27. Elara

Chapter 27

Elara

W ilder drops me off at Farrow Manor after a solemn, quiet ride in his car.

When I left Clover's room and returned to him, he must've seen something on my face, because he didn't drag me out of the Vultures' home and insist I tell him everything. I was expecting him to go so far as to lock all the doors in the car and refuse to let me out until I gave up every reason why I wanted to meet and talk with Clover.

Wilder did none of those things.

He opened the passenger door, giving my arm a squeeze before I slid in. Then he started the car and swerved off, his face a blank canvas.

The second he pulls up to the manor, I twist toward him in my seat, unable to take it anymore. "Why haven't you asked what happened with Clover?"

Wilder doesn't face me when he answers, choosing to keep staring ahead. "Did you want me to?"

"What kind of answer is that?" I pause, using the moment to study his profile. "Did something go on between you, Rio and Rossi to make you go quiet?"

The corner of his mouth tics as he fights off a smile. "The only thing I did in their presence was breathe, and that's only because I have to."

His answer is curt, a typical Wilder response. But beneath it, I detect a tenderness, a refrain that's more protective than dismissive.

My gaze ricochets between his stoic profile and my family mansion casting deep shadows over us, despite the bright morning sun. I want to tell Wilder everything, as well as the others. I'd love to be with them with the sun over our heads instead of constant dark clouds.

But the truth is like acid on my tongue, the unspoken words clawing at the back of my throat.

"Danger," I confess quietly, finally breaking the silence. Wilder's focus shoots to me briefly before returning to the mansion's imposing facade. "It seems like danger is following me and always has its eyes set on the people around me."

"I know," he says simply, but not unkindly. "But if you start calling it a curse, I may have to keep you and Cav separated."

It was meant as a joke, but it doesn't land. I press my lips together.

Wilder exhales heavily, turning his gaze from the manor to mine. Despite the lurking misery in his hazel eyes, there is an undeniable warmth there, too.

"I won't make the same mistake twice," he says.

I furrow my brows at him, confused.

"Teagan," he supplies.

My forehead smooths with realization.

"I ignored the signs with Tea. In the end, it cost her everything."

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion.

"You're not responsible for that," I tell him. "We're not repeating history, Wilder. You're not the same shallow initiate you were back then."

He fixes me with a pained stare. "But I am responsible for you. We all are—in one way or another."

"I am not Teagan," I say quietly. "My innocence is gone. I'm fully aware of what the Sovereigns are."

Wilder's features lock down, disagreement clear but unvoiced. Instead, he reaches over and brushes a wisp of hair out of my face. His touch lingers on my cheek before pulling back.

"You should get inside. Me and the guys will join you shortly. We have to—go."

The way he stalls on go makes me freeze with my hand halfway to the door handle. "Go where?"

Weariness drags at his eyes as his hands fuse to the steering wheel. "We still have our duties. The Sovereigns don't know where we are, but if we stop following their orders altogether, there will be trouble for our living relatives. So, we play our roles from afar."

Ice, chilling and painful, fills my stomach. "What does that mean? I thought you guys were ignoring their summons altogether."

He flexes his fingers. "We need more time. Always more fucking time. Doing this for them, going after their blackmail targets, people who've crossed the Sovereigns in some way and forced to do their bidding, will buy us more. They have to be kept in line."

Before I can voice any protests, he's opening his door and stepping out.

I watch him round the car and open the passenger door.

His hand extends toward me, the movement just shy of a command. But I take it, facing him as soon as I step onto the old stone pathway, but Wilder's already moving to return to his side of the car.

"Promise me something," I state.

He stills without answering.

"Promise me you won't let them manipulate you into doing something that will break you into pieces that I won't be able to fit back together."

He levels his gaze on mine over the SUV's hood, his irises swirling with honey and earth tones swallowing the sunlight beaming on them.

A beat passes before he speaks again.

"I can't promise that." He yanks on the driver's door. "Because I would do anything for you."

And his words—those deadly, beautiful words—are a dagger in my chest. I watch him slide back into the driver's seat and shut the door with an resounding slam before he roars off.

I let my head fall back, willing the sun to dry any tears that try and escape my closed eyes, then turn and trek inside.

The smell hits me almost immediately.

