CHAPTER 17: BRUISES & BROTHERHOOD
PART I: ELIO'S POV
The steering wheel groaned under Elio's grip the entire drive back to the Kings' estate. The image of Zara's throat—the perfect, brutal constellation of purple and black—was seared behind his eyes. Grey eyes. At the mansion.
Cassian.
He didn't bother parking properly. He abandoned the Aston Martin at the curb and stormed through the Georgian front doors, his silence more threatening than any shout.
Roman glanced up from his ledger in the oak-panelled study, a single eyebrow arched. "You look like absolute hell."
"Where is he?" Elio's voice was pure gravel.
"Cassian? Not here."
"He's here."
He checked the private gym—empty, save for the wreckage of a heavy bag Soren had demolished earlier. He moved through the grand halls like a coming storm, his Italian loafers silent on the Persian runners. Reuben was lounging by the indoor pool, smirking at his phone.
"Seen Cassian?"
Reuben shrugged, not looking up. "Nah. Why? You two having a lovers' tiff?"
Elio was already walking away, his jaw tight enough to crack.
He found him in the library.
Cassian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal tumbler of single malt in hand, staring out at the manicured grounds. He turned slowly, his grey eyes calm, assessing. "Elio."
Elio didn't speak. He crossed the room in three strides and slammed his fist into Cassian's face.
The crack was sickening. Cassian stumbled back, glass shattering on the herringbone parquet. He touched his split lip, examined the blood on his fingers with detached interest, then looked back at Elio. No surprise. Just cold calculation.
Reuben and Roman rushed into the doorway.
"What the absolute fuck, man?!" Reuben shouted, his ginger hair practically standing on end.
Elio grabbed Cassian by the front of his immaculate Turnbull & Asser shirt and drove his knee into his gut. Cassian grunted, doubling over, but made no move to fight back.
"Elio, enough!" Roman's voice, usually so measured, cut through the haze like a whip.
Elio shoved Cassian back against the mahogany bookshelf, first editions rattling. He leaned in, his voice a low, venomous growl meant only for him. "You touch her again. You so much as look in her direction. And I will end you. The Kings, the legacy—none of it will save you."
Cassian's bloody mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about."
The front door opened with its familiar heavy thud. Soren walked into the grand hall, his sharp gaze taking in the scene with unnerving speed: Cassian bleeding against the shelves, Elio heaving with silent rage, Roman and Reuben frozen in the doorway.
"Having a domestic?" Soren's tone was deceptively light, but his eyes were winter. "Bit early for the drama, lads."
Elio released Cassian, gave him one last, blazing look that promised more than violence—it promised annihilation—and walked out without a word to anyone. The slam of the front door echoed through the silent house like a gunshot.
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PART II: ZARA'S POV
I woke up missing the scent of disaster.
My room in the halls was just a room. No shadow in the corner. No ice-blue eyes watching from the dark. Soren hadn't come last night. The hollow, restless feeling that left in my chest was shameful, a betrayal of my own sanity.
I shoved it down. Today was for normal things. Golf. Sunshine. Isa's valiant attempt to make us all forget the gilded cage we were stumbling through.
I dressed in a pleated skirt and a fitted polo, pulling my hair into a high ponytail. The outfit felt like a costume. I grabbed my phone, my thumb hovering over Elio's name. I needed an anchor.
Me: Golf with Isa and Juni today. First time on a real course. Wish you were my caddy.
His reply came almost instantly.
Elio: Have fun, darling. Stick close to them. Keep your mobile on.
Me: I will. You alright?
Elio: Handling things. Go enjoy.
I tucked the phone away, his protectiveness a warm, familiar blanket around my frayed nerves.
The Wentworth Club was a sprawling, intimidating dream of emerald green and pristine white. And there he was, leaning against a buggy as if he owned the very grass beneath its tyres. Soren. Sunlight caught the platinum strands in his otherwise dark hair. He looked like a wolf who'd wandered into a garden party.
My heart did a stupid, traitorous somersault. I looked away before his predatory gaze could land on me, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
We met our instructor—a cheerful, ruddy-faced man named Colin who explained drivers and irons while I nodded, barely processing a word. Isa was laughing too brightly. Juniper was quiet, her eyes distant, fingers worrying the hem of her jumper. I needed my own clubs.
"I'll pop to the rental with you," Colin said.
The clubhouse was cool, quiet, and smelled of old wood and polish. I collected my set and turned to leave, the path back to the first tee curving behind a greenkeeper's shed.
