Page 17 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Judging by my surroundings, definitely not a mundane nine-to-five.

I walk deeper into the house, listening as the shower sounds shift with movement—she stepped in. I shouldn’t, but I take it as an invitation to observe.

The door to the bathroom is already half open, steam rolling in gentle waves through the wide gap.

I close the distance until I fill that space and lay my eyes on her once again, bathed in the dimmed wall light.

Her head is under the spray, hands running slowly through her hair, creamy skin blurred by the steamed-up glass.

I stopped filming after she entered the house, but I can’t help myself now. Not when she’s so close. So oblivious to this predicament. I turn on the phone’s camera once again, aiming it at her.

Something stirs within me as I watch her run her hands over the curves of her body as her head delicately falls back. A cruel tremor quakes from my chest straight down to my cock. My gaze widens, my brain having trouble finding the logic between my duty and physical reaction.

This shouldn’t be happening. It can’t keep happening.

This woman is black magic, crawling under my skin when I don’t know a goddamn thing about her. When I’m supposed to fucking end her.

With gritted teeth, I take one step further into her space and reach into my belt holster for my favorite knife—four inches long, thin blade. I shift closer, eyes trained on her as she turns her back to me.

My hand flexes around the knife’s hilt on the same rhythm as hers runs through her hair. This synchronization bothers me too...Hearts thrumming on the same beat.

And hers must stop.

Scarlet must die.

This was always the plan. Since the moment I lost her in that alley too many months ago.

I don’t care if she’s the person behind the puzzle boxes.

I don’t care if I have many more questions that only she can answer now that I’ve seen the contents of her house.

I don’t care if one side of my brain is telling me she’s important somehow.

I have to kill her. If I don’t, I fear she’ll grow roots inside of me.

It’s already started, and I must sever them now.

Only, a sharp, raking feeling tears down my throat, clawing through my chest until my lungs are shredded and my heart is caught in a tight, choking grip.

Squeezing. Hard. My hands clench painfully around the phone and knife.

My windpipe tightens as I take one step further, and the realization of what these feelings are slams through me—hesitation.

Not indecision, not avoidance, like what I’ve been doing so far, but pure hesitation. The type that brings doubt and ridiculous morality into play. The one that feeds curiosity and demands more.

Fuck.

Duty doesn’t prevail. Not now, as I watch her wash herself, oblivious to my presence in her private space. She’s so vulnerable. I could simply end her. Right here, right now.

I could do so many things to her.

Raw. Filthy. Utterly satisfying things.

Breaths rake out of me as I slide my knife into the holster, poking at my shattered resolve. I try to rationalize with myself and stop my retreat by ending the video and putting my phone away.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the cylindrical puzzle, keeping one eye on that shower and the woman inside it as I begin rotating the metal elements. I solved some of it as I was changing at home; maybe I’ll get the rest done while she’s washing herself.

Three more turns—her hands brush in circles over her breasts.

Two clicks—they run over her waist and belly.

Four rotations—her hand disappears between her legs as she widens them, rubbing between.

My cock stirs. As my fingers fly over the puzzle, I can only hope the clicks mean progress, not a trap.

Her movements are mechanical at first. Then they slow.

My hands still when the puzzle clicks open as a moan escapes Scarlet’s mouth. I can’t bring myself to look down at the contents, not when the woman takes her time between her legs.

But she moves on too suddenly, washing down her legs until she reaches her feet, and I’m slightly disappointed.

I let out a quiet breath that was painfully stuck in my lungs, then look at the solved puzzle to find a small roll of parchment. Unrolling it, I frown at what I find—a QR code and some senseless words.

No.

Not senseless at all.

A riddle.

Born in fire,

Fed by breath,

Warms in winter,

Dies a dark, slow death.

What the fuck?

I put away the box and pull out my phone to scan the QR code. A website pops up, nothing on it but one empty box with “password” written above it. I have to solve that damn riddle.

Returning my gaze to Scarlet, I run those words through my head. Fire. Breath—air. Warms in winter—actual campfire? Dies slow...Fire. Air blowing on it. Keeps you warm? Fizzles slow...

Ember?

I type in the word and when the website opens up, my spine snaps straight. Cocking my head, I scroll through what appear to be photos taken this evening in the speakeasy. Not just any photos, but of me, Jonathan, and Cillian during the business meeting.

This is not good. Not fucking good at all.

What are the chances this has been orchestrated by Scarlet? What interest would she have in the business deal I facilitated?

Sliding the phone into my pocket, I look up at the blurred version of the woman who’s taking up too much real estate in my brain and reluctantly step back.

Further and further, passing through the door once more, wondering just when the purpose I’ve been chasing for so many months has turned from murder for my own protection to stubborn curiosity.

Not deep down at all, I know that’s what brought me here tonight.

Nothing else. Definitely not the desire to kill her.

Because I also brought a fucking surveillance camera with me. I knew my knife wouldn’t take her life tonight. But I had to pretend. I had to fucking try to fool myself.

Moving fast, I find the master bedroom and walk past a few clothes scattered on the floor by an antique wardrobe that catches my eye.

Other garments are thrown over its cracked-open door, and a bra hangs by its strap on the corner.

Her four-poster wooden bed is unmade, and a pair of deep-red lace panties are casually thrown at the foot. This is definitely her bedroom.

I’m relieved to see a smoke detector fitted on the ceiling, similar enough to the one in my pocket, which doubles as a camera.

Grabbing the chair from the vanity table, I climb up and make quick work of disconnecting the device before replacing it with mine.

I check the feed, confirming it’s all working, then climb down and put the chair back in its place in front of the vanity.

Yet another spot in this house that looks . . . interesting.

Right at the back, on a small ledge under the mirror, is a row of antique-looking vials.

They’ve been tucked behind the expected makeup, brushes, and other beauty stuff.

While the sizes vary from short and round to tall and thin, they all have one thing in common—the tiniest bit of liquid at the bottom.

Various oddities are dotted between the vials, like what looks like a dinosaur claw, a small painted bowl with tiny bones in it, and a white taxidermy mouse with a flower in his paw that looks almost...cute.

Stepping back, I shake my head, suppressing the need to look around for more clues about this woman.

The shower stops. The glass door swings open with a slight creak, and I can’t trust myself to stay.

Not because I’ll kill her, but because I’ll find too many hedonistic ways to break her.