Page 8 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Carter

Mr. Pierce.

Two little words that hold much more meaning than they should. They echo long after the jewelry store door shuts behind me. Long after I walk away.

All this time, she’s known who I am. Months of her having the upper hand.

I was all too aware of my failure before, but this piece of knowledge hits my ego dead center.

I could have been in jail now.

Yet, I’m not. Why?

I don’t understand this woman. Her drive comes from something unfamiliar. I can’t make sense of her. She’s a complex ribbon I can’t find the ends of, and I’m fucking yearning to unravel her.

She’s had my freedom in her delicate hands all this fucking time.

It’s unsettling.

Dangerously riveting.

Her expression as I walked away nudged me further down this perilous path; she was seething.

The fury shined brightly in her espresso-colored, round eyes.

It first appeared when I took her up on her challenge, but it embedded deeper once I slightly cut the side of her delicate throat with my dagger.

I was ready to slash it from ear to ear.

Fuck, I didn’t even want to do it.

I should have, damn it. I still should. I’m convinced she has no proof. She probably can’t send me to jail, but it’s the fucking principle of it all. And after all her taunting, daring me to kill her, I craved to make her bleed.

It hasn’t gone away. Something about the look in her eyes, lacking in fear but drowned in defiance, compels me to slice her open just so I can see how she ticks beyond those high cheekbones and perfectly bowed lips. What goes on in that reckless mind of hers?

I must squash this need. It’s irrational. Pointless.

Utterly ridiculous.

Scarlet Brasa-Glass must die.

But first, I have to do more research on her. Her family. I need to see what impact her death would have on us. Or, at the very least, her sudden disappearance.

My phone vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket to find a text from Maddox.

Any updates?

I ponder for a few seconds, but as I start the car and pop it into gear, I relent and admit to myself that I have to let The Sanctum know. This concerns them as much as it concerns me. I swipe Maddox’s name on the phone screen, and he answers in two rings.

“Are you good?” he asks on the other line.

“Yes.”

“You found her, I presume. Is she . . . ?”

“No,” I say before he finishes the question he can’t ask over the phone.

“You sound frustrated.”

Do I?

“I’m good. Are you all at Midnight?”

“For now. I’m heading to The Fightclub to train for tomorrow, Finn has some business to tend to, and Vin is heading home before going to Morrigan’s club.”

What a great fucking idea Vincent has. Metamorphosis is just the place to replace the incessant image of the woman with dark eyes and silky walnut-colored hair.

I just need a play partner who can actually do the job, because I have a feeling removing that particular vixen out of my mind will be damn near impossible.

“I’m coming over to give you all an update.” I hang up before he can say anything else.

The drive goes by both too fast and too slow.

Fifteen minutes didn’t seem like enough time to formulate a plan that would make sense to my brothers.

They’ll expect results. Retribution. And all I have to offer is fascination blended with confusion, and neither will satisfy their— our— need as The Sanctum.

I feel selfish, and I’m not sure how to justify this.

I’m not even sure any of them will expect me to justify it, but they will be curious.

That’s why I’m standing in front of this back door, staring at the reinforced metal like it can give me an answer.

I’m the heartless one of the group. I’m the one who gets the job done with no remorse or thought wasted.

I hunt, I catch, and then I carve. No afterthought given when it’s all for us and our safety.

Yet...they’ll know something is different. That’s the problem when you let people get close for so long. And I have no idea how to show them it’s not different at all.

Because I don’t believe it myself.

Before I push the door open, I pull my phone out and do what I’ve been itching to do since leaving the jewelry store—I text Miss Brasa-Glass.

Don’t get too comfortable, kitten. I’m coming for you.

Her number was one of the few things I found of hers. The small size of her online footprint was surprising. Almost shocking. She’s not even on social media. Any of them. I was close to checking her medical records in lieu of anything else, but that seemed unnecessary.

With a charged, deep breath in, I scan my watch, enter the code on the keypad, followed by my fingerprint, then walk inside the back corridor.

It splits in a few directions; our office, storage rooms, down the steps to The Fightclub beneath, and finally, another short corridor leads to the main barroom of Midnight, which is where I’m headed.

The woodsy smell infused with leather and expensive cigar smoke soothes my previous spinning thoughts in an instant. Midnight is almost as comfortable to me as my home.

