I may not know his reasoning yet, but I would find out. Sooner or later, I would escape or be rescued by Papà, the guards, and…
Hunter.
By now, he must have figured out that something wasn’t right. My pretty boy must be going out of his mind with worry, trying to find me.
And Luna.
My sweet girl who fought so bravely for me.
The thought of my little family gave me more strength and resilience. Filled my cup anew. I wouldn’t perish here. I was going to make it out alive because I wanted to continue building a life with Hunter.
And once I got freed?
I would fucking kill Tom Prescott myself.
He wouldn’t hurt me more than he already had.
I was my papà’s daughter and Bellafiores never went down without a fight.
It took nearly all my energy to twist myself onto my right side with a barely suppressed groan. God, that hurt. My head swam and I closed my eyes, slowly counting to ten.
It was quiet in here—wherever I was—almost to a point where the stillness seemed eerie. When I opened my eyes, the blood-curdling scream I let out shattered that stillness.
Beside me, lying on her front, with her light brown hair fanned around her…was Morgan Huxley.
There was a bullet lodged in her forehead, a trail of dried blood stamped down the bridge of her nose.
And her eyes were open, staring straight into mine, as though seeingthroughme.
No.
No.
No.
The sob I tried to hold back burst free from my dry, cracked lips as I took in my peer’s dead body. He killed her. The sick fuck actually killed her. I cried silently, my body quivering against the hard ground with the depth of my sorrow.
Morgan and I may have had our differences, but I was willing to bet on everything I owned that she had never done anything to warrant this kind of ending.
My tied hands attempted to reach for her.
But I wasn’t able to, regardless of how close she rested.
Through a tear-stained gaze, I noticed a cross positioned against a mosaic-stained window, where the barest amount of light filtered in, and rectangular fixtures in the wall with dates and names.
All ending with Prescott.
Fuck.
We were in the Prescott family’s mausoleum.
Chills spread over my skin. Acid burned in my throat. Nausea worsened everything.
Was this Tom’s big plan? Kill Morgan and me for whatever reason his fucked-up mind concocted and bury our bodies right here, where we couldn’t be found, our families and loved ones searching until their hope ran out?
No.
I couldn’t afford to think like that—couldn’t allow those thoughts to pierce the already fragile veil keeping my mind from crumbling.
