The House of the Wicked: A romantic suspense novel (The snake and the raven Book 1) by Oona Arlo

Author:Oona Arlo [Arlo, Oona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-10-17T00:00:00+00:00

Hours pass. Hours that stretch and drag like days. Shock and misery war for dominance in my heart. Eventually, the police officers and SWAT teams clear out. The house returns to its usual a tomb of silence. Only this time, the familiar silence feels final and lifeless in a way it’s never felt before. The quiet rustling of leaves replaces the laughter and chatter from the security team, who usually stand guard outside. The sound of Dima cooking in the kitchen is replaced with guttural sobbing that shakes my entire body. I am alone—truly alone—for the first time in my life.

At some point, I move from the couch to the kitchen. Then I’m racing outside, racing toward Dima’s cottage, to the last place I saw her. The sun is bright, high in the sky, heat beating down on me as I stare at the grass patch where she fell. The grass is bright, green and verdant, except for one spot. One spot that’s crusted over. Dima’s blood. Dropping to my knees in front of the congealed pool, I trail my fingers through it. Cold and sticky. I feel the wetness of it seep into the fabric of my pajama pants. Hot tears splash onto the grass as I cry for the freedom we’ll never get, and the life she’d hidden from me, and for the person I’m becoming. I cry until the razor-sharp pain lancing through my heart is all I feel.

As my shoulders shake under the weight of my tears, I rip at the grass, ripping at the blood-stained lawn, ripping at every inch of earth marred with it. I rip and rip until my cuticles bleed, and then I rip some more. My hands are smeared with dirt and grass and blood and I have no idea if it’s mine or Dima’s. All I know is I can’t stop. I can’t stop until every drop is ripped away.

Grief has robbed me of awareness. I don’t register I’m no longer alone until I feel his large, warm hand brush against my shoulder. Cringing out of the touch, I scuttle across the grass and stare up at August.

“You didn’t tell me.” My words are an accusation. I brandish them like a weapon. He didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me. Why?

“You’re bleeding, Nora.” He takes a step toward me, and I crawl back, doing my best to get away from him.

“You didn’t tell me she was your grandmother,” I say again.

“You need to clean your hands.” He’s staring at the patch of grass, at the blood and dirt covering me.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me she was your grandmother, August?” I scream as my patience snaps.

Painful silence hangs between us and for a second, I allow myself to see the hurt in his eyes, to see the agony he must feel. I allow myself to consider his loss. Before I can say or act on my moment of empathy, his phone rings.

Pulling it out of his pocket, he stares at the screen before answering, “Hi Stephen.

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