He presses his forehead to mine, moving faster.
The weight of him on top of me is comforting.
I scrape my nails down his back as I fall apart beneath him, gasping his name.
He follows seconds later and buries his face in the crook of my neck.
Trembling, he pulls me closer, a low groan rumbling in his throat.
Pushing himself off of me, he lays at my side.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, kissing my skin.
I rest my head against his chest as his arms fold around me.
I wish I could believe him, but pillow talk doesn’t always come to fruition.
The news about my father surfaces in my mind as I come down from the sexual high I’ve been on.
My father was murdered.
Now I have to find out who did it and burn them to the ground.
Strangely my thoughts drift back to Francesca and how my father’s love for her started this whole revenge plot.
“What are you thinking about?” Dominic asks. “You feel tense.”
“Francesca. How she never really got a chance to experience real love and the love she had got her killed.”
“I know,” Dominic murmurs. “It’s such a shame. I can’t even imagine the sorrow your father must have felt.”
Sorrow.
The word triggers my memory to shift to the stanzas of the poem that had been delivered to me.
Sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
My blood runs cold.
How could I have not realized it?
This killer is a genius.
Every detail is carefully calculated.
Every chess piece. Every feather. Every word has a message behind it.
This is a sick, psychological, cat and mouse game where one missed clue means death.
For days I’ve been plagued with thoughts of who Lenore is?
Lenore. Lenore.
Who the fuck is Lenore?
Now I know who the fuck Lenore is…
