Page 20 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Carter

Jonathan’s office in the back of his and his husband’s antique shop has always been an oddly comforting place for me. Being surrounded by gold-framed old paintings, antiques, and books weathered by time gives me a deep sense of calm. Peace.

Not now, though. Not after watching the camera feed from Scarlet’s bedroom earlier today. I’m biting the inside of my lip, I can’t stop tapping my foot, and I’m itching to get out of here to find out what got her so angry.

This flip in attitude holds my thoughts hostage from my current environment.

And it’s been happening all day. The moment I opened my eyes, when the sun was still breaching the horizon, I picked up my phone to see what she was doing.

I watched her sleep, sprawled right in the middle of the bed like she was taking advantage of every free inch the mattress had to offer.

While brushing my teeth, I still watched her. While I worked out in my gym. While taking my morning shower I used for much more than washing. Once again, with my hand firmly wrapped around my cock.

I couldn’t. Fucking. Stop.

Then I powered on my system and opened her camera feed there. Not on one of the side screens, but dead center in front of me. Thirty-five inches of Scarlet.

She woke up like the sun rose only for her. Throwing the covers off, she revealed her naked body to me, save for a delicate scrap of fabric that covered the most intimate part of her. She turned on music via the speaker by the bed, and then the madwoman danced.

And I stopped working.

It was a spell.

Dark magic laced with creamy skin and the hypnotizing mystery of a woman. She was a kaleidoscope of color splashed all over my screen. I had to keep watching. It felt like a unicorn experience, one I hoped wouldn’t be unique, but I couldn’t blink in case its beauty never again graced my gaze.

Hair tied in two messy buns at the top of her head, she danced like the world was hers. She threw on some casual clothes, several times bumping, maybe a tad too hard, against the wood frame of her bed. It didn’t seem to faze her or slow her down.

She was in and out of the feed throughout the day, cheerful and bright.

Until later on, when she rolled through like a fiery storm with thunderous eyes and strained muscles, throwing everything in her sight.

She changed into plain black, tightening the buns at the top of her head before she disappeared.

Too much time has passed since, and I can’t fucking stop thinking about it all. About her.

I do have to admit...she’s fucking beautiful when she bleeds fury. That visceral sentiment simply belongs on her features, in those dark eyes.

“You are very focused on that screen, my boy.” Sitting in his leather chair at the other side of his desk, Jonathan startles me out of my train of thought. “More business distracting you?”

A scoff huffs from the seat next to me. “If business has dark hair and a pretty smile.”

My head whips to Maddox in a heartbeat. Outing me to Jonathan isn’t what sparks my anger. His comment about Scarlet’s pretty smile does. He has no fucking business noticing her. I glower but keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, goody! Has it finally happened? A woman caught the infamous Carver’s attention?” Jonathan sounds like a fucking schoolgirl excited for new gossip.

With one deep, slow breath, I focus on the man. “You’re sure you have no thoughts on who could have wanted to watch us in Midnight? Considering the little breach you had?”

Jonathan cocks his head and narrows his eyes on me, stretching the silence for too many seconds.

“The traitor has been disposed of, and he was swiftly joined by the very few men who shared his views. My little birds have been quiet since, and I haven’t heard of any others who shared their views.

I’m not saying there couldn’t be more, but I’m inclined to believe that whoever took those photos of us in your establishment didn’t come from my organization. ”

They could have come from ours.

The thought has been running wild through my mind. Do we have a traitor in our midst? Is someone on the inside playing us? And if so...with what purpose?

“I wonder if this was about Cillian,” Maddox says. “He’s new in the business too. And he’s no longer skirting on the border of the underworld. One foot stands firm in it.”

I already ran through that scenario, and every exercise of logic I’ve done has ended in irrational answers. The conclusions make no sense.

And when an equation ends in a false value, the only rational explanation is that one of the variables is incorrect. Something isn’t what it seems, and it’s unacceptable that I haven’t figured out what.

“Doesn’t that make the photographer’s timing surprisingly lucky?” Jonathan partially mirrors my thoughts.

