Eagerly, more eagerly than I should considering I’m still pissed at him, I hold out my arms for the box.
Tugging on the bow, I lift the lid and come face-to-face with a pair of hands. The ragged edges make my stomach twist, but the satisfaction of that bastard’s suffering immediately appeases any guilt I may feel.
I suck in a sharp breath when I see the other contents.
A penis.
“Is he still alive?”
“For the moment.”
There’s a small patch of skin beside one of the hands with a crown branded into it. “A Veronian?”
“Yes.”
“Not just someone who does their bidding?”
“According to him, no.”
“Did they want to partner me up with him?”
“Yes. You were to be hisvero.”
I file that information away.
Vero.
Hatred flushes through me as I stare at his work. Relief follows it. Then gratitude.
Maxim always delivers on his promises.
Of course, that’s when I’m reminded of what Shay said.
How he communicates through the gifting of body parts…
I stare at Bordeau’sbits, visible proof of that, and I sigh.
“What is it,zaya?”
“Just something Shay mentioned.” When his expression blanks even more, I reason, “He said that until now, we’ve only ever communicated through these gift boxes of yours…”
“Not true. You could always text me if you needed me. Or call.”
And I did.
Had.
Often.
Just… not as often as I’d like.
You know, everyday often.
Twice-a-day often.
“We still skipped a bunch of steps.”
“It pains me to agree with an O’Donnelly, but I suppose he’s correct.”
