Page 130 of The Toy Collector

Three words. Simple words that people say to each other every day. But coming from her lips, they tear me open, expose something raw and bleeding that I’ve kept hidden my entire life.

Instead of sleeping, I just watch her all night long. Chest rising and falling. That puzzle piece resting against her throat. Piper Russo. Mine in name. Mine in blood. Mine in every way that counts. And soon, the world will fucking know it.

Chapter 45

Piper

The Harrington estate breathes wealth like other houses breathe air. I step through the front door, crossing the threshold that I haven’t seen in exactly a year, and feel my spine straighten of its own accord—muscle memory from years of my mom’s hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

As always, the foyer gleams with precision. Marble that never shows footprints, crystal that never dulls, flowers that look as if they’ve never been alive enough to die. Enzo’s arm is wrapped around my middle, his touch providing heat against the cold that clings to the walls.

“We can leave our coats in here,” I murmur, gesturing toward a door on the left.

He steps in behind me, and we shrug out of our coats without a word, hanging them side by side on the polished rack that’s never once held anything real. Before I can take another step, Enzo pulls me back—his hand warm on my waist, steady, unrelenting.

“Toy,” he murmurs, tipping my chin so he can look at me. His eyes sweep over every inch—dress, puzzle piece, the ring on my finger. His claim carved in gold and metal. “You sure about this?”

I nod once, sharp and certain. “Let’s just get it over with.”

He leans in, his mouth brushing mine—not a kiss, not yet. A warning. A promise. When it finally deepens, it’s slow and consuming, one hand curled around my jaw like he’s reminding me who I belong to.

“They’ll see who you belong to the second you walk in,” he says against my lips.

“That’s the plan,” I breathe.

His mouth ghosts over mine again. “Then kiss me like you mean it.”

I do. And he takes it like it costs me something. Like it seals us.

When he finally pulls away, I almost chase him for more—but the air in this house makes my lungs feel too tight to breathe.

“I hate this place,” I whisper, smoothing down the red silk clinging to my hips. My fingers drift to the puzzle piece resting just above my heart.

“I know,” he murmurs, brushing my temple with his lips. “But I’ve got you.”

He threads his fingers through mine, and together we move deeper into the house I used to call home—though I don’t remember it ever feeling like one.

“Which room was yours?” he asks, voice low against my ear.

The question catches me off guard, but I answer anyway. “Second floor. Corner window.”

“Want to show me?”

I laugh coldly. “I can’t. The second I was kicked out, mommy and daddy dearest changed it into something else. Probably some kind of hobby room.”

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself, and lead us into the main room of depressing festivities.

Waitstaff move like white-gloved ghosts between clusters of guests, their trays of champagne flutes catching light from chandeliers. I watch them navigate conversations in progress, appearing at elbows exactly when glasses are empty, vanishing before they can be thanked. It’s a choreography I used to know by heart.

“Darling.”

My mother’s voice cuts through the room before I see her. Her heels strike a rhythm against the marble like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. She appears through a parting crowd, dressed in cream and diamonds, her smile fixed and brittle as she kisses the air beside each of my cheeks.

“You made it.”

Not once does she look me in the eye. Her gaze skims over my shoulder, my earrings, the hemline of my dress—assessing, calculating, finding fault—before landing on Enzo with a smile that brightens to something theatrical.

“And you must be the…” The pause is so precisely placed it might as well be underlined in red.

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