Page 15 of Sins of Winter
As we stood there, trying to rationalize the calls as pranks gone too far, the shrill ring of my phone sliced through the quiet of the room once again.
We both stared at the device like it was a grenade with the pin pulled.
“Don't answer it,” I implored.
Mara, with the kind of defiant curiosity that always marked her actions, reached out and picked it up anyway. The voice that came through was undoubtedly female, the distortion doing little to mask the malice that dripped from every syllable.
“Will you be the lamb at the altar, or the hand that wields the blade? The clock is ticking.”
The added line carried with it the weight of a threat that felt all too real. A flurry of thoughts raced through my mind, each more unsettling than the last. Could Liam be orchestrating this twisted game? No, it was implausible.
Despite our bitter ending, vengeance of this nature was out of character for him, and he was the one who cheated on me.
If anyone wanted revenge, I had the prerogative, not him.
Could it be Lucian? The thought of him being involved brought an instinctual denial. He was shrouded in mystery, yes, but this felt too petty for a man of his enigmatic presence that always made me feel so safe. Besides, he had no reason to torment me with these harrowing games either. We hadn’t spoken a word or seen each other since our one-night stand a few months back.
“Could it be Liam or Lucian...?” I trailed off, feeling ridiculous for seeking confirmation I wasn’t overlooking something.
Mara was quick to dismiss the notion. “It's not them. Plus, there's a girl involved now. When we find out who, don’t stop me from beating her ass,” she seethed. “Maybe we should leave campus before the snow traps us,” she suggested, looking toward the window where the snowfall was growing heavier by the minute.
“Or we can just lock ourselves in here until morning and I turn my phone off,” I countered.
The thought of venturing out into the blizzard-covered night felt more treacherous than facing unknown pranksters. My phone rang again, a shrill echo that seemed to vibrate through the room. I let it ring to voicemail. When the caller was persistent, dialing back almost immediately, something snapped within me.
I seized the phone, my voice a fierce snarl as I answered. “Leave us the fuck alone!”
Instead of the expected riddle or mocking laughter, Christmas music blared through the speaker, loud and distorted, underlaid with the muffled sounds of someone crying. I jerked my cell away from my ear at the sound of it.
Mara, acting on instinct, grabbed the phone from my hands. As she did, a voice carried over the music and sobs, chillingly clear before the line went dead. “Don’t forget to check beneath the tree.”
Our eyes snapped to the small Christmas tree in the corner of the room. There was a gift box wrapped in dark paper and adorned with a twisted bow, positioned behind all the others. We shared a look, both thinking the same thing.
Neither of us had placed it there.
Someone had been here, inside our sanctuary.
The memory of the door opening and closing while I showered earlier that evening crashed into me with startling clarity. My heartbeat quickened as I rushed to check the locks, my mind racing with the implications of that brief, unexplained moment I had dismissed without much concern.
As I double-checked our door was locked, a scream pierced the air. I spun around and dashed back into the main room where Mara stood frozen, a look of horror etched across her face. The present lay on its side on the floor, open, revealing a gruesome sight—human eyes staring up at us, lifeless and accusing.
“What the fuck is that?” Mara shrilled, practically climbing onto the couch. “Are they real?”
Beside the macabre gift lay a piece of paper, the words written in an elegant script. Crouching down, I steeled myself to read the note, discovering it was a poem that dripped with dark affection and sinister intent.
For you, my muse.
My prey.
My prize.
I give you two eyes that once looked upon what was mine.
The chilling words echoed in my mind, a sinister cadence that resonated with a familiarity that I couldn't—wouldn't—believe. My stomach twisted into knots, the memory of Lucian's possessive words at the bar surfacing with harsh clarity.
"He should know better than to stare at what's mine," he had whispered, a declaration marked by an undercurrent of possessiveness.
I wanted desperately to dismiss it as a horrific coincidence. The parallel was too great, but these weren’t Liam’s eyes that stared back at me. Devoid of life, they were a ghastly pale blue, the color now muted and dull, marred with the red threads of ruptured vessels.