Page 47 of Felix

“Fine,” he grumbles, clearly not happy about it but knowing better than to argue with me right now.

We approach the bloody box, my pulse racing with fear and fury. We’re ready for whatever fucked-up message lies within. Whatever they want, we’ll face it head-on together.

The moment Felix lifts the box’s flaps, my stomach churns. Two severed hands rest inside, one male and one female, both wearing wedding rings. My throat tightens, bile rising in my throat as I try not to vomit.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away from the gruesome sight.

Felix frowns, his jaw clenched as he stares at the mangled limbs. He carefully picks them up, cradling them like fragile treasures. “I’ll take care of this,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Wait here.”

“Fuck that,” I spit, anger burning through me like wildfire. “I’m not letting you handle this shit alone.” Our lives are twisted together now, entwined by violence and secrecy. If someone wants to send us a message, then we’ll fucking read it together.

“Fine,” he concedes, not bothering to argue. He carries the hands inside, and I follow, my heart still pounding hard.

“Here,” he says gruffly, handing me a bucket and bleach. “Pour this on the blood outside. Then fill the bucket with boiling water and pour it over the bleach after a few minutes.”

“Fuck off,” I snap, glaring at him. But he just smiles that infuriating smirk that somehow makes me want to kiss and slap him all at once.

“Please, darling,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locked on mine.

“Fine,” I mutter, snatching the bleach from his hand. Ihead outside, the harsh chemical scent stinging my nostrils as I pour it over the bloody tiles. My hands shake as I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Who would do this? Why?

Boiling water hisses as it meets the bleach, steam curling into the air as I scrub the blood away. My arms ache from the effort, but I don’t stop, driven by a desperate need to erase any trace of this nightmare.

Inside, Felix deals with the hands, probably googling how to pickle them in a jar.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Felix Greyson

The sun beats down mercilessly while Aurora scrubs the blood off our doorstep. Her long, black hair clings to her sweat-drenched neck, tattoos glistening on her arms as she works. I can’t help but admire her determination, even in the face of this gruesome task.

“Fucking bastards,” I mutter under my breath. Whatever sicko left those severed hands on our porch is going to pay.

I snapped a photo of the hands and sent it over a secure line to Angel. Maybe he can dig up some information on who these hands belonged to—if there’s someone handless at a hospital or found dead missing any. Or maybe the wedding rings might mean something to somebody.

“Hey, don’t forget to check the cracks in the tiles for any leftover blood,” I yell to Aurora as I head inside. She gives me a short nod, eyes narrowed in concentration. I know she hates this, but we need to cover our tracks.

In the basement, I wrap the hands up in butcher paper, careful not to disturb the rings. Might need them later, whoknows? The cooler hums softly in the corner, ready to store its gruesome cargo.

Fucking hell, I say to myself as I shove the package into the cooler.

I head back upstairs, closing the basement door behind me as I go, and head back into the kitchen. Aurora stomps back inside, sweat glistening on her forehead, her jaw set in a tight, pissed-off line. I can’t blame her—cleaning blood isn’t exactly a fun gig.

“Fucking nightmare,” she mutters, tossing the scrub brush into the sink with a loud clatter. Her chest heaves, her anger palpable, but there’s also something wild and vulnerable beneath it all.

“Hey,” I say, my voice low and rough. As she walks past me, I reach out, grabbing her waist and pulling her close. She’s tense, like a caged animal, but I don’t let go. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, we’re lost in each other’s darkness.

“Listen,” I murmur, my lips brushing against hers. “I care about you, Aurora. No matter what fucked-up shit we gotta deal with, we got each other’s backs.”

Her eyes flicker with doubt and gratitude before our mouths crash together. The kiss is hard and aggressive, but it’s also filled with unspoken promises and shared pain. We’re both survivors, bound by blood and secrets.

She breathes hard against my lips, her fingers clutching at my shirt.

“Need a fucking shower,” Aurora mumbles, her voice thick with exhaustion. She peels away from me, leaving my arms feeling empty and cold. She walks up the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of the day’s events.

My body itches to follow her, the urge to be close to her gnawing at me like a starving dog. But as I take the first step, my phone buzzes in my pocket, ripping me away from that magnetic pull.

“Angel,” I answer, my voice strained.

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