His dark hair is shorter, swept back from a face that’s lost the softness of youth.
But the smile is exactly the same.
That cold, predatory smile that promised pain disguised as pleasure.
“Hello, princess,” he says, his voice completely devoid of human warmth. “Miss me?”
The scream that rips from my throat echoes through the mansion like a siren, raw and primal and completely beyond my control.
My hand flies instinctively to cover my pregnant belly, protecting my child.
“Now, now,” Dante says, stepping fully into the library. “Is that any way to greet your beloved fiancé?”
“You’re dead,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” His laugh makes goose bumps rise on my skin. “Though I must say, recovery has been quite the adventure.”
He moves closer, and I can see more details of his survival. Burn scars on his hands, a slight limp in his left leg, something wrong with his left eye that makes him blink more frequently.
“How?” The word comes out as a croak.
“Private jets have emergency protocols, princess. Ejection seats, survival equipment, contingency plans for exactly this type of situation.” He traces one of his scars absently. “Though I admit the landing was less than graceful.”
Even as I scream again, the horrifying realization crashes over me like ice water.
The security camera malfunctions. The mysterious figures in the distance.
It was all him. All of it.
43
ALARIC
“Our Chicago operationsare yielding better results than expected,” I tell Agent Morrison through the secure line. “Three more trafficking rings identified, at least forty girls we can potentially rescue within the next?—”
A scream cuts through the house like a knife.
High-pitched, terrified, completely primal. The phone slips from my hand as I bolt from my desk chair, leaving Morrison’s voice echoing from the speaker.
“Kasimira!”
I sprint through the hallway toward the library, my heart hammering against my ribs. That scream came from someone who has seen their worst nightmare made real.
The library door stands wide open, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows onto scattered papers. Klaus’s German pregnancy book lies splayed face-down on the Persian rug, its heavy pages bent from the fall.
“Kasi!”
I find her huddled behind the massive oak desk, arms wrapped protectively around her growing belly, shaking so violently her teeth chatter. Her face is white as paper, eyes wide with the kind of terror that comes from seeing the impossible.
“Hey.” I drop to my knees beside her, holstering the weapon I’d drawn instinctively. “I’m here. What happened?”
“He’s back,” she whispers, the words barely audible through her chattering teeth. “Alaric, he’s back.”
“Who’s back?”
“Dante. I saw him. Standing right there in the doorway, smiling at me.”
Cold settles in my veins. Dante?
