She had left me. Without warning. Without hesitation.
She had thrown me away.
I wanted to scream. To set fire to the city. To tear the hearts from every man who dared to glance my way. I longed to kill indiscriminately, to paint Florence in crimson grief, just to feel something other than the hollow ache gnawing at me.
But I didn’t.
Ibreathed.
Because she was still out there, and I would find her.
No matter how long it took. No matter where she had run.
She was mine.
The full moon loomed above the clouds like a pale eye, unblinking and cruel. It watched as I wandered, desperate and mad, to the one place where shadows still remembered her?—
Ourplace.
The park.
I felt the pull before I even saw it.
A single leaf trembled on the branch of a crooked tree, pinned in the dew-kissed edge, was a scrap of paper.
My heart stopped.
Her handwriting. That delicate, flowery script I knew better than my name.
1666.
It mocked me.
It haunted me.
Itinvitedme.
This was her challenge. Her twisted game.
And I would play.
With fire in my veins and no room for doubt, I turned away from the tree, already planning.
I had one month. One full moon cycle to prepare.
And the waiting…gutted me.
Time slowed to a crawl. Days dragged like iron chains behind me. Each sunrise was a curse. Each night, a torture.
Without her, I was an addict in withdrawal—sick, hollow,starved. My temper became legendary. My kills grew excessive, indulgent. I left behind corpses not for necessity, but for rage. People crossed the street to avoid me. The bravest dared not speak my name aloud.
Let them fear me.
I didn’t care.
All that mattered washer.
And when I reached her—when I tore through time and hunted her down—I would make her pay for this agony.
