Five
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But then he walks toward me.
My heart races. My palms sweat. Beneath his sleeve, the Roman numeral five appears again.
The same five.
That can’t be possible.
“Well… if it isn’t Mr. Bridge’s daughter,” he says. “Estela, right?” “Yes… sir,” I reply without meeting his gaze. “Come with me.”
I follow him. His back is broad, powerful. His knuckles still bear traces of dried blood. He smells like expensive cologne… and something sweeter, thicker—maple honey.