Casanova – Epilogue

NOT EDITED

Epilogue

Sunday: April 9, 2028
3:27 AM; LOS ANGELES, BRENTWOOD, BEVERLY PARK DRIVE

The sun wouldn’t rise for over three hours, but the sky was bright with the light of a full moon. The temperature was just below sixty, nothing but a light breeze blowing through his dark hair as he ran after the man. He was jogging, entirely unaware of his stalker’s existence. The man jumped the jogger, knocking him to the ground. He flipped the jogger onto his back, clamping a gloved hand over his mouth to silence a scream before it could even escape.

The jogger’s eyes, wide and panic-filled, locked with the amber eyes of his stalker. The man reached up with his left hand, pulling the scalpel from between his teeth. He pulled it out of its sterile package, shoving the packaging into his pocket. Pinning the jogger down with his legs, the man ripped his shirt open with his left hand.

The jogger screamed behind the man’s hand, helpless but struggling, fighting. The man grabbed the scalpel, slicing into the skin between the jogger’s pectoral muscles. The jogger screamed a pained, muffled scream.

The man grunted, pulling a rag from his pocket. He shoved it into the jogger’s mouth, pinning his arms to his sides with his knees. The jogger thrashed and struggled beneath him as the man used his hands to rip the skin back from the incision.

The bonesaw came out next. The man cut through the jogger’s sternum quickly, messily. He tossed the saw aside, pulled out the rib spreaders. He jammed it into the jogger’s chest. The jogger jerked, his head lolling to the side as the fight and life slowly seeped out of his body.

The man cranked the rib spreaders as far as they would go, exposing the heart. He plunged a hand inside, wrapped it around the pulsing muscle. He ripped and tugged, using the scalpel to cut away whatever he couldn’t manage to tear with his shaky hand.

The muscle stopped moving. Blood leaked from the dead jogger’s body the same way the life had leaked from his eyes. With a growl rumbling in his throat, he sunk his teeth into the warm muscle. He closed his eyes, breathing in the metallic smell of the blood, still entirely fresh and warm.

He tilted his head back, his jaw slack as he drew in a shaky breath. He had needed this.

God, he had missed this.


BOOK ELEVEN: END

BOOK TWELVE: THE WEREWOLF


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