Page 6 of Cut Deeper

This had a black ribbon tied around it, gold trim. This was personal. There was no delivery label.

I glanced around—no one in sight. I set my bag on the doorstep and lifted the box. Heavy for its size. My instincts had been right. Someone had been in my studio.

I wedged the box into my shopping bag to unlock the door, it poking awkwardly out the top. Perishables forgotten on thecounter, I tore the box open to find a dark brown suede roll bag. I took it out and set it down.

Hair rose at the back of my neck.

No message. No name.

I unbuckled the straps and rolled it open.

It was beautiful. They were beautiful. A full set of knives, alongside a scalpel and even a chisel. A few empty spaces sat at the end. My eyes lingered on them before I traced my fingertips down the suede—nothing like the skin I treated. This was rough.

Someone knew what I was, and they’d dared to defile my sanctum.

My studio.

Angrily, I rolled the knives up, ready to toss them in the bin. But standing over it, I found I couldn’t.

They were an exceptional set of tools. The chisel was inspiring.

My resolve settled.

I would keep them.

But only so I could use them on whoever had sent them to me.

Chapter 4

Ethan

She lay flat on the bed and didn’t move, her hands resting at her sides. She was naked to her abdomen, but I was mentally making the cuts—neck, clavicle, one single incision straight down the middle, peeling her skin away like a jacket potato, revealing its core.

Hm. Almost lunchtime.

“Dr Hammond?”

I ignored her and turned to my assistant to make sure she was ready to write before I began the assessment.

“Oh,” she gasped as I handled her breasts.

I pressed two fingers into the upper quadrant, then the lower, working in slow, even passes. No masses palpable. Skin warm, no erythema.

“Any tenderness here?”

“No.”

I lifted her arm, checked the axilla. Nodes unremarkable.

“Sit up for me.”

She swung her legs over the side and straightened. I checked symmetry first—shoulders level, no visible asymmetry or skin dimpling—then palpated again from this angle, fingers tracing the same methodical grid. Some tissue felt different lying down than sitting; gravity told its own story.

“Raise your arms above your head.”

She did. I watched for puckering, retraction, anything pulling where it shouldn’t.

“Now stand, please.”