Page 102 of Wicked Savage

Even when I watch her, close enough to touch, I can’t get close enough to feel her skin against mine.

I can’t stop. It’s an obsession. A sickness. She’s embedded in my marrow, a disease I can’t shake off.

I’m back in Massachusetts, sitting in the dark, crushing my phone in my hand while I stare at the screen, my breath shallow.

I watch her respond to messages from men on some dating site. It’s like she’s trying to force herself to forget me, to let someone else take my place. But she can’t. And neither can I.

My blood boils with rage, so thick I can almost taste the venom. I intercept every message, every conversation, before it has a chance to go anywhere. I reach out to them and I make it clear: they stop talking to her, or they won’t live to see another day.

They block her. One by one. While she probably thinks something’s wrong with her.

But it’s me. It’s always been me.

I should feel bad. I should feel guilty. But I don’t.

I recall the text she sent her cousin a few weeks ago, telling her she wanted to move on. She’s trying. I know she is.

But it’s too bad. Because I won’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.

* * *

DINARA

What the hell am I doing wrong? Every guy I try to talk to ends up blocking me after a few messages. It’s like I have a curse on me, like I’m unworthy of anyone else’s attention.

But deep down, I know the truth: I don’t even care. None of them are him. The one man I can't seem to stop wanting, no matter how hard I try.

I should be over him by now. He’s gone. He left me behind. But instead of moving on, I find myself clinging to the broken pieces of us, obsessed with the thought of him, like a phantom who won’t leave my mind.

Snatching my phone from my nightstand, I force myself out of bed and head downstairs for lunch before visiting my siblings.

Lenny’s in the kitchen when I walk in, his back rigid as he stirs something in the pot. But the moment I step closer, he freezes. His gaze darts to me briefly, then quickly shifts to the counter.

“Ms. Marinova, may I get you something to eat?” His tone is tentative, unsure, like he's measuring every word.

“That would be great.” I force a smile, but his gaze flickers to the floor, as if the act of making eye contact is too much to bear.

“I have dolma and plov, if that is acceptable, or I can make something else.” He adds the last part quickly—almost too quickly, like he’s afraid I won’t like what he’s made.

“No, that’s perfect. I love that.” I can’t help but smile a little more sincerely. Azeri cuisine is one of my favorites.

He plates the food with careful precision, then sets the plate in front of me. Heading for the fridge, he pours water into a glass with a soft clink before returning and placing it before me, gaze never fully meeting mine.

I take the first bite, the rich flavor instantly making me close my eyes in pleasure. Heaven. As I continue to eat, Sonya walks in, carrying a large rectangular box.

“This was just delivered for you.” She places it on the island. “Would you like me to open it?”

“No, I’ll do it.” My stomach churns.

Every package makes my nerves spike, because it could always be from my father. I’m not sure if he knows where I live now, but I have no doubt he could find out.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the box, a growing sense of dread crawling under my skin like a slow poison.

Sonya leaves the room, but my gaze lingers on it—that damn box taunting me. The fear gnaws at my insides, but I refuse to let it win. I won’t let it control me.

I march toward the drawer, grabbing a box cutter with steady hands. The blade slices through the packaging with a clean cut, revealing a simple white box inside. No company name. No return address.

A chill skates down my arms, my heart hammering in my chest with a frantic warning, an instinct telling me to stop. But I can’t.

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