DEVON
Twenty-three days.
I cut into the steak on my plate, the silver knife slicing through the rare meat with a satisfying slide. Blood pooled on the porcelain, mixing with the peppercorn sauce.
Twenty-three days since Voltage dragged her out of my house. Twenty-three days of silence. Twenty-three days of watching the clock on the wall tick down toward my damnation.
I chewed slowly, savoring the metallic taste.
In less than twenty-four hours, the loop would seal. The window was closing. The witch had been clear about the parameters: make her love me, or get stuck in this hellish repetition for eternity. If the clock struck midnight tonight and Irene didn't look at me with something other than murderous hatred, I was trapped.
I swallowed and took a sip of the bourbon I'd poured for breakfast. It burned going down.
I didn't mind being trapped. I didn't mind the hell. I just hated losing.
