Page 161 of Villainous Intent

Havoc’s smile was sad but knowing. “You’re still Annie. You’re just discovering there’s more to Annie than rules and order.”

There was a soft ding as the elevator doors slid open and Simmons appeared, pushing a cart with a single black box on it. A purple rose sat on top.

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles.

“A package arrived for you this morning, Ms. Bishop,” Simmons announced. “We’ve scanned it thoroughly, of course,” Simmons continued, wheeling the cart closer. “It passed all security checks.Though it seems peculiar nonetheless.”

Leave it to Simmons to describe a potential death trap as “peculiar.” The man would probably call a nuclear explosion “a bit of a bother.”

“Is there a card?” Havoc asked.

“I know who it’s from,” I said, shaking my head.

Simmons cleared his throat. “Would you like to open it, or shall I dispose of it for you?”

What I should do versus what I wanted to do warred in my head. The proper response would be to have it incinerated immediately. The curious, rule-breaking Annie who’d emerged lately wanted to tear into it like a kid on Christmas.

“It’s fine. I’ll open it.”

Simmons nodded. “Very well.”

I approached the box cautiously, half-expecting it to start ticking. The black wrapping paper was matte and expensive-looking. I lifted the rose and, just like the last one I’d received, the stem had no thorns, they’d been carefully removed.

I pulled the black ribbon that tied the package closed and the sides of the box fell away because of course they did. Cipher couldn’t just send a normal package like a normal psychopath.

I staggered backward, my hand flying to my mouth.

Baron Ash’s hands. Just sitting there. Perfectly preserved.

They were positioned palms up on a gleaming black base, encased in glass. The detail was horrifying. Every callus, every scar, every filed-to-a-point fingernail captured in grotesque perfection.

“Holy shit,” I choked out, spinning away from the display as my mouth flooded with saliva, my body’s helpful way of saying “I’m about to redecorate this kitchen floor with your breakfast.”

My brain flashed back to the tunnels, to those same fingers digging into my skin, the weight of them, the smell of damp earth and fear. Now they were just meat behind glass.

Havoc let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, while Simmons merely sniffed with disapproval.

“I must point out,” Simmons said, “that this delivery violates no fewer than seven municipal codes regarding the transport of human remains, as well as the Tower’s explicit policy against receiving body parts through the mail system.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I muttered, swallowing convulsively.

I saw Havoc lean closer to the hands out of the corner of my eye. “The preservation work is quite remarkable. Look at the attention to detail in the musculature.”

I whirled around. “Are you seriously admiring the craftsmanship right now?”

Havoc had the decency to look slightly abashed. “Professional curiosity.”

“Indeed,” Simmons agreed, bending at the waist to examine the display. “The artisan has demonstrated exceptional skill. The glass appears to be museum-grade UV-resistant bulletproof material.” He gave it a tap. “One rarely sees such quality in impromptu trophies.”

Great. I was surrounded by connoisseurs of dismemberment art.

“There’s a card,” Simmons noted, delicately extracting a small black envelope tucked beneath the base.

My stomach lurched again. Because apparently severed hands weren’t enough, Cipher had included a note.

I took the note from Simmons with trembling fingers, half-expecting it to be written in blood. The envelope was thick, expensive paper. The card inside was simple black with silver lettering that caught the light as I unfolded it.

These hands will never touch you again. No one’s will.