Chapter 46 Roger Grand
Roger Grand
The crystal glass shattered against the wall, amber liquid streaking down plaster already scarred by rage. Roger Grand stood over the table, shoulders heaving, breath burning like acid in his throat.
“She was in my hands,” he snarled, voice low and venomous. “And you let Beckett tear her away.”
His lieutenants flinched. None of them spoke at first. The weight of his fury filled the room like smoke, choking, inescapable.
“She can’t run far,” one dared to say. “She’s weak. Beckett can’t guard her forever.”
Roger turned his head slow, deliberate, his stare cutting sharper than any blade.
“Weak?” He slammed his palm down on the table, splintering wood.
“Do you know what she carries? What she knows? There is nothing weak about Elara. And Beckett—” His lips curled into a smile cold enough to freeze the air.
“Beckett is the nail I’ll drive through her heart when she watches him die. ”
The men dropped their gazes, sweat glistening on their brows. Roger paced once, twice, then stilled, his voice smoothing into something almost calm.
“Find them,” he said. “Find them, and when you do, I want the city itself to bleed until she begs for mercy.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall. A countdown. His countdown.