A hand clamped over my mouth. An arm like steel locked around my waist. I was pulled backward into sudden, shocking darkness.
My scream was muffled against a palm, but my body knew him instantly. The scent—expensive soap, fine leather, and that sharp, clean cologne that was uniquely his. The hard, unyielding chest pressed against my back. Soren.
My panic didn't just fade; it dissolved, transmuted into something warmer, darker, that made my skin hum with awareness. He felt me go pliant. Slowly, he removed his hand, his other arm still a loose, possessive band around me. He turned me in the cramped, dim storage closet to face him. A slow, wicked grin lit his face.
"Lost, little ghost?" he murmured, his voice a rough caress in the confined space.
His eyes dropped to my neck. The grin vanished, replaced by an intensity that stole my breath. He reached out, his fingers startlingly gentle as they traced the now-faded yellow remnants of the bruise. "Healing," he said, more to himself than to me.
Then his gaze lifted to mine. The air in the closet changed, grew thicker, hotter, charged with a current that made my knees weak. His eyes dropped to my lips, and the world narrowed to the scant inches between us.
He didn't ask. He simply closed the distance and kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was a claiming. A searing, deep, devastating invasion that stole the air from my lungs and the last shred of sense from my head. My hands fisted in the soft cotton of his polo shirt, clinging as he walked me back against a shelf, his body pressing mine into the cold metal. Every nerve ending lit up, screaming both danger and a desperate, clawing more.
His kiss deepened, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other sliding from my waist to the hem of my skirt. His touch was electric, possessive, mapping the curve of my hip, the back of my thigh. A low sound vibrated in his chest, and I answered with one of my own, arching into him. The world outside—the threats, the promises, the delicate lies—all crumbled to ash. There was only this: the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my skin, the terrifying rightness of being utterly consumed.
His lips trailed from my mouth to my jaw, to the frantic pulse in my throat. "You're going to be the death of me," he breathed against my damp skin, his voice ragged.
One of his legs slid between mine, pressing insistently, and a bolt of pure, undiluted need shot through me. My head fell back against the shelf with a soft thud. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath thick, lust-hazed air from somewhere down the hall.
Soren froze. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against my collarbone. The spell shattered.
"Zara?" Isa called again, closer now, her footsteps a sharp tap-tap on the polished floor outside.
Reality returned in a nauseating rush. The storage closet. The golf course. My friends waiting.
Soren pulled back, his eyes meeting mine. They were storm-dark, blazing with a frustration that mirrored the ache suddenly hollowing me out. He brushed his thumb roughly over my kiss-swollen bottom lip.
"We'll continue this later," he vowed, his voice low and rough with unfinished business. It was a promise, not a suggestion.
He reached past me, opened the door a crack to peer into the hall, then nudged me gently into the blinding sunlight. "Go."
I stumbled out, the world assaultingly bright and loud. I leaned against the cool stone wall of the corridor, legs trembling, trying to force air into my lungs. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands, the devastating heat of his mouth, the hard line of his body. I touched my lips; they felt bruised, bee-stung, irrevocably changed.
I fumbled in my pocket for a hair tie, quickly redoing my hopelessly messy ponytail, swiping under my eyes for any smudged mascara. I took one deep, shuddering breath, then another, trying to reassemble the girl I was supposed to be.
"There you are!" Isa rounded the corner, her brow furrowed. She stopped, her sharp eyes taking me in—my flushed cheeks, my too-bright eyes, my generally rumpled, well-kissed appearance. "What were you doing back here? You look... flushed."
My mind, still swimming, grabbed for the first lie that floated by. "Sorry! Felt a bit faint for a second. The heat, I think. Needed a quiet corner and some water." I gestured vaguely. "All good now."
Isa's gaze held mine for a beat too long. She was suspicious; of course she was. She knew me too well. But she was also a master of the unspoken rule, of letting secrets lie when prying meant facing truths no one was ready for. She simply nodded, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"Right. Well, come on then. Before Juni decides to swing a nine-iron at someone's head out of boredom."
She linked her arm through mine, a solid, familiar weight, and led me back towards the blinding green. As we walked, I didn't look back. But I could feel his gaze on me, a tangible heat between my shoulder blades, a brand already seared into my skin.
He'd kissed me.
He'd set me on fire.
He'd stopped.
And he'd promised it wasn't over.
And the most terrifying part was the part of me that had already decided, in that dark closet, that I would let him burn me to the ground.