I follow the scent with a wrinkled nose, deftly avoiding all signs of my mother's evil genius, until I reach the grand, unused living room and spot the figure lounging on the Queen Victorian couch, one leg raised in the air.

I creep in cautiously, stepping over the white sheets she's cast aside that were acting as dust covers for the furniture. "Sasha?"

"Hello!" Sasha turns her head and grins at me.

"What are you doing? Is your leg okay?"

"My leg is operating as an exclamation point to my hello! "

I blink at her, trying to make sense of her words even as I take in the sight of her languishing with an open bag of gummy worms on her stomach. "You're stoned."

"Fuck yes. It's not like we're in the best situation right now. Might as well enjoy a good high."

She waves her leg in a last salute before lowering it.

I can't stop a genuine laugh from escaping at the sight of her.

"You should try it some time," she says.

Sasha's eyes are glazed over and she has this soft smile on her face that almost makes me want to agree with her.

Almost.

"No thanks," I murmur.

I glance around the room and my gaze falls upon a photo frame settled at one corner of the ornately carved fireplace mantel. The sweet smiles of my innocent youth greet me from behind the glass—me hugging Mom, and Maverick on the other side, all of us smiling too brightly.

Seeing Maverick's younger self brings that familiar flutter of warmth and the ache of absence in equal measures.

My attention moves to the picture next to it: Mom and Dad's wedding day.

They looked so happy. Dad, with his wide smile and twinkling eyes, his arm wrapped around Mom's waist as if he would never let her go. And Mom, radiant in her simple white dress, her cheeks flushed with happiness and awe at who she gets to marry.

The raw emotion captured in that photo slices through me like a knife, and for a moment I let myself sink back into the memory of happier times. I can almost imagine what their laughter would've been like that day, weaving through the now haunted halls of our family home.

It's odd how quick laughter can turn to tears when you realize everything's a lie.

"Hey," Sasha calls out softly, jolting me out of my thoughts. Her smile fades as she sits up, replaced by a look of concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie smoothly.

She doesn't buy it, but doesn't push either. Instead, she pats the spot next to her on the couch. "Come here."

I sit next to her, cautiously avoiding the half-eaten bag of gummies teetering precariously on her stomach. She reaches over and wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into a side hug.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, Elara," she says quietly. "It's okay to be scared."

A lump forms in my throat and I blink back tears. My voice is barely a sound when I finally admit, "I am scared."

My family looks so happy up there on the mantle, innocent even. It feels like centuries ago, a completely different life.

"We'll figure this out, El," Sasha says, her voice solid and confident.

The strength of her words is soothing, but it only goes so far in suppressing my fears, the worrisome thoughts forever nipping at the edges of my mind.

A tear seeps from the corner of my eye, trailing down my cheek before I brush it away hastily and slip out of her embrace.

"I need to shower and change. I'll come back down when I'm done."

She doesn't argue, simply nods and goes back to her bag of gummies with a serene expression that only pot could produce.

With one last smile, I make my way towards the grand staircase leading up, but pause at the base, looking back at her.

"Hey," I say softly, "Don't think about going anywhere tonight."

Sasha snorts a laugh but relents easily enough when she sees the serious look on my face.

"I'll just load up Netflix then," she declares before dangling another worm near her mouth. "Go find your comfiest lounge wear."

Retreating to the comfort of my room, I find myself unable to push away the gnawing sense of unease that's been haunting me ever since my conversation in Wilder's car. The memory of him saying those words— because I'd do anything for you —sounds too much like what I'd do for him, for all of them, and that ignites a dangerous hope within my heart.

The truth is, the devastating allure of Wilder and Cav, Axe and Kaspian, their intoxicating mix of aggression and desire, is a dangerous cocktail which I've willingly sipped from. The heady effect it has on me is a terrifying kind of exhilaration that leaves me vulnerable, and that's exactly why I haven't told them of Maverick's last message.

That the Sovereigns want the blood of Sarah Anderton, too.

Me.

"They want to use me as a sacrifice," I say to myself, watching the words disperse into nothingness as if they were made of smoke.

What would Wilder say? Cav? Kaspian? Axe?

Would they be shocked? Angry? Would they fight for me, or would the revelation change everything between us? They want nothing more than to be rid of the Sovereigns, but I'm not certain if their pursuit of the Heart and the downfall of the Sovereigns is truly about liberation … or just another manifestation of their hunger for power and control.

