Page 253 of Safe Word

I had packaged it myself. Every fold meticulous. Everything tied with devotion. A gift. Just for her.

Buttoning up my crisp, white shirt, I started towards D’Angelo’s new home.

They’d chosen Parioli – a quiet and discreet suburb. A place where sinners dressed their decay in marble and groomed it alongside their hedges.

I looked up at the house. So white. So plain.

So unworthy of her.

I would have gotten her a castle. A sanctum. An altar where we’d kneel side by side every Sunday, whispering prayers until our voices bled into one.

I palmed the switchblade in the pocket of my slacks, the other hand steadying the box.

It would have been a place of cleansing.

Each step I climbed made my heart throb with divine rhythm. A pulse of worship. I could see it already: the spill of crimson down her neck as she sang her agony for me. Her voice – a gift. Her screams – a benediction.

But first… D’Angelo. I’d end him with ceremony. And then she’d be mine. I could almost taste it.

Knocking softly, I reminded myself of patience yet again.

My gaze dropped to the box in my hands.

Nine months of time, to be exact. Perhaps a little more, just to let her breathe out the filth.

By then, Cain D’Angelo would have shown his true face. The desecration beneath the flesh. The demon beneath the lover.

And I would be there – waiting – to catch her when she fell.

The door opened.

Time fractured. Every detail sharpened like stained glass: her platinum hair shimmered, catching the light like a crown of spun silver. The sun framed her from behind, painting her in a halo of gold.

A saint’s grace. She stood there in a white dress trimmed with scarlet poppies, their petals bleeding along the hem. The red on her mouth matched them perfectly. Blood. Sin. Absolution.

My heart misfired. My breath crashed and vanished on the edge of praise.

She was divine.

My angel.

My final prayer.

Even if she was his. For a while.

I could live with that.

For now.

‘It’s not like you to be late,’ she said softly, swatting lightly at my chest.

The touch burned through the cotton of my shirt like wine over an open wound.

I grinned, offering her the white box.

‘Oh, that’s so thoughtful! Come on in,’ she said brightly. ‘Cain’s on his fourth drink.’

She rolled her eyes, trying for playful, but the motion drew a wince that betrayed the ongoing healing of her body.