Page 26 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Carter

I almost gave up on finding Scarlet after she left me worked up and confused in front of that coffee shop. I’ve been keeping myself busy by studying the man who put Diana in the hospital, and formulating a plan of action with Vincent, Finnigan, and Maddox.

Katya joined us too, though most of her contribution has centered around the many ways she would like to kill the man.

None were quick. Or clean.

Or sane, for that matter.

And none of us questioned her.

The escorts are hers and, no matter how stern Katya is, she would give her life for each and every one of them. She feels responsible, probably because of the time she spends with them. Maybe she cares for other reasons too, though I never felt the need to intrude and find out.

Katya left Midnight not long ago. Off to a meeting with her team, after which she’ll take them into hiding at a secure location. She’s worried the rest of them will be in danger too.

Vincent and Finnigan have left as well. Paying a visit to one of our friends to do some homework on Duval.

We have to do damage control. Or rather, I have to do it, since Maddox is currently downstairs in The Fightclub’s gym, burning through the frustration that seems to be plaguing him more and more these days.

My tech team is on it, though, sinking their nimble fingers in all the right keyholes so we can monitor the situation. Duval has a choice—render our escort business useless by spreading the word that it belongs to us or keep this precious information to himself and use it.

The second option can actually do so much more damage, depending on what his approach would be. A smart man would attempt blackmail. An even smarter one...a takeover.

The escort business was never ours to begin with.

It was Katya’s long before we became The Sanctum, but at a much smaller scale.

Finnigan’s brother, Ronan, who laid the foundation for our operation, helped her.

Stood by her. And eventually, they joined forces to elevate that side of the business to benefit both them and us.

It’s been years since those ownership lines blurred, and though Katya leads them and we respect her wholeheartedly, the escort business, as it stands today, fully belongs to The Sanctum.

Which is why damage control is necessary. But it’s the last thing I want to do right now, and I’m so goddamn distracted.

The velvet softness of her skin.

The feel of her pressed tight against me.

That intoxicating rose-and-lemon scent.

It’s haunting. So much so that I’ve been checking her bedroom camera feed every thirty minutes. At first. It turned into twenty. Then ten.

Fuck, I must be going mad, but I can’t get Scarlet out of my head.

I want to see her. Touch her. Breathe her in.

I want to make her scream and cry. Whimper and beg.

I want to consume her.

Yet, one question constantly blares in my mind: is she or is she not the person who dared break into my car, my bar, and my motherfucking house?

Two questions, actually—why?

I need those answers as desperately as I need to lay eyes on her again. If only I could fucking find her.

But I need to stay focused, take care of our business. Duval is hurt now. I anticipate an escalation soon, since I truly don’t believe he’ll leave things as they are.

He’s too proud. Too competitive. We’ve been watching him for years, since he interfered in a real estate purchase that would have granted us a second legal business in Queenscove—a grand hotel.

Hospitality is great, especially in this touristy city, but it would have been another way for us to spy on people.

Observe. Find out precious information we can use against them or that we can trade.

But Duval was desperate to get his hands on it. He greased too many hands, played too many of his cards, and we stood no chance. He bought it instead.

Nothing looks more suspicious than a politician being able to afford something like that, but that’s what happens to people in power. They don’t get questioned.

My phone vibrates on the table, and I answer when one of my tech’s numbers pops up.

“Yes, Tina.”

“Sorry to bother you. There’s a situation at the warehouse. They just received a strange package.”

It’s not technically a warehouse. We call it that, as it’s more generic than holding cells, torture room, and arms deposit. And most of it is underground.

“What do you mean by package?”

“They said some courier kid came over with a large box with your name on it. They stopped him for questioning, and the poor bastard was shitting himself. Told security he got paid five hundred by this guy in a black hoodie. Didn’t get a good look, as his face was concealed.”

My mind goes straight to the person on the CCTV tapes who broke into my car. Could it be?

“Did they open it?” I ask.

“Of course not. It’s for you.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hang up, rising and rushing toward the back door. But as I walk through, I almost crash into Maddox.

“Where are you running off to?” he asks, brow raised as he regards me.

“Warehouse. They received a suspicious package.”

“We don’t receive packages there.” He cocks his head, crossing his arms over his expansive chest.

“Precisely.”

“I’m coming with you.”

I want to protest and tell him to stay here. What if it’s yet another puzzle box? What if it hides other photos of me in interesting situations? But protesting means revealing a vulnerability that has been growing since my car was broken into. And there is no way I’m showing that.

I let him join, riding together a few miles out of Queenscove, where our warehouse is tucked away in the middle of nowhere.

* * *

“Carter, what the hell is that?” Maddox asks, his brows creating angry welts between them as he regards the wooden-and-metal object.

Answering would mean admitting that for the last week or two, I’ve been manipulated by someone. Sent on a treasure hunt that I followed like a good little puppy.

Instead, I turn the hexagonal prism in my hands to find out its secrets, noting how much more complex and beautiful it looks compared to the last ones.

What an odd thought.

Beautiful.

But I push it back in the expansive chamber of my brain where I shove all thoughts and sensations I don’t want to process.

Or don’t know how.

“It’s another puzzle box, isn’t it?” Maddox says.

I continue my quest to open it, pressing and pulling the delicate divots and shards that appear. Flipping it over and over until, finally, I can see the scroll inside.

Only, I can’t reach it.

“I can’t...fuck!” It looks like it should open, but it’s not fucking letting me. There must be another trick to it. “I think—there!” I exclaim as I find the smallest of divots in the brushed metal.

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’s Divine 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.