Page 81 of Taming Scarlet

My dove?

The fuck?

“Hugh must have been—where did you get those?” Scarlet asked, eyes going wide as she stared at the flowers.

Every inch of her tensed.

“The doorman,” I said.

She charged across the space, grabbing the flowers from me, but not before I could grab the card off the front as she took it out into the hall, tossing it all—glass vase included—down the chute.

“Julian, don’t,” she said when she walked back in, finding me sliding the note out of the envelope.

She didn’t try to take it from me, even though I could feel it in the tension in the air that she wanted to.

“Scarlet, what the fuck?” I snapped, holding the note up at her.

Clearly, whoever ordered it had shown up in person to fill out the card, filling the four-inch rectangle with tiny, rambling font about how he was sick of her acting like they weren’t meant to be together, that he was going to meet her for a talk.

The talk of a fucking crazy person.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, trying to grab it from me. Likely to rip it to shreds and toss it.

I was quicker, yanking it away from her.

“Do you know who is sending this shit?” I asked, watching as her gaze slid away.

“No.”

“Why haven’t you reported it?”

“It’s all anonymous,” she insisted, shrugging it off. “Fake online accounts. Scattered petals. Bouquets. None of it ever leads back to anyone.”

“For you. But if you let the police—“

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she insisted, walking off into the kitchen, making herself an espresso shot, even though she didn’t have any of her creamers in the house.

“There are threats in this note,” I told her. “Do they always make threats?”

“I don’t read the notes,” she admitted, standing there watching her espresso drip into a cup. “And I delete and block online. It’s just an… overzealous follower.”

“Who knows where you fuckinglive, Scarlet.”

“He can’t get into the building.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He certainly can’t get up the elevator,” she said, adding sugar to her espresso.

“You don’t understand how relentless men like this can be. He clearly thinks you two are meant to be together. People like that are sick. You have no idea what he is capable of.”

“That’s… the point of having bodyguards, right?” she asked, blowing on, then throwing back her espresso, before trying to rush past me.

“We’re not done discussing this,” I snapped when she tried to breeze past me.

“I am.”

A low growling sound escaped me, making her steps falter.

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