Page 52 of Play The Game

He holds my hand the whole way back to the hotel, up the elevator, and down the hall to our rooms. I’m so happy I even hum a little under my breath, and he pulls me in closer to his body so he can hear it. I should know better than to let myself be happy.

There’s a box waiting outside the door to our room.

There, in bold black letters, is my full name across the top. Middle name and all. My stomach drops instantly, and Ash’s hand tightens around mine. I wait for a second and then step up to open it.

“Mounty, you can’t just fucking open it!” Ash hisses, and I ignore him.

I use my knife to slice it open. Ash snaps at me again and I cut him off, “Avery, Harley, and Blaise are in that room and there’s no other way out. I have to see what it is.”

I flick the box open and the smell hits me.

Fuck.

Fuuuuuuuuck.

It’s a head.

There’s a head in the box.

I flick it shut again and stand up abruptly. Ash steps forward, my body shielding the contents so he still has no idea of what’s just been delivered to us. My face must look all sorts of fucked up as I try to figure out what the fuck is going on because his hand reaches for mine again. I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve seen a dismembered head, but I’d let my guard down this morning. I’d let myself slip back into Lips and away from the Wolf.

“Is it dangerous?” Ash mutters. I shake my head, but when he moves to have a look for himself, I tug him back.

“I need your phone. I left mine behind,” I say calmly, and he hands his over without question.

“What’s up, kid?” Illi answers, and I don’t bother asking him how he knew it was me.

“Priority call, Illi. I need you to come to the hotel. We’ve had company this morning and they’ve left us a gift.”

Illi snorts. “How kind. Gimme ten.”

I gesture for Ash to get the door and then, grimacing, I pick up the box and carry it into the room.

The head in the box belongs to Lance, my stalker from last year.

Harley and Ash both refuse to wait for Illi and have a look, jaws clenched. Blaise gags at the smell but has a look too, and he’s the first to figure out who it is. Avery doesn’t look up from her phone and she demands that Ash puts her waffles in the fridge for later, when there’s not stray body parts appearing out of nowhere.

Illi arrives and snaps on a pair of latex gloves before lifting it out. Avery gets one look at it and barely makes it to the bathroom sink before she vomits, then she refuses to leave until the head is back in the box. I don’t blame her; she’s hungover and it’s not exactly fresh. She’s going to clean every square inch of our room for hours when we get back to Hannaford. She’ll probably have the guys’ room gutted before the panic subsides.

Illi moves to empty out the rest of the contents of the box and finds nothing but the head and the plastic sheet lining the cardboard.

Nothing.

Fuck.

Illi stares at the box with a frown over his face. I don’t like the look of that frown one bit because the same one is on my face. Fuck, he sees it too. He meets my eye and nods.

“I’ll ask around a bit more. You might want to call the Crow, or even the Coyote, see if they know what the fuck this means.”

I scowl and nod; we’re going to need the extra help. Ash frowns at me and says, “This isn’t the Jackal? It looks like a sick token of affection to me. Like he’s proving his devotion to you. I’d assume after last night he is making a stand.”

Blaise rolls bloodshot eyes around at us all. “What happened last night? Did Arbour piss him off in the meeting?”

I flush scarlet and desperately wish Illi wasn’t so fucking perceptive as he grins at Blaise. Fuck, does he know what we did? I need some fucking whiskey.

Illi opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “He saw Harley, Ash, and I dancing after the meeting. He was watching the three of us and I have no doubt he was planning out my punishment.”

At that, the smirk melts off of Illi’s face, and he snaps his gloves off. “This isn’t retaliation. This was done at least three days ago, and D’Ardo would leave a calling card. This isn’t his style. Fuck knows whose style this is, but it’s not his.”