Chapter 43
Roxy
We left Marco's party after the cake was served and after Damien insisted we dance to a few more songs. I swear, if he could've branded "PRIVATE PROPERTY" across my forehead, he would have.
"You received a package," Tirana says as we walk into the house.
"Me?" I ask, and dread settles heavily in my chest.
"Yes. At least that's what the courier said."
Damien glares at the package and steps in front of me.
"Get Vasili," he tells her curtly.
Tirana nods once and goes to fetch him.
The box is brown with a large white ribbon on top. There's no note attached, but somehow I know who it's from, and my heart starts hammering against my ribs.
He warned me, didn't he? He warned me what would happen if I went through with this wedding.
And, as if reading my thoughts, Damien makes a frustrated sound and turns to me.
"I'm guessing if I ask you to go upstairs, I'll see steam coming out of your ears?"
"If you don't want to see what I'm really capable of, open the box, Damien."
For a few moments, the world slows down. Then I hear Damien curse. He lunges in front of me to block my view, but he's a fraction of a second too late.
Because I see everything.
Brown hair. Closed eyes. A slightly oval face with a mole above her upper lip. Olive skin with a grayish tint.
I'm going to be sick.
My hand flies to my mouth, but I know I won't make it to the bathroom, and my body heaves at the bottom of the stairs.
Damien's beside me, gathering my hair and rubbing my back gently. I don't know how long it takes me to empty my stomach on the first step, but I know no chemical solution will erase the image of that woman's head resting on bags of ice.
"This is my fault," I tell Damien.
"No, it's his," he replies.
God, that woman is dead because of me. That woman has family who are probably losing their minds right now not knowing where she is.
What have I done?
Damien lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bedroom, where he sets me gently on the bed. I pull my knees to my chest and try desperately to breathe, to keep the panic attack from dragging me under.
What have I done?
"Roxanne, this isn't your fault." His hands cup my face, but I can't tear my eyes away from the spot I'm staring at.
Of course it's my fault. I could've stopped this stupid plan. I could've found another solution.
God, he separated her head from her body. What kind of monster does that?
This time he completely changed his pattern, abandoning his usual stabbing and abandoning method.
This is something else. This is visceral rage, calculated cruelty that makes my stomach twist. I can't help but notice the striking resemblance between the victim and me: the same oval face shape, the same shade of hair.
The realization that he chose her specifically because she looks like me sends ice down my spine.
And his message landed exactly where it needed to. Clear. Unmistakable. Like a dark promise written in blood.
"Roxanne, look at me," I hear Damien whisper, but I refuse.
Because of me, that woman won't celebrate another Christmas with her family. She won't get to listen to her favorite song ever again. I stole those chances from her when I put that psychopath on her path.
"We'll find him," Damien whispers as he kisses my forehead.
The question is, how many more people have to die before that happens?