Fear, shaped like sharp thorns on vines, wraps around my heart at the thought.

Naked, under the hot spray of the shower, I yield to the memory of our stolen moments as visceral torment threats to swallow me whole.

Possessive touches, sinful whispers, strategic moves, all of them burning with a fire only for me. The heat between us is palpable, undeniable.

Yet, their motivations remain shrouded in mystery as thick as the steam engulfing me.

I remain under the hot water far longer than necessary, hoping its scalding embrace might wash away my doubts and fears, cleanse me of my uncomfortable thoughts.

I finish my shower in silence, the warmth of the water doing nothing to chase away the frost coating my bones. After drying off, I pull on a pair of black leggings, an over-sized shirt and a blue hoodie where I stash the ruby locket in its front pocket.

Comfortable, but defensible. You never know when you might need to run for your life, after all.

Downstairs, I find Sasha sprawled across the couch again, her cheek resting against one of the red velvet cushions as she snores lightly. A bag of chips has replaced her previous snack.

I tiptoe around her sleeping figure to grab a blanket from an adjacent chair before draping it over her. She shifts slightly in her sleep but doesn't wake, a soft mumble escaping her lips. I watch her for a moment, overcome by a rush of affection for my best friend.

I can't put her at risk. Not Sasha, not the guys.

Staring down at my friend, I confront the terrifying facts.

I'm an innocent sacrifice for a power-hungry secret society. It's absurd. Grotesque, even.

Elara Wraithwood is the final descendant of a feared healer, accused witch, and suspected assassin from centuries ago.

If anyone had told me that the tales uttered in hushed tones about Sarah Anderton were true, that her blood ran in my veins, that I was destined to be a sacrifice for the Cimmerian Court's relentless pursuit to unleash a demon, I would've laughed it off as one fucked-up joke.

But reality doesn't take jokes lightly, and it certainly doesn't allow escape from its iron clutches.

Would it be selfish to shatter Sasha's peaceful reality? Could I even bear to watch the light dim from her eyes when she learns that the men she's begun to trust are entangled in a plot that could very well cost me my life?

"No," I breathe softly, feeling a boulder lodge itself in my throat. "No, she can't know."

I can't let her know.

I can't let the guys know.

Not until I have more and understand what my brother tried to stop.

Sasha's left the TV on, and I nestle beside her curled up legs, choosing an old rom-com to watch. Sasha had the right idea in skipping afternoon classes. Acting normal seems like a far-off goal these days.

I'm halfway to a nap when I hear a noise on the other side of the wall, in the foyer.

Footsteps.

Fright doesn't hit me, not in the fortress Mom's built, but curiosity does.

I lean into Sasha's body, peering into the open archway in time to see Axe navigating the flooring in the way I taught him, a 3-2-1 step process that will bring him into this room unscathed.

"Hey," I greet.

Axe stiffens in surprise, glancing over.

I frown. Axe doesn't startle easily.

Slipping out of the blanket I decided Sasha could share, I pad closer to his still form. "Axe? You okay?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Yes."

I press my lips together and give a single nod, because that's the most I'll get out of him in terms of how he's feeling. "Where are the others?"

"Others?"

"Kaspian, Wilder, Cav. Wilder said you guys had a job and would be back soon." I check the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs. "That went a lot quicker than I thought."

"Oh. I didn't go with them."

This time, my brows pull together and accompany my frown. "No? I thought you four did everything together. Why didn't you go?"

"Not everything."

He says it in such a low tone, such defeat, that I move closer. "Axe?"

Axe's gaze is remote, as if he's looking past me, into aspects of his fractured memories I can't begin to fathom.

"I—" he starts, then snaps his mouth shut as if biting back an unpleasant confession.

It's rare for Axe to let his guard down, and it's rarer still for him to reveal any semblance of vulnerability. I reach out tentatively, brushing my fingers against the rough skin of his hands. Axe flinches at the contact, but doesn't pull away.

A flicker of strain passes over his control as he levels a laden look at me. Just for a moment, I'm reminded of the uncanny intensity that drew me to him in the first place.

"It's okay," I say softly, hoping to reassure him even as unease puts pressure on my heart. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Without another word, Axe covers my mouth with his, desperate and demanding. The shock of it reverberates through me as he backs me up against the wall.