The guys wait for me, lounging on the mismatched sofa and comfortable armchairs around our usual table.

Vincent, dressed in his usual all-black suit to match his eyes.

Maddox, with his buzz-cut hair, wearing black cargos, heavy boots, and a gray T-shirt stretched hard over his stacked muscles.

And preppy, pretty-boy Finnigan, with his blond curls, white shirt, and sky-blue chinos.

The main lights are off, and they’re bathed in the dim, moody glow of the many lamps dotted around the space.

“We heard you finally found your mystery woman.” Finnigan breaks the ice.

She’s not my mystery woman, but I only offer him a raised eyebrow in response.

“And she’s still alive?” Vincent cocks his head. His question sounds more like stating the obvious.

I take a seat across from them, in a low-backed armchair upholstered in a decadent mustard velvet, and brace my right ankle over my left knee, settling in.

Before I answer, I rub my hands against the armrests’ soft, electrifying texture.

Only once. Enough for that sensation to soothe its way through my veins.

“I was interrupted,” I offer. “Her name is Scarlet Brasa-Glass. She moved to Queenscove about five months ago. Her father and stepmother already lived here, in an estate at the edge of town. They own a jewelry store, where I just came from. I haven’t found anything else on them. They’re...quiet.”

Vincent narrows his eyes a fraction. I share the clear sentiment from those dark pits. I have not found one single thing wrong with this family in my research, though it was brief. I’m not saying there aren’t good families out there, but this is Queenscove.

“She’s going through a divorce that started six months ago,” I add.

“Interesting timing,” Finnigan interrupts. “I wonder what prompted it.” No one misses the sly grin wrinkling his eyes.

That’s not what I wonder at all. What I think about is why was she out, all alone that night? She was burning up with reckless energy and it was painted all over her soft face. Was this why? The divorce? What upset her? Was it her soon-to-be ex? Why is she divorcing him?

Stop.

So many questions run rampant in my brain, almost punishing me, since lacking explanations is not a state I’m used to. Or care to get accustomed to, either.

“The soon-to-be ex-husband is part of the Camora family, in Bonray. Where they used to live together,” I continue.

Finnigan rubs the scruff on his chin. “The name rings a bell.”

“Loan sharks. Small organization, but it’s not the poor they deal with.” Which makes me question the Brasa-Glass family’s morality, regardless of what I have not found on them.

“Bonray is only an hour and a half away,” Maddox acknowledges. “She could have gone straight back home after she saw you, and that’s why you couldn’t find her.”

“Precisely. Her family seems to keep to themselves. She could have hidden with them, too. Regardless, she lives here now.”

“Since a few months ago. Yet you never ran into her until today.”

“She knows who I am.” I shake my head once, drawing a deep breath through gritted teeth. “She’s known this whole time.”

Vincent leans back on the sofa, the firm look in his black eyes the exact one I was trying to avoid.

“What I find interesting is that she lived far enough away to be off your radar, and yet...she chose to move here. Where you are. Where you can find her.” He says that last sentence with a sigh. “Strange, don’t you think?”

I don’t answer, because I’m still trying to unravel that particular puzzle. From our brief conversation, I understood that she believed I had no reason to kill her.

“Is she a threat?” Finnigan’s tone turns darker.

I ponder for a moment, remembering her words that were strangely charged with sincerity and a demure attitude toward murder.

“I don’t believe so, but I could be wrong. Vincent could be a better judge of character. However, the idea of turning me in and stopping our previous mission seemed almost preposterous to her. And murder didn’t faze her.”

“Very interesting.” Vincent narrows his eyes, pondering.

Exactly. And my initial background check on her and her family showed zero suspicious activity, no questionable past. Nothing to indicate that there’s a reason why this strange woman is so utterly unmoved by the events of that night. It doesn’t add up one bit.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

Hunt her down. Tie her up. Question her. Kill her. Or...keep her. Play with her. Make her weep on my cock until she reveals all her secrets.

“I’m undecided.”

“But you already attempted to eliminate her?” Finnigan asks.

“Dagger to the throat, yes.”

“And how did she react to that?” he says.

I sigh, blowing out a slow, heavy breath. “Eerily calm with the blade to her throat, but pissed off when I started slicing.”