Page 44 of Brutal Savage

I want to feel her bare skin on my fingertips, want to expose every inch of her, in every way possible, until she trusts me enough to tell me what she’s hiding.

When I mentioned a fiancé, I didn’t miss the way her body visibly shuddered. He hurt her. That has to be it.

I need to know his name.

I need to find him.

Maybe her grandma will be more than happy to share that information.

But for now, I’ll watch her and see what I can find on my own.

From a distance, her ponytail sways as she jogs up the path I saw her on the last time. I guess she didn’t heed my warning.

Turning around, I roll my SUV the opposite way and head for her house, wanting to see what I can find. The last time I was there, I had to leave quickly when my father called. This time, I’ll be taking my time.

Ten minutes later, I park behind her house. It’s a small two-bedroom home, two stories, blue shutters. Perfect for her.

Opening the gate, I head toward the back door and easily pick the lock, strolling inside, right into the kitchen.

The smell of citrus drifts in the air from the bowl of oranges on her counter.

I run my fingers over the marble before heading for the fridge, not seeing anything there besides some magnets of animals. Dogs, cats, birds. She’s an animal person. It’s no wonder Bubbles was a fan.

I go through her cupboards. Every mug, every jar, every container. There’s nothing in here that can give me answers.

There has to be something. Something right in front of my face.

Continuing past the kitchen and into the living room, I rummage through the sofa cushions, not finding a damn thing. Not even after looking through every inch of the first floor.

Taming my frustration, I head toward the end table, where photos of her and her family lie. There’s one with her grandparents and another with two people I’ve never seen before.

Picking that photo up, I trace a finger down Elara’s face—a few years younger, yet still as beautiful.

The couple’s older, most likely her parents. She resembles the woman, same blue eyes, but Elara’s hair is darker—her father’s hair.

Where are they? Are they dead? She’s like a damn puzzle.

I take out my phone and snap a picture of them. I’ll run it through our facial recognition software to see if her parents get any hits.

Is she in witness protection? Is that what this is? We don’t have contacts with them. Wouldn’t be able to get those files.

I lower the photo back down, and as I do, it slips from my grasp.

“Shit.”

It can’t break. I don’t want her to know someone’s been here. She’ll think it’s her ex. If she ran once, she’s bound to do it again. Brody can’t lose her.

The glass doesn’t seem affected, but the back came undone. As I go to fix it, something slips from behind the velvet.

Tugging it out, I find a small, neatly-folded piece of paper.

What the fuck is this?

Opening it up, I read it. Just two letters and a phone number.

DK

732-555-6593

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