I try to protest, but the softness of his lips, the urgency of his tongue, the sharp bite of his teeth, captures all of me, and I'm lost in him.

Axe grips my hips, holding me close as he deepens our kiss, his body heat singing through my clothes.

The taste of him is addictive, fresh air and sea salt. My sighs linger in the air as our lips move together, seeking an unbreakable connection.

He presses his groin into my stomach, hard and demanding. My fingers tangle in his hair and I return his kiss with just as much fervor.

Sasha's still sleeping on the couch around the corner. If she woke up and decided to inspect the strange sounds, we'd be caught and I'd be embarrassed, but I can't bring myself to pull away from him. Axe's touch kindles an inferno that burns away all thoughts of caution and reason.

He drags his lips down my jawline to my neck, dragging his teeth over my skin before pressing his hot tongue against it. My pulse flutters, trapped under his teeth as he groans against it, seemingly satisfied with my response.

Axe's hands roam lower, tracing slow circles around my hips before moving to my thighs. Every brush of his hand sets off seismic ripples through my body, and I'm getting wetter by the second, soaking through my leggings.

The fleeting thought that we should go upstairs is soon swept away as Axe's hot mouth travels lower, kissing along my collarbone and down to the swell of my breasts. He pulls my hoodie and shirt over my head, discarding it carelessly on the floor. His lips trail fire across my bare skin to the lace-edged bra I'd worn, as if I'd sensed that at least one of them would strip me today, even if my brain hadn't caught up yet.

Axe kneads my breasts through my bra, his thumbs brushing over my already stiffened nipples. The sensation shoots straight through me and I can't hold back a gasp. He looks into my eyes at the sound.

"More," he growls, sending a delicious tremor down my spine.

His voice is dark and gravelly, edged with a desperation that's like a raw, open wound. His low command paints my skin with invisible brushstrokes of liquid fire, pooling between my legs in a sweet, throbbing ache.

Axe lowers his mouth to one hardened nipple, sucking it through the lacy fabric. I moan loudly, arching against him and digging my fingers into his shoulders. He unclasps the hook of my bra with a swift motion, letting it fall away.

"Axe," I gasp as he hooks one of my legs around his waist.

"Hate this," he mutters, tearing at the fabric of my leggings with unbelievable ease. His fingers brush against the heat of my center and I whimper at the sudden contact. "Hate how they make you feel like you're less than them." He pulls back to look into my eyes—those piercing gray storm clouds burning with defiance and agonizing need.

"No..." I breathe, shaking my head, desire churning in throat and thickening my voice. "You're not less than anyone. You're more."

Axe watches me as I say it, something like guilt churning in the depths of his hurricane eyes. But there's also his ruthless vulnerability, his ferocity and tenderness, all intertwining until my heart aches with the sheer beauty of him.

He slides what's left of my leggings down, bunching them along with the slick fabric of my underwear around one ankle.

I'm left bare to him. And even though I've been on this precipice with Axe and the others before, each time feels so different. So much more vital and profound.

His fingers tease along my folds, finding me drenched for him. A shudder weakens my knees at his touch. It's like he knows just what to do to unravel me completely. The pad of his thumb presses against my clit, and I whimper.

The sound seems to fuel him. Axe's fingers slip inside, curling in just the right way that makes my back arch off the wall.

A groan rumbles from his chest, resonating as though he were a seismic force and I the ground beneath him, shaking from the tremor. Then he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his lips, tasting me on them and watching for my reaction.

"Delicious," he murmurs.

I bite my lip.

His pupils dilate.

I reach out to him then, my hand sliding over the rough terrain of his scarred back through his shirt, feeling it tense under my touch.

"I want you," I whisper.

My body is burning for him, yearning for him.

Desperate.

I reach down to grip his hard length over his jeans. Axe's breath stutters and he presses into my hand, seeking friction.

He pushes two fingers inside of me then, pumping slowly while his thumb continues to circle my clit with a torturous pace that has me writhing. The exquisite pressure builds, a mounting crescendo that threatens to fracture.

"Please." I almost weep, raking my nails down his back through the thin layer of his shirt.

If I cause him pain, he wants it, because he tortures me further by almost bringing me to climax, then backing off.

