Page 8 of Marked By His Touch

“This wasn’t a recent visit,” Alexander says, his finger tracing a line through the dust coating the overturned furniture.

I nod, my throat tight. “They must have come here right after we left.”

My eyes scan the scene, taking it in. The coffee table, where we used to have Friday tea, is overturned, its glass top shattered into a thousand pieces. The bookshelves are empty, their contents strewn across the floor like a library ravaged by a hurricane. My father’s antique globe, a treasure he’d brought back from one of his travels, lies smashed on the floor.

My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch the broken pieces, a shard of glass cutting into my palm. The pain is sharp and piercing.

Alexander is already moving through the apartment, taking in every detail like a hunter, assessing the scene, piecing together the clues.

I try to follow him, but my feet seem rooted to the floor, my body has frozen.

Everything is turned upside down. The scattered belongings - it all feels so familiar. It brings back a painful memory, a scene from my childhood. Before my parents died, our home was ransacked in a similar way. My mom whisked me away while my dad cleaned up the mess. My eyes well up with bittersweet tears.

The apartment feels like a tomb. My parents’ things, their memories, are spread out like bones on the floor. Why would anyone do this? The question is a raw, searing wound, and the anger that erupts within me is a wild, untamed fire, burning away the fear in its path.

The anger gives way to a wave of grief like a tide threatening to drown me. I can feel my hand shaking as I reach out to touch the canvas of one of my mother’s paintings torn off the wall, my fingers tracing the outline of the sunflowers, their yellow petals now smudged and torn.

My mother’s paintings were her legacy, her passion, her voice. To see them destroyed is a wound that cuts deep, a wound that bleeds into the very fabric of my soul.

My father’s favorite tweed jacket, which he wore to every family gathering, lies crumpled on the floor, its buttons ripped off. It is one of the only things I’ve kept from my father.

I pick up a crumpled photograph, a faded image of my parents, their faces beaming. I clutch the faded photo, their smiles frozen in time.

I know that I’mnevercoming back here. This apartment is not my home anymore. Home is with Alexander, in the safe house, in the shadows. Wherever he is, I will be with him.

Still, it feels like I’m losing everything, piece by piece.Will I lose him too?

What if Sarah’s place is like this?What if they got to her? The thought is a monster in the shadows. I can’t even think about her being hurt, about her being—violated.

Alexander stops at the bookcase, his eyes tracing the empty shelves. His hand brushes over the chipped surface.

“Who did this?” I manage. But deep down, I know it’s Cole.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze still glued to the destruction around him. He picks up a shard of glass, turns it over in his hand, and examines it with a chilling intensity.

“It’s a message,” Alexander says, his voice a low rumble. “They were watching us, and they want us to know. They want to scare us.”

“Looking for what?” I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“My best guess is you—”

I glance at Alexander, searching for reassurance, but his eyes hold only a grim determination, his jaw clenched tight. We’re no longer safe.

If we ever were—

“We have to go,” he says, his gaze darting around the room, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his hip. “To the safe house.”

But there’s somewhere else I want to go.

“We have to stop at Sarah’s place first,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s on the way.”

“No,” Alexander snaps, his tone sharp. “It’s too risky. You know what happened to—my sister.”

I see the fear in his eyes and the desperate need to keep those he loves safe.

“Just a quick check,” I insist, my voice rising. “We need to know.”

“No,” he says, his voice hard. “Don’t push it, Ava.”

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