Page 63 of Taken By Touch and Torment

Or was it simply to guarantee I was who I was supposed to be—in this case, Kole?

Was anyone monitoring the journals for new messages? Would it be instant? If not, then I might not even see if Rune wrote me back. It wouldn’t be safe for him to do so.

I had not thought this all the way through.

“Helia above.”

“It’s Lillian who answers our prayers, darling,” Rosalind said softly.

I would take the help of anyone or anything at this point.

Fingers trembling, I lifted a silver pen from the mahogany desk. And I wrote.

I need to speak to Rune. Is anyone there?

I was hesitant to give my name. Not when there was still a chance I’d chosen the wrong journal.

Who is writing?

The handwriting was sloppy, different from the elegant script from the first message. Someone was there. My heart beat hard and fast. Rosalind’s eyes were wide, looking from the paper to me.

“You can’t say!” she squealed.

Kole snored loudly, and I shushed her, glancing back at his unmoving form. I rubbed my chest.

Could a succubus have a heart attack?

“I need to speak with him,” I said. “It’ll only be my neck on the line.”

I cursed every curse in existence, staring up at the gods before looking back down at the blank page. I wrote my reply.

It’s Scarlett. Tell him it’s Scarlett.

If I wasn’t speaking to the turned, at least I’d know quickly, depending on their reaction.

No reply. Every second that went by felt like a chunk of eternity.

Rosalind was now digging her pretty pink fingernails into my arm, and I leaned into her, the pain keeping me from drowning in a sea of adrenaline.

Kole’s heavy breathing was my only marker of time passing. We stood in a terrified stupor, staring down at the parchment.

“How long has it been, do you think?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Like, at least fifteen years.”

“That sounds right.”

Rosalind glanced back at Kole, which triggered me to glance at him. Still face-planted.

When we turned back, Rosalind’s claws dug deeper.

I shoved her hand away. “Ow,” I hissed. Someone was writing. “Oh, fuck.”

It wasn’t the message itself—merely two words—that had me tipping forward, clutching the desk for support.

Prove it.

It was the handwriting. Rune’s handwriting.

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