《LOOM OF THORNS 》全部章節：第 31 章 - 第 40 章

JOSH’S POV Very early the next morning, I showered and left our abode. I didn't want us looking like our problems when we walked through those gates. Becca deserved more than I'm offering her. Every girl has a dream wedding and this is below par. I left Becca with Baba and went into the heart of the city, my heart hammering against my ribs every time I saw a police van or someone with a phone. I found a small boutique tucked away from the main road. I bought her a dress—a simple, elegant cream lace that looked like peace—and a dark suit for myself that felt like a suit of armor.I bought her an off-white shoes encrusted with pearls. It's the least I could do for her.When I got back to Ita-Iyalode, the look on Becca’s face as she touched the fabric was worth the risk. She loved her shoes too and showed a childlike happiness.It wasn't just clothes; it was a garment of restoration and of hope.We both showered. We got dressed and she packed her long,black hair into a pretty bun. Sh

BECCA’S POV The market was a riot of colors and sounds, but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a girl trying to blend into the shadows. I felt visible. I felt like a wife. The cream lace of my dress brushed against the rough wooden edges of the stalls, and every few steps, my new pearl-encrusted heels would sink slightly into the soft Abeokuta earth. They were the most beautiful things I had ever owned, but they were never meant for the rugged terrain of a local market. I looked at Josh, who was holding a heavy black polythene bag in one hand. "Joshua," I whispered, leaning closer so the passing crowd wouldn't hear. "The briefcase... you didn't bring it, did you?" Josh stopped near a stall selling fresh ginger and cloves. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, and pressed a soft, lingering peck against my forehead. The scent of him—oud and a hint of mint soap—stilled my racing heart. "Don't worry, Mrs. Adeyemi," he mur

JOSH’S POV The "Royal Hotel" was a lie in every sense of the word. The sign was hanging by a wire, and the air inside smelled of damp mold, stale cigarettes, and the kind of despair that doesn't wash off with water—even the water was running slowly. I looked at the bed. The sheets were a suspicious shade of yellow, and I could hear the skittering of cockroaches behind the peeling wallpaper. My skin crawled. I’ve stayed in five-star hotels in Lagos and London, places where the towels were fluffier than the clouds. Now, I was paying for a room by the hour with my late mother's credit card, praying we were not walking into my father and his friend's trap. "Becca, just... just sit down," I said, my voice sounding tight. I reached out to take her hand, to pull her away from the window where she’d been staring out at the dark street for twenty minutes. The moment my fingers brushed her shoulder, she didn't just flinch. She exploded. B

MARY’S POV The lecturer’s voice was a monotonous drone, bouncing off the walls of the packed auditorium. I sat in the middle row, my pen hovering over a notebook that remained blank. Every time the door creaked open, my heart jumped. Every time someone whispered behind me, I assumed they were talking about me. Then, my phone vibrated in my lap. A private number. I slipped out of my seat, ducking into the narrow, shadowed hallway just outside the lecture room door. I didn't even say hello. "I went to Obada like you asked," I hissed into the receiver, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I checked with her mother. They were both not there. No news about them, no Josh, no Becca. The mother was very clueless!" "You were sent there to verify, Mary," the Shadow’s voice came through, cold and smooth as a razor blade. "If you couldn't find them, it’s because you lack the competence I require. Perhaps you’re getting soft. Or perhaps you’re looking for a way to join them." "Competenc

BECCA’S POV I was sitting on the edge of the bed, the floral pattern of my new dress feeling like a lie. Josh was checking the briefcase again, his back to me, I decided to turn on the small dusty television, mounted in the corner of the room and it crackled to life. The volume was low, but the image was unmistakable. I stopped breathing. It was Baba’s house. The familiar wooden door were crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. The dust of the street was being kicked up by the boots of policemen, their faces grim. And then, for a split second, the camera panted to the veranda. I saw a white sheet covering a slumped figure. A starched white agbada sleeve peaked out, stained a dark, drying maroon. "Josh," I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. "Josh, look." JOSH’S POV I spun around, my heart dropping into my stomach. The news anchor’s voice was sharp, professional, and utterly devastating. "...tragedy in the quiet neighborhood of Ita-Iyalode. Polic