Somehow I already sense the answer to that question as I run from the room, traveling through the foyer, out the main entrance and onto the grass. My chest is tighter than a drum as I approach him, fingertips pressed to my lips to keep a cry from escaping. But eventually I can't anymore and I make a shallow sound, causing Ramsy's sledgehammer to pause mid-swing.
Slowly, he turns around—and reveals a man possessed. His black hair hangs down low over his brow, sweat running in rivulets down the sides of his handsome face.
"Ramsy," I say, unable to get my voice above a whisper, thanks to the strain in my throat. "What are you doing?"
His big shoulders heave with exertion, and absently I notice the claw marks I left. Great red streaks running down the middle of his beautiful chest. "The las
