For a terrifying second, Julian's world went dark, his mind wiped clean
of everything but the crushing pressure on his windpipe. He clawed at the iron vice
of his father's hand, his lungs screaming for a breath that wouldn't come.
When Silas finally loosened his grip just enough for a sliver of air,
Julian's mind snapped back into focus. Fear was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Deception was his only shield.
"Who… is Steven Cohen?" he choked out, his voice a ragged
whisper. "I don't know that name."
The air in the grand foyer turned to ice.
"Didn't you share a bottle of whiskey with him at a bar in
Oakhaven?" Silas's voice was dangerously soft, each word dripping with
frost. "Didn't he look you in the eye and tell you he was your
uncle?"
Julian let his head loll back, a bitter, broken smile twisting his
bruised lips. The act was perfect.
"So it's true then," he coughed, the sound raw and painful.
"I actually have an uncle. All these years, I assumed my mother's
bloodline had been wiped from the earth. Funny, isn't it? Not a single relative
ever came knocking. Until now."
He watched his father's face, searching for a crack in the impenetrable
mask. There was none—only a deepening chill that promised retribution.
Silas's sharp eyes narrowed to slits. So, Steven had spoken. And this
boy, this son he had raised, had kept the secret, letting it fester like a
hidden poison. He hadn't come to him with questions because his allegiance had
already shifted. The betrayal was not in the knowing, but in the silence.
"Dad..." Julian strained against the hand at his throat, his
vision spotting. "Are you trying to strangle me? All I wanted was to know
if my stepmother was pregnant. I just wanted to show some concern. If it's
true, I'd have a little brother or sister to protect."
His gaze, blurry but defiant, locked with Silas's. He was playing a
dangerous game, pushing all his chips into the centre of the table. "But
she kept avoiding me... What else was I supposed to do?"
A dizzying blackness threatened to pull him under. Just as his
consciousness began to fray, a searing, white-hot agony exploded in his
opposite shoulder—a brutal, precise dislocation. A guttural cry was trapped in
his sealed throat as he collapsed to the cold marble floor, the world vanishing
into nothingness.
Silas released him and stepped back, his expression one of cold
finality. He didn't even look winded.
"Julian!"
Vivian's shriek pierced the silence. She scrambled forward, her face
ashen, tears streaming unchecked. Her trembling fingers pressed against his
neck, desperate for a pulse.
"He's not dead," Silas stated, his tone flat and devoid of
emotion. His venomous gaze shifted to Ethan, who had been observing the scene
with detached interest. "Take him to Oakhaven. Hand him over to Carpo Jack.
I'll deal with him when I return."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Should we
maybe pop his arms back in first? Looks uncomfortable."
Carpo Jack. The name alone was enough to send a shiver down the spine of
anyone in the Winslow organisation. Publicly, the head of security. Privately,
the master of punishment and the architect of their elite mercenaries. Ethan,
Ben, Brooke—they had all been forged in his brutal, unforgiving training
grounds. Men sent to Carpo Jack were either broken completely or reborn as
something harder.
Silas didn't even grace the question with a direct answer. He merely
shot Ethan a look that said, What do you think?
Ethan chuckled. "Right. Dumb question." He strode over,
hoisted Julian's limp form over his shoulder with ease, and turned to leave.
"Wait!" Vivian cried out, finding a sliver of courage.
"His arms... Where are you taking him? He needs a doctor!"
Ethan glanced down at her, his grin wide and utterly chilling.
"He's going to get exactly what he needs, sweetheart. Don't you worry.
Want to come along and hold his hand?"
Vivian recoiled as if struck, any further protest dying in her throat.
Ethan snorted and carried his burden out of the villa.
Silas was already turning away, his focus singular as he walked toward
Elara. He took her arm gently, his touch a stark contrast to the violence of
moments before.
"Where is Ethan taking him?" Elara asked, her voice quiet.
"Oakhaven," he replied, his tone leaving no room for further
questions.
As they passed Brooke, who stood rigid by the door, Silas paused. The
air grew heavy, the weight of his disappointment pressing down on her.
"Mr. Thorne, I—" she began, her voice tight.
"Return to base. Report to Carpo Jack for your judgment. Bring the
car around now," he commanded, the words a death knell to her current
post.
Brooke's jaw clenched, but she nodded sharply. "Yes, sir." She
hurried out, her mind racing with dread.
As the car pulled away from the villa, a panicked thought struck Vivian.
Fumbling with her phone, her hands shaking, she dialled the number for the
Thorne family's old residence. She needed to speak to the Matriarch. Now. In
this house, without Julian by her side, her pregnancy was her only card to
play. And she was running out of time.
Back at Rosewood Mountain Manor, Silas guided Elara inside. She stopped
in the doorway, glancing back at Brooke, who followed at a respectful distance,
her face a mask of stoic tension.
"Go upstairs and run a hot bath. You need to relax," Silas
said softly, his hand warm on her lower back.
"Silas, about Brooke..." Elara met his gaze, wanting to
explain, to defend the woman who had become more than just a bodyguard to her.
"She wasn't negligent on purpose. She—"
The words died on her lips as she saw the shift in his eyes. The gentle
concern was gone, replaced by the unyielding authority of a man who ruled an
empire. This was not a matter open for discussion.
She bit her lip, acquiescing. "This punishment... what will it
involve? Will it be... severe?"
Logically, she knew Brooke had failed in her primary duty. But the
thought of the stern, loyal woman facing some brutal, unknown consequence
twisted her stomach.
Silas cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. "She is where
she needs to be. If she couldn't withstand this, she would never have been
assigned to you in the first place. When she chose to leave your side, she
accepted the price."
His voice softened slightly as he looked at her, really looked at her.
"Now, no more worries. Go. We don't want you bringing any stress home to
our little one, do we?"
He gave her a small, reassuring smile. Elara searched his eyes for a
moment longer before finally nodding and heading up the grand staircase.
Only when she was gone did the living room plunge into a true, heavy
silence.
Brooke stepped fully inside and dropped to one knee, her head bowed.
"Mr. Thorne. I have failed in my duty. I accept any punishment you see
fit."
She lifted her head, her icy blue eyes blazing with a desperate fervour.
"But I beg you, sir, do not send me away. I swear on my life, I will never
fail her again. My life for hers. Always."
Silas turned, a dark silhouette against the panoramic windows. He looked
down at her, his expression unreadable. "And why should I trust your oath
now?"
Brooke didn't flinch. A resolute calm settled over her features. In one
fluid, brutal motion, she drew the butterfly knife from the sheath at her lower
back and plunged it deep into her own thigh.
A sharp, stifled gasp was the only sign of her agony. Her knuckles were
white around the hilt, but her gaze never wavered from his. "Is my
conviction clear enough, sir? I need my life... to continue guarding
hers."
To emphasise her point, she twisted the blade, her face paling as a
dark, crimson stain bloomed rapidly across the fabric of her black trousers, a
stark testament to her loyalty and her desperation.