I nod. “Nothing about this makes sense.”

“The bottom line is that I’m not worried about this.

I know my reaction and opinion matter to you.

All of you. I appreciate you coming in person to discuss this issue.

And I’m not worried about my privacy. Yes, I keep my identity as close as I can, but I’m more of a recluse than someone who demands anonymity.

So, if they know the infamous Ghost is Jonathan Rees, fuck ’em.

” He shrugs and leans forward to grab the bottle of wine from the side of the desk so that he can pour himself another small glass.

I’m slightly uneasy. He and I may be close, but a threat to his business at my fault would be a direct affront. It could damage not just our personal connection, but the relationship between The Sanctum and The Ghost that we’ve been feeding and nurturing for a decade.

His reaction confuses me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s not his business that comes first when it comes to him and me.

It drives my thoughts to dangerous territories. Am I putting too much stock in the importance of businesses and reputations rather than nurturing personal affairs? I’ve always seen personal connections as a byproduct of business dealings. A necessity. Sometimes an advantage. But never a benefit.

Have I been cultivating deeper friendships without even realizing?

Would I benefit more from something even deeper than that?

I nod at him, unsure of it all. “As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.”

He smiles, leaning back in his chair once again. “I know you will, Carter. You’ll solve this mystery too, as you always do.”

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I curse the interruption. But when I look at the screen, I see fucking fire and brimstone in my wake and almost knock the chair over when I rise.

“Apologies, but I have to cut this short.”

“Carter, wha—”

“I have to go.” I spin on my heels without even giving Jonathan a proper goodbye.

“Pierce! You can’t keep doing that—shutting us out. What the fuck happened?” Maddox says.

I only half turn, but it’s enough to see them both over my shoulder. “Someone broke into my house.”

Maddox frowns, crossing his arms over his expansive chest, but Jonathan raises a curious eyebrow.

“It seems to me that there’s one common denominator in these strange happenings,” Jonathan says calmly.

I already know what his next word will be.

“You.”

* * *

If I could fly through Queenscove’s traffic, I would, but as it stands, I’m stuck at a red light. Less than a mile from my house. It takes a lot of self-control to stay put and not abandon my car in the middle of this damn boulevard.

If it wasn’t for the motion sensors I kept separate from the main security system, I wouldn’t have known of the break-in. I’ve cycled through every single camera I have in and around my house, and every single fucking one shows static.

Fucking static!

I’m done wondering who the hell has the skills for this, because I don’t care anymore. I’m simply wondering who in their ever-loving mind has the audacity to break into my house.

My fucking house!

Muscles tighten around my bones, searing frost crystalizing in my veins as all those thoughts threaten to overwhelm me.

I am the Carver, and I swear to all the gods they’re gonna end up praying to, I will make them pay in pounds of skin, bone, and muscle. Slice by motherfucking slice.

The light turns green, and I’m finally close enough to the start of the queue that I can pass through and get home.

Three turns later and I’m flying through the wrought iron gates onto the cobbled drive.

With a screech, the car stops in front of the stone steps nestled between the old trees and ancient graves rising from the thick grass—the former St. George’s Church.

I bought this fourteenth-century stone building a few years ago and converted it into a house after it was left unused for half a decade.

Not enough believers in this city for all the churches we have.

I jumped on the opportunity right away. It felt like the ultimate fuck-you to my religious-fanatic mother who has sacrificed everything for her Christian god.

I rush up the steps and press the handle to the heavy metal-reinforced wooden door, but it won’t budge.

Maybe they got in through the side door.

After quickly unlocking it, I burst inside the large entry foyer, gun drawn and aimed at my surroundings as I pass through the open-space main living area, the former church nave.

I did save a couple of pews and used them for decor on the sides, in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering every single wall that doesn’t contain a window.

There’s no noise, no movement.

My gaze travels halfway up the bookcases, where the warm wooden balcony surrounds the entire open space, its footprint curving like the soft waves of the sea you can see from the East windows. There is no soul in sight.

