Page 164 of Villainous Intent

Sparks. My throat went dry as I unlocked the phone, pulse quickening.

Sparks

I got your gift. Thank you.

Nothing to indicate her emotional state or what she thought of receiving a pair of severed hands in a box.

My brain spun through dozens of possible responses, calculating the probability of each one being the right thing to say. But the numbers kept blurring, my exhaustion making even basic calculations feel difficult. What the hell was I supposed to say anyway? “You’re welcome” felt grotesquely inadequate. “Glad you liked it” was worse. And “There are more where those came from” probably wouldn’t go over well, even if it was true.

I set the phone down without responding, then immediately picked it up again. Three dots appeared, indicating she was typing something else and I found myself holding my breath.

The dots disappeared. No additional message came through.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

I set the phone down and closed my eyes, drawing in a slow, measured breath. The Villain persona, my shield, my armor, I needed to slip it back on. When I picked up the phone again, my hands were steady. The tremor of uncertainty had been banished to whatever dark corner my weakness always retreated to when I needed clarity.

I’m glad you appreciated it. Consider it a small token of my esteem.

Detached. A hint of that villainous flair without crossing into territory that would make her uncomfortable. I hit send before I could overthink it.

My esteem? Oh fuck, I should have overthought it. Who the hell talks like that?

I stared at my own message, cringing. I sounded like some Victorian-era nobleman offering a handkerchief to a lady with the vapors. Not a man who’d just delivered severed hands as a murder trophy. I immediately thought of multiple better responses, ranging from darkly humorous to genuinely sincere. All of them vastly superior to whatever nineteenth-century bullshit I’d just sent.

The minutes ticked by with no response. Each passing second felt like another nail in the coffin of whatever this thing was between us. I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. I’m supposed to be fucking smooth. Make her wet with my words, not sound like I’m about to invite her to a goddamn cotillion.

My phone finally buzzed and I snatched it up.

It was thoughtful. In a disturbing way that I probably shouldn’t find comforting.

There she is. The woman who keeps surprising me at every turn. The only person who could receive severed hands and respond with something resembling gratitude.

I’m glad you found it comforting. That was the intent.

Better. Not perfect, but at least I didn’t mention my fucking esteem this time. My eyes burned from exhaustion as I watched the screen, calculating a 78% probability she’d end the conversation there. The remaining 22% split between her being disgusted upon further reflection or⁠—

Are you okay?

I froze, fingers hovering above the screen. When was the last time anyone had asked me that? My first instinct was to deflect with something cocky. I just killed 27 people in a single night, sweetheart. I’m fucking fantastic. But the words wouldn’t come.

The truth was simpler and more pathetic. I hadn’t slept in 38 hours. I’d pushed my body beyond what even my Trueborn physiology could handle. And somewhere between the blood and screams, I’d started wondering if I’d finally crossed a line that would make Annie look at me differently.

I stared at my phone. Lie and say I was fine? 87% chance she’d know it was bullshit. Brush it off with something flippant? 92% chance of making things worse. The truth seemed both impossible and inevitable.

I don’t know how to answer that question.

My thumb hovered over the send button for 4.2 seconds before I pressed it. Her dots appeared almost immediately. She was typing, deleting, typing again. My brain helpfully supplied potential responses, none of which prepared me for what actually came through.

That’s not a yes.

No, it wasn’t.

I stared at the phone, waiting for those three dots to reappear. Seconds stretched into minutes. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

The conversation was over.

I set the phone down and a hollowness began spreading throughout me. What had I expected? That she’d keep pushing? That she’d somehow extract the truth from me through text messages? That she’d care enough to pursue an answer I wasn’t willing to give?