Page 43 of Torn By Fate

It was a cold, calculated message, carefully delivered to my door in the dead of night by someone who knew exactly which room was mine.

And I knew only one person who had that information.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice came from behind me, low and unhurried, and every muscle in my body locked into place.

I knew that voice the way I knew my own heartbeat—the dark, ruthless cadence of it, the way it dropped to a near-whisper at the edges of certain words, the quiet controlled tone that proved he was always composed.

I turned.

And finally came face to face with my dear husband.

I wasn’t trapped between a wall and his body this time.

Adrian stood in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his pants, so nonchalantly, like he owned every space of it.

My fists clenched at my sides.

“Serafina,” he drawled, his tongue rolling over every syllable as if he were tasting my name.

I peeked over my shoulder at the door I had locked, and it remained locked.

The windows behind him were also closed, and yet, somehow, Adrian was in my room.

“How did you get in this room?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite everything else I was feeling.

Adrian simply shrugged a shoulder, his lips twitching in that arrogant way I despised so much. “I was always here. I’m actually a little offended you didn’t realize that sooner.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Almost like he could hear my confusion, a low chuckle escaped him. He jerked his head to the side, motioning toward the bed.

My brow furrowed. Huh?

“Under the bed, wife.”

My jaw dropped. Disbelief crashed through me, but I barely had a chance to process it before reckless violence took over. I dashed for the knife on the coffee table at the same time he anticipated my move and lunged for me.

This time, I was quicker.

The knife found its way to his throat with the fluid efficiency of muscle memory. The tip rested against the soft hollow beneath his jaw, pressed into the warm skin where his pulse beat steady and unhurried. It was a lethal promise.

My hand was steady despite the fury pounding through my veins.

One small push. That was all it would take to cut through his jugular. Adrian Salvatore wasn’t as invincible as he thought he was.

He was, after all, only flesh and blood. Like the man he severed the hand from.

“You moved again. I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured, and his voice was low and infuriatingly calm.

I pressed harder. The blade bit through the surface of his skin. It wasn’t deep, not yet, but it was enough.

A crimson bead welled beneath the sharp edge before trailing down the powerful column of his neck in a thin, deliberate line. It traced the tendon before disappearing beneath the open collar of his black shirt.

He didn’t even flinch.

My husband smiled. God… that maddening, sickening smile of his. It transformed his handsome face into something entirely more magnetic and utterly deranged.