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“Do you need help getting in bed?”
She clucks her tongue at me, pausing her staggered steps. “No, baby. If I do, I’ll call your sister. Go on and get some sleep; you look like a zombie.”
Still, I hesitate.
Leaning against her cherry wardrobe, she folds her arms over her chest. “Kieran, is there something else you need?”
I shake my head, running my tongue over my teeth. “You say a prayer for Murphy lately?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, her whole body seeming to sag with the movement, “you know these days I only pray for the living. It’s up to you to keep his spirit at bay. The rituals I’ve taught you are good for that.”
Nodding, I acquiesce, letting any further comments die on the tip of my tongue, not wanting to worry her. I pull the door closed and turn on my heel, making my way down the hall to my own bedroom. Once inside, I shirk off my clothes and slip into the shower, washing tonight’s blood off my body. It’s invisible at this point, having already been rinsed once, but you kill enough people and it seems to never really disappear.
When I’m done, I towel off and slink under the comforter on my bed, whipping my phone out and scrolling through Juliet’s social media. Gripping my dick in hand as I drool over a picture of her tanning topless, her slender back to the camera, I can almost imagine I was the one fucking her tonight.
And even though I wasn’t, I know Iwillbe. So goddamn soon.
Chapter 7
Juliet
Unknown: I trust ur upholding ur end of our deal?
Swiping the message from my screen before I’m tempted to reply, I lean between the two front seats and peer into the dark at the swamp dungeon ahead of the car, tilting my head. The little cottage is sheltered by a plethora of forest, so deeply entrenched I’d never have thought to come here on my own.
It’s like something out of a fairy tale, with pale yellow siding and tall, single-paned windows perfect for admiring Lake Koselomal. A stone walkway is barely visible in the light provided by the porch lamp, and two shadows move fluidly behind the sheer curtains, their actions inside a complete mystery.
I look at my step-cousin Luca from the corner of my eye. “How did you find this place?”
He shrugs a shoulder, dragging a hand through his blond hair. “Wild guess. This place is still in his brother Murphy’s name, and I don’t think anyone is insane enough to step foot here after what went down when he died.”
Swallowing, I try to process this information. Kieran’s older brother was murdered a couple of years ago, and the details were kept extremely under wraps. All anyone in King’s Trace could figure out was that it was likely gang-related and some sort of brutal home invasion.
But no one ever knew where Murphy lived; the Ivers are notoriously secretive, and after this happened the whole family folded inward, clamming up, and became virtual hermits. It’s only been in the last few months that they started attending things again, like the fundraiser from the other night.
“Kinda weird that this is right across the lake from Elia and Caroline.”
Luca’s jaw clenches, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Knowing Murphy, it was probably on purpose. I’m sure he was spying on us Montaltos at some point.”
Ah, yes, the world of the mafioso.Luca serves as one of Elia’s soldiers, but since some kind of infidelity mistake in the early days of the latter’s marriage to my sister, he’s only been on guard duty at Crimson.
My phone buzzes again, and my internal organs groan in protest. Unlocking the screen, I grit my teeth at the message waiting there.
Unknown: I don’t appreciate the silent treatment.
Unable to stop myself, I pull up the touch keyboard and let my thumbs fly.
Me: And I don’t appreciate the orders. I’m not your girlfriend or your little plaything. You can’t tell me what to do.
A few minutes pass with radio silence; Luca shifts in his seat, shoving his door open and climbing out of the car to make a phone call. I glare at the shadow dancing behind the curtain, hating the way I can tell exactly who it belongs to, as if we have some unspoken connection tethering our hidden selves to one another.
He’s doing something laborious, that much I can tell; his form is continuously doubling over and straightening again, and he’s using various tools, their identities obscured by the light and sway of the curtains.
As if sensing something amiss, the shadow freezes in its spot, turning—though I can’t tell if it’s toward me or away.
Or maybe I don’t want to think about what it means if he’s looking out here.
What he’ll do if he realizes I’m technically on his property, scoping out the place so I can return later and take back my locket.