"Say it again," Axe orders, his voice tight and strangled.

Before I can, his lips crash onto mine in a heated frenzy, swallowing my half-formed words and whispers.

Axe releases a guttural sound into my mouth then pushes away. His fingers cease their torment, leaving me gasping.

But his focus stays on me, drinking in my disheveled state—the flushed cheeks, the heaving chest, the parted lips.

"Elara," his voice is a ragged whisper, a plea. Perhaps a prayer.

He grinds against my hand, his own coming to rest over mine as he guides it under his pants and I can stroke him bare.

The friction is maddeningly delicious, both for him and for me.

"I need you," he rasps.

The heat between us is unabated, a wildfire racing across parched land.

I pull my hand out, fingers finding purchase in his shirt's fabric, tugging it free from his body.

Axe's muscular torso is carved from pale granite. Each line and ridge of muscle is pronounced under my touch. Each brutal scar forms an obvious ridge under my hands.

I trail my fingers over him in fascinated exploration, lightly tracing over the contours of his body, losing my breath when he mirrors my actions and does the same to me.

Axe keenly observes every response I give him. Then he frees himself, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down in a swift move.

Axe is bared—so undeniably him—and my heart lurches.

There's nothing gentle about the way he takes me then, hoisting me up against the wall with ease, as if my weight means nothing to him.

I moan against his lips, lost, as he pushes me harder against the wall. The cool surface bites into my back.

With one hand, he covers my mouth, pushing my head against the wall at the same time he slips his dick deep inside me. I gasp against his palm at the intrusion, feeling myself stretch around him as he begins to move in a brutal rhythm.

It feels good—too good—and it takes everything away except pure, pleasure-pain bliss.

Axe thrusts into me harder. There's no softness left in him now, just raw force, a man drowning in torture but choosing to die in ecstasy.

I endure every punishing thrust with a smothered gasp that feels like surrender.

His pace is relentless, driving us both towards an edge we're teetering on. I respond in kind, my body matching his rhythm as I cling to him for support, the wainscotting halfway up the wall digging painfully into my back.

Axe's climax detonates through his body, the power of it rippling through every muscle, every vein, until all that remains is what I can cling to. He's threadbare, but his fingers claw into my hips, holding on tight as he loses the rest of himself.

He stays entwined with me, slowing his pace. Axe's lips trail soft kisses along my neck, each one a silent confession etched into my skin.

Axe slides in and out of me with excruciating gentleness, his aching need now sated, replaced with an indescribable intimacy. One that goes beyond skin and bone to touch upon something ethereal.

Holding back tears, my own release finally takes hold, shattering under the weight of his touch and his observant gaze.

I erupt around him, my cries muffled under his hand, my nails digging into the strong sinews of his back and creating half-moon crescents over his scars.

I ride out the wave of him, lapping against the shore until finally, everything is calm.

Axe removes his hand from my mouth and lifts me off the wall, striding down the hall with my legs wrapped around his hips and avoiding my mother's disguised hazards as if he's lived here for years. The entire time, we're kissing, our tongues stroking, his dick pulsing inside me.

Reluctantly, Axe releases my lips and lays me on the bed in the guest room, then swings onto the mattress until his body is heavy on mine.

As he gathers me into his arms, he buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.

I gently guide him away so I can look at him. Axe's eyes are soft, gray clouds breaking apart enough to reveal rare sunlight that casts its brightness over the furious cut down his face. Its warm rays are present in the way he traces circles on my skin and how he memorizes my face.

He looks at me like I'm one of Sarah's precious, rumored jewels that he's afraid will implode under the pressure of his touch. Yet, his caress is far from delicate—it's filled with a rough longing that scrapes against my flesh, carving feelings into me I've only ever dreamed about.

I want to tell him everything, the looming, god-awful truth about the Sovereign's plans for me. The dread that eats at my insides, threatening to swallow me whole. But the look in his eyes, the way he cradles me closer into his embrace, warns me not to add to whatever is currently hurting him. Silencing him.

My fingers thread through his, and then, we're sleeping. Or at least he is.

Axe's breath tickles my nose as he drifts off, his chest rising and falling rhythmically against my sensitive nipples.

His ash blonde hair is an unkempt mess on the pillow, lips slightly open in deep sleep. He looks almost peaceful, like a boyish Axe who didn't have to endure torture, fight off abuse, and face neglect.

