It’s not heavy enough to be ammunition, or a gun, or anything really dangerous. So I take a deep breath, and lift the lid.
I gasp. My stomach lurches.
Laid in delicate tissue paper arefingers. The bloody, cut off fingers of a man. Five of them, including a thumb.
It takes me a long, horrifying second, to realise they’re not real.
They’re chocolate, skilfully shaped into fingers and painted, complete with some sort of red dyed chocolate at the joint that represents blood.
“You sent me severed fingers!” I’m caught between disgust and thinking they’re awesome.
“The full mafia experience, Bunny,” he says wryly. “You deserve no less.”
“Way better than the real thing.” I examine the chocolates. Each one is unique, complete with tattoos, lines for the knuckles, and fingernails. “Are these handmade?”
“You think I’d send you boring chocolates?” he drawls.
“All chocolate is great. But the poison needs to be added by hand, right?” I half-joke.
“An aphrodisiac isn’t poison, Bunny,” he croons.
“You’re mixing up fingers with oysters,” I reply lightly, but this has gone way, way beyond a situation I know about.
“Both go in your mouth,” he points out.
I run my fingertip over the chocolate digits. They’re extraordinarily detailed. The little finger even as a slash of a white scar on it. And that, along with the tattoos, are somehow familiar.
It takes me a second to place it, then I look back at the screen, which shows his face. Amused, a spark of anticipation there.
“Show me your hand.”
He chuckles, and holds up his left hand. The suit jacket and shirt sleeve expose a strong, square wrist flecked with dark hair and tattoos of skeletal leaves and rose thorns. And on his little finger is an identical scar to the chocolates.
“I can’t believe you sent meyourfingers.”
His expression goes cunning. “Only way I could touch you, given you won’t come to me.”
Is that regret that rolls in my stomach as I step away from his gifts? “No can do, Boss.”
Because if I go to him, he can have me followed home. And then he’ll figure it out, anonymous app or no.
I am in favour of the continued existence of my brother, and if Blake finds out who I am, he’ll kill Aaron for this mistake, for sure.
“What else is in the box?” I ask, changing the topic awkwardly as the recollection of why I shouldn’t be talking to Blake seeps back into me. “Is it a head?”
On my phone screen, Blake quirks an eyebrow up.
He’s so absurdly attractive. He probably does this all the time, to any woman he meets and fancies. That thought solidifies in my gut like a cheap, greasy burger.
“Alright, let’s see the skull you’ve sent me.” I need to cut this conversation short, because the longer it goes on, the more likely someone is to get killed. Whether physically or emotionally, I wouldn’t like to guess. Both? Both.
I lift the now-familiar red tissue paper, continuing to angle my phone’s camera with the other, then stop. Because what’s revealed is even more shocking than a severed body part—chocolate or not.
It’s a book.
“Have you read this one?” Blake asks when I still can’t move. Or breathe.
“No,” I reply faintly.
