Page 64 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Who?

Who does it belong to?

The room tilts. My vision narrows. But then—

Footsteps. Heavy. Rushed.

The door slams open.

"Isabella!"

Dominic’s voice slices through the air, sharp with urgency.

I turn, my body trembling, my lips parting, but no words come. I can’t speak.

He moves toward me fast, his gaze snapping to the box, then to the bloodied finger sprawled across the floor.

His expression darkens—not with shock, not with horror.

With rage.

I force a breath through my lips, my chest heaving. My throat is raw from the scream, but I manage to choke out, "Dominic…"

He doesn’t look at me. His jaw is clenched so tight that I can hear the grind of his teeth. His hands curl into fists at his sides, veins pressing against his skin as if he’s holding himself back from unleashing hell.

I follow his gaze—to the note.

I didn’t see it before.

A small, folded piece of paper, resting beside the finger.

Blood stains the edges, the words smudged, but still visible.

The rat’s already inside.

Dominic reaches for the note, his fingers tightening around it until his knuckles turn white. His shoulders are so rigid, it looks like he might snap in half.

His eyes flick to me then—to my shaking hands, the sheer terror I know is written all over my face. His expression shifts, just slightly. Like he wants to comfort me—but he can’t.

Not right now.

Because this?

This is war.

"Who—" I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. "Whose is it?"

Dominic doesn’t answer.

His silence screams louder than anything.

I take a step back, shaking my head, panic clawing at my ribs. "Tell me."

Still, nothing.

"Dominic!" I snap, my voice cracking. "Tell me whose finger that is!"

His throat bobs, but when he speaks, his voice is deadly.

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