Page 265 of Heart of Frost and Scars

Sirena’s long black hair tangles around her shoulders, her eyes hollowed out, leaving dark voids where life once sparkled.

Doyle sits beside her, his handless arm on the table, the rest of him unnervingly still.

And Denver.

Holy fuck.

I inwardly recoil, unable to purge the bile in my throat.

Shirtless, he bears a gaping hole in his chest, his face beaten, disfigured, and partially decomposed, mostly as it was when I killed him. His eyes, open and glassy, have the same vacant stare as when he took his last breath.

There are two others on this side of the table that I don’t recognize. An older man and woman. Their faces are unfamiliar but lifeless like the others.

I know another body sits behind me, but I can’t turn my neck.

I don’t want to turn it.

“That’s Alvis Duncan and Thea, his wife.” Rhett circles the table, approaching from above my head.

He leans over me, his face upside down, utterly unruffled, as if this grotesque scene is normal.

Alvis Duncan.

The man in Whittier who kept the flight logs, who watched Denver for decades.

But why? Why are they here? None of this makes sense.

It’s a macabre dinner party with dead bodies arranged like guests around the table.

The trophies of a mass-murdering psychopath.

Numbness seeps into my bloodstream, dulling my senses. There’s only so much a person can accept before the mind breaks.

I’ve reached my breaking point.

Or so I thought.

Rhett cups my face and turns my head to the other side of the table.

Wolf.

My Wolf.

The sight of him shatters what’s left of my sanity.

My heart cracks open, and I try to roar, to howl in agony, but the chemical invasion in my veins imprisons me. All I can do is stare, helpless, my soul sobbing silently in a body that refuses to respond.

He looks exactly as he did when he jumped from the cliff.

Beautiful.

Broken.

His head hangs unnaturally on his shoulders, his hair draped across his face. His eyes are closed, his body unmoving.

Dead.

Just as dead as the others.

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