Page 59 of Misery
"I didn't order anything."
"Got your name on it." She sets a long white box on the bar.
My hand goes to my weapon. Every instinct screams danger. "Don't touch it."
But she's already lifting the lid.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, are a dozen roses.
Black roses.
The color drains from her face so fast I think she might faint.
Her hands shake as she picks up the card with trembling fingers.
"What does it say?" My voice is calm but I'm already moving, positioning myself between her and the door.
She reads aloud, voice barely a whisper. "For the little artist. Beauty in darkness. Soon."
The bar's gone quiet.
That unnatural silence that comes before shit goes down.
Everyone knows something's wrong.
Members are already moving to defensive positions without being asked.
Tor's at the front door while Magnus covers the back.
"Where's the delivery guy?" I ask Jaycee.
"Gone. Just some kid. Teenager. Said he was paid cash to deliver them." She's sweating now, realizing she might have fucked up. "I didn't think?—"
"You never think," I cut her off. "Security footage?"
"Yeah, I can pull it?—"
"Do it. Now."
Black roses. Death. Hatred. Or in some cultures, dark devotion. Obsession.
The kind that ends in blood.
"Get them out of here," I ordered.
A prospect scrambles to comply, using a bar towel to avoid touching them directly.
Elfe's still staring at where the roses were. "How did they know I'd be here?"
Good question.
We didn't announce she was working.
Fuck, she just made the decision a few hours ago.
Which means someone's watching. Still watching. Right now, maybe.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the windows.