I make quick work of going through the expansive space, checking behind every couch, behind the kitchen island, then in the former transepts that are now the bathroom, storage space, laundry room, and office.

My bedroom is the last place I check. Up three steps, which are bowed in the middle by the thousands of feet they have met, right where the chancel and its altar used to be. A beautiful sacrilege to its former god. It’s empty here too.

The whole house is empty.

Going into the office, I power on my system, which always shows the cameras first, and frown when I see that they’re back online. Whoever did this turned them back on.

Gun back in my holster, I stand in the middle of the room, eyes searching every nook and cranny. Nothing’s amiss, so I move on to the few files and paperwork I have here.

I repeat this in the living area.

Then in all the other spaces, just to find absolutely nothing changed or missing. Even my invaluable Stradivarius violin sits untouched on its stand next to the old organ.

The last place to check is the bedroom. Against the wall to the right of the door I currently have my back to, on slim, black metal legs, sits a display counter—a shallow enclosure encased in UV-treated glass—and I tentatively step toward it.

With a deepening pit in my stomach, I dare gaze inside it, and my heart threatens to stall in my chest. Because right there, inside that humidity-controlled environment, sits another goddamn puzzle box.

But that’s not the main problem, which is that it sits instead of something else.

Something precious.

Something that was mine.

They stole from me. Whoever the hell this person is...they fucking stole from me.

Not just anything, but one of eighteen third-edition copies of La Commedia by Dante Alighieri from 1472.

Seventeen are known to exist. My copy, obtained by the previous owner through various nefarious activities and at least three murders, is not recorded anywhere but in the initial printing records.

It reached me through pure luck, after its owner met his demise at my hands.

It sat beautifully displayed in my bedroom for three fucking years.

Until now.

I grab the puzzle and start twisting, pacing through the bedroom for the better part of half an hour, turning and pulling at the small metal protrusions emerging from the metal pyramid.

The small carved symbols that cover its surface must mean something, but none of the languages I’m aware of use that alphabet.

Eventually, the offending object opens for me.

There’s no riddle here this time. Only one loosely rolled parchment, a website link written on it. I sit down at the edge of my bed and type the link on my phone, squeezing the device too tightly in my hand.

The result opens up in full screen on my phone, and I swallow dryly. It’s me inside Metamorphosis. A close-up as I sit at the bar, observing the stage.

The photo was taken mere days ago, when I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but watch others. And even then, something about it felt off.

Jonathan was right—this isn’t about him or Cillian.

It may be wishful thinking, but all my instincts point to Scarlet .

Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m not taking the chance anymore.

Before I leave, I check the camera feed from her bedroom. I find her once again filled with wondrous joy, dancing inside her house as she changes her clothes and bounces around the place.

Interesting time to change.

I waste no time walking into the early night. I climb inside the car within thirty seconds, and I’m through the gate before the minute strikes.

Driving like the asphalt’s burning my tires, I weave through traffic, not caring if the side of the road I’m on is right or not. Ignoring speed limits and traffic signs, I drive with one objective in sight.

I don’t want revenge, nor retribution. I want punishment.

After she confesses, of course.

I’m done pretending I still want to kill her. I don’t. Not even a fucking little bit.

There are so many other filthy things I have in mind. None of them consensual. None of them hold an ounce of human decency. But if she’s the culprit, she deserves them all.

I drive closer and closer to her house, planning every single detail of our encounter. Counting the ways I’ll make the kitten beg me to either kill her or make her come. Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

My phone startles me out of my fantasies. Maddox’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer.

“I’m—”

“You need to get to Midnight right now.” The urgency mixed with fury in his tone furrows my brows.

“I’m in the middle of something. Is it—”

“Fucking urgent, Pierce. One of our girls was just delivered almost dead at our front door. With a message.”

What the fuck?

The timing is goddamn ridiculous. I squeeze the steering wheel hard enough that pain radiates through my bones. I’m so close that I can see Scarlet’s estate up ahead. So close to solving this fucking mystery.

But I sigh and turn the car around with a deafening screech.

“I’m on my way.”