This is the Axe who just held me, loved me … and I drift off, too, cradled by the rhythmic beats of his heart and lulled by his warm, solid presence.

I wake up to the dimming light of dusk filtering through the windows. My head is on the pillow, but my body feels bereft—empty—and I soon realize why. Axe's side of the bed is cold, his scent still lingering on the sheets, but he's no longer there. My hand reaches out, brushing along the cool cotton where he should be.

As my heart sinks deeper into my chest with the absence of him against my skin, it's like a part of me has vanished.

Been taken.

A pang of disappointment shoots through me. Did he leave to keep me safe? Or was it all too much?

Drawn by some peculiar instinct, I turn my head towards the plush couch in the room where Cav's tall frame is sprawled, his dark hair an unruly halo around his pensive, slumbering face.

Kaspian rests in a chair across from him, chestnut tendrils framing his handsome features and almost making him look innocent.

I look down, and Wilder's sleeping on the floor directly beside me, his face tilted in my direction as if he had to keep me in his horizon before he was forced to surrender to sleep.

It's unlike them to have resisted crawling into bed with Axe and me, taking their rightful positions, since I've been with all of them and care for them all the same.

Perhaps they sensed in Axe the same thing I did, a vulnerability that's desperate for consolation, one they can't provide, but that I have all too much of.

It's then I realize these men can do anything, kill anyone, and I'd probably forgive them. I'm too connected to them not to.

Sitting up, I give each of them a brief survey in the growing darkness, finding none of them worse for wear. Whatever job Wilder was talking about, they all got through it unscathed.

As for Axe's absence, I'll ask Wilder when he wakes up. Maybe Axe was never meant to go with them, but I'm wondering where it was he did go that gave him a heavier dose of torment than usual. And where Axe went now.

That leaves Sasha.

Slipping out of the covers, I tiptoe around Wilder, who grunts and grabs my ankle as I try to step around him. I swallow down a yelp at the feel of his calloused palm and look down, expecting alert, glimmering eyes to be staring right at me.

But no. They're firmly shut, but he's brought my ankle to his lips and bared his teeth, nipping at it and grinning in his sleep.

I tug my limb away, though the feel of his mouth lingers on my skin.

His hand drops onto the floor, his body contorting as he lets out a low groan before resuming his restless slumber.

Heart hammering in my chest, I glance at the men one last time, confirming they're still asleep before sneaking out of the room and into the corridor, though I can feel, rather than see, Kaspian's slitted eyes following my every naked move.

Walking through one of the archways, I take in Sasha's makeshift bed on the living room sofa. It appears she's slept all afternoon and into the evening. Considering what I'm putting her through and how many gummies she ate, I don't find that surprising.

She's sleeping serenely, her dark curls splayed around her gold-hued face like a fan.

I find my clothes folded neatly on an armchair, as if one of the guys found them strewn all over the hallway, collected them, and positioned them for me to find later.

A flush creeps up my neck as I picture one or all of them, bringing my underpants to their nose and mouth and inhaling deeply, understanding exactly what occurred to have made me tear my clothes off.

I shake the image away and pick up my clothes, unfolding them and sliding on what is still in one piece—my underwear, shirt, and hoodie, when I notice the strange lightness against my belly.

I'd stashed the amulet in my front pocket and I don't feel it there anymore.

As both hands scramble under the soft fabric, my heart starts pounding. As if each beat echoes the word, gone.

No. I won't believe it. It has to be here. It can't just…

I pull off all my clothes, flipping them inside-out and shaking them as if the ruby was hiding in a hidden pocket I didn't know about.

Nausea coats my throat as I grope every inch of it, praying for the solid thud of the jewel against my hand. But all I find is lint and an old ticket to a nightclub.

"Sash? Did you put the ruby somewhere?"

My voice is louder than necessary, but I'm choking back panic.

"Huh? Wha…?" Sasha pries one eye open.

"The necklace with the ruby," I clarify while pushing to my feet and searching the living room. "Did you put it somewhere when you found my clothes on the floor?"

"What? No. What are you doing? Where am I? Are you naked?"

Terror rises faster than logic as each surface, shelf, and couch cushion is searched and I come up with nothing.

Our half of the ruby Heart is gone.