Page 96 of Whispers in the Dark
Chapter twenty-four
Mauro
Islide my jacket off my shoulders and hang it on the hook beside the front door, the familiar motion automatic. Snow melts at my feet as I stomp my boots.God, I can’t wait for winter to be over. I take a few steps farther into the house, and then I still.
Every instinct I have snaps to attention.
Because for the first time in a long while, I’m hit square in the chest by an old, familiar friend.
Silence.
Which doesn’t feel as comforting as it used to.
Because silence means one thing.
Where’s Alina?
I check my watch, confirming it’s just after five. I know she was spending the afternoon with Madeleine and Scarlett at the Women and Children’s Center, but this is well past the time that she should be home.
A place where she’s safe.
My jaw tightens.
I step farther into the den, wondering if she’s fallen asleep on my favorite chair, but find it empty.
There’s no chocolate brown hair splayed out on a pillow.
No soft, curvy body curled up beneath a blanket.
The unease in my gut tightens into something sharper as I turn toward the stairs and take them two at a time with urgency. I shove our bedroom door open, my eyes sweeping the space in seconds.
No sign of Alina.
Quickly, I scour the rest of the rooms on this floor. The bathroom. The guest room. The office. Each one showed no sign of life.
Where the fuck could she be?
Hurriedly, I stride down the stairs, grabbing my phone out of my back pocket, ready to text the guards to get their asses in here, when I stop cold. The faint sound of a dull pounding echoes from my left side, causing my eyes to dart to the open basement door. My hand closes around the grip of my gun as I move, my boots thudding down the stairs, adrenaline surging through my veins. Every worst-case scenario flashes through my mind as I take the steps two at a time, prepared to tear apart anything or anyone in my way.
Nearing the bottom, I turn into the open space as I lift my weapon—
I stop at the sight before me.
Alina stands at the far wall, fists flying at the punching bag as if it personally offended her.
Her aim is atrocious.
Her footing is a complete mess.
But fuck, the sight of her is a relief to my racing heart.
Sweaty, flushed, she’s so goddamn beautiful I could sit here and write a fucking poem about it.
I lower my gun and approach her cautiously, as I would an animal in distress.
The earbuds in her ears drown out my footsteps. She doesn’t hear me. Doesn’t sense me. She’s lost somewhere deep inside her own head, fighting something I can’t see.
And suddenly, I’m not worried anymore.
