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Their presence gives me pause; there’s no way Elena wouldn’t pack at least The Romantics, and yet I see volumes of poetry sitting where they have forever, untouched and left behind.

My gut tightens, my gaze swinging back to Carmen’s. She glares at me, putting her hands on her wide hips.

“Where is she?” I ask, forcing my tone to remain level even as my body itches to propel forward and shove her against the wall.

She shrugs. “Seemed rather eager to let me help her escape. Kind of odd for a newlywed, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Carmen,” I say, moving toward the balcony as a shadow dances behind its doors, “never stopped you from trying, did it?”

Her mouth falls shut, and she moves with me, trying to block my exit. My skin prickles when she brings her hands to my chest, disgust swirling inside my gut, making my vision blur.

“I won’t let you corrupt my daughter,” she says, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

At one point, her pain may have worked on me; back when I was young and naive enough to think Carmen Ricci was capable of caring for someone other than herself. I can even feel myself wavering now as the tears spill over, slicking down her cheeks.

But then she speaks again, breaking the illusion.

“Don’t use her to get back at me.”

Biting down on the inside of my cheek until that sweet, coppery taste floods my senses, I let out a low chuckle, bending so my lips brush her ear. She shivers, and it makes me nauseous.

“I’m not going to corrupt her,” I say, taking Carmen’s hands in mine, curling my fingers around hers. “I’m going to ruin her, and every time she bleeds for me, I’m going to think about how she likes everything you didn’t.”

Snapping my hand forward, I hear the distinct crack of bone splintering, and she lets out a high-pitched wail as I shove her away. She cradles her broken fingers to her chest, a harsh sob wracking her body, but I ignore it the way she once ignored my pain.

I don’t plan on touching Elena yet.

But Carmen doesn’t know that. Right now, she thinks the marriage is legitimate in more than just the legal way, and that’s what I need her to believe.

Revenge is an afterthought for the most part when it comes to my next steps, but I won’t ever pass up the chance to see Carmen suffer.

Throwing open the balcony doors, I find Elena still dressed in her gown from earlier, a little pink backpack thrown over one shoulder, one book held to her chest.

Her hair is a mess, makeup smudged beneath her golden eyes, and she leans against the railing with a bored expression on her face, not even fazed by her mother’s cries.

When she sees me, she sighs. “Took you long enough.”

Like she isn’t surprised I came after her.

Even more, when I produce the syringe from my pants pocket and uncap the needle, she tilts her head and pushes her hair aside, as if inviting me to take her.

The needle plunges into her skin smoothly, and I lean down, laving my tongue over the site, unable to help myself. She goes limp after a moment, and I scoop her over my shoulder, taking the book from her hand and trying to ignore the title.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

As I leave Carmen in a blubbering mess on the floor and carry Elena’s unconscious form to the car waiting outside, I recall Jonas’s question.

I don’t think Elena will be a problem—she already is one.

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