Anything from animal skulls to a human spine displayed in an artistic curve, the ends of each vertebra dipped in a gold metal.

What have I walked into?

As I peek into a couple of the rooms, I see even more interesting things—fossils.

Out of all the things I thought I would find.

..none of these were on my list. And these are not just any fossils, but Mesozoic pieces displayed under paintings that look too expensive to be in the house of a normal woman.

And I have yet to figure out what this one does for a living.