54. Cain
Cain
The surface of my desk was a flawless slab of modern glass. It was a stark, contrast to the mahogany antiques that had filled my study back at the Manor, but I preferred the coldness of the twenty-first century. It suited me.
I sat back in my sleek leather chair, the sprawling city skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, but my attention was consumed by the piece of paper in my hand.
It was a letter. From Julian, but to who— was the question.
The paper was slightly worn at the edges from how many times I had run my thumb over it in the last week. My private investigator had intercepted it before it could reach the local postal sorting facility, recognising the outdated cursive handwriting instantly.
Sage.
I played with the name on my tongue.
It seemed my fleeting, bored impulse to hunt down my twin had turned out to strike gold.
Once the investigator had handed me the letter, I had immediately taken over the manhunt myself.
I had spent the last week doing my own investigating, unraveling the digital trails, the secure military phone lines, and the quiet, mundane life of an art student who once belonged to me.
I had the addresses now. And surprisingly, she wasn’t too far away at all.
Just sitting perfectly unaware in her student apartment in Emeralds Grove, just a few towns over.
Oh, our little June, I thought, a venomous smile curving my lips as I traced the ink of her new name.
I dropped the letter onto the glass desk, looking at the empty space next to my laptop.
I had left her a little blast from the past last night.
It had been incredibly easy to slip in through the sliding glass door of her kitchen, while she was distracted by her pathetic little horror movies.
I had left the painting right on her drafting table, right where she would find it with no issue.
I had found myself carrying that piece of frayed, aged paper around with me for nearly a century.
Through every continent, through every kill, I had kept it perfectly preserved.
Not out of sentimentality for the Manor, but because it was the only thing she had ever painted with me in it.
Even if I was just a dark, imposing shadow in the window, looking down at the brother I despised and the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the cold glass, staring at Julian’s desperate, protective words of devotion scattered across the stolen page.
How long was my brother going to keep this from me? How long did he really think he could hide the fact that he had found her soul reincarnated?
I tapped my index finger repetitively against the glass. I didn’t blame him for keeping his secret. If I had found her first, I would have locked her away in a cage so hidden, Julian would never see her again.
But if my twin wanted to play games… I could play games of my own.
The digital clock on the dashboard of my Aston Martin read 3:00 AM.
The city was mostly dead, the streets slick with the remnants of the evening’s rainstorm.
I sat parked in the shadows across from her brick apartment building, the engine idling with a low, seductive purr.
I was bored. The kind of suffocating, immortal boredom that usually ended with a blonde bleeding out in my bedroom.
But tonight, my lack of restraint had driven me here. To her.
I leaned my head back against the pristine leather headrest, my eyes locked on the third-floor window. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see the faint blue flickering of a television screen in a dark room.
A calculated, icy thrill spiked in my chest.
I killed the engine and stepped out into the damp night.
I didn’t bother with the front door of the building.
With the effortless, predatory grace that came with a century of hunting, I scaled the wrought-iron fire escape in the alleyway, my dark coat practically swallowing the shadows until I stood perfectly still on her small, rusted balcony.
The sliding glass door was locked. A pathetic, modern illusion of safety.
I slipped a thin piece of metal from my pocket, sliding it into the cheap mechanism. Click. It took less than three seconds. I slid the heavy glass open just enough to step inside, the cheap curtains brushing over my shoulders.
I stood in the silence of her kitchen, letting the scent of the apartment wash over me. Coffee. Inexpensive candles. Charcoal and paint. And beneath it all, that subtle, intoxicating, unique scent of her skin that I hadn’t smelled in decades.
My jaw tightened. My eyes swept over the space, my deep-seated obsession with order and symmetry clashing with the chaotic mess of an art student.
There were mugs left in the sink. Sketchbooks stacked haphazardly on the table.
A sweater tossed carelessly over the back of a chair.
It was chaotic and imperfect and should have disgusted me. But because it was hers, it didn’t.
I moved silently through the living space, a phantom in her home.
I stopped at a small dish by the door, picking up a delicate, silver ring.
I rolled the metal between my fingers before slipping it into the pocket of my coat.
I drifted into the bathroom, my eyes catching on a small, glass bottle of perfume.
I uncapped it, inhaling the sweet, notes, and dropped that into my pocket, too.
I walked past a laundry basket, my fingers grazing the edge of a black lace bra draped over the side.
I picked it up. The fabric was soft, holding the faintest trace of her scent.
I folded it with meticulous precision and placed it in my inside breast pocket, right over my dead heart.
Taking these pieces of her was methodical. A collection.
Finally, I stepped into the doorway of her bedroom.
The flickering light of the muted television illuminated the room in sharp, shifting shadows.
I stopped dead at the foot of the bed. She was tangled in the white duvet, her face turned towards the screen.
I had seen the photographs my investigator had taken, but seeing her in the flesh was a jarring, unexpected shock to my system.
It was her. Exactly her.
The same heavy, dark waves spilling across the pillow.
The same delicate slope of her neck. I moved closer, my footsteps silent on the hardwood floor, until I was standing right beside her.
I reached out, my hand trembling and gently brushed a stray curl away from her cheek. Her skin was incredibly warm.
I leaned down, closing my eyes as I inhaled the scent of her hair. It was a dizzying rush of memories—the Manor, the rose garden, the blood—Her blood.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, the heavy duvet sliding down to her waist. She was wearing a delicate, baby blue lace set, the pale fabric contrasting beautifully with her skin.
I stared down at her, my dark eyes tracing the curve of her hips, the soft rise and fall of her chest. Everything was exactly the same.
She was a flawless, identical reincarnation of the only thing I had ever failed to completely control.
My hands twitched at my sides. The urge to wake her, to watch the terror flood those beautiful blue eyes when she realised who was standing in her bedroom, but she wouldn’t remember who I am, and that takes out all the fun. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to fuck or kill her.
I slowly pulled my hand back, my jaw clenching as I forced the sociopathic beast beneath my skin back into its perfectly ordered box. Not yet, I told myself. The game has only just begun.
I slipped back out the sliding glass door, locking it behind me, leaving her completely unaware of the danger she was just in.