Chapter 17
Home. It feels like a long time since I have been here.
The stillness, the silence, just the sound of the waves crashing far below on the cliff face. No matter where I go, no matter what grand palaces and opulent hotels I stay in, none of them compare to the feeling of being in this space.
After months of chasing phantoms through the rain-slicked streets of Paris, the damp, oppressive alleyways of London and the silent, watchful forests of Bavaria, this is the only flavour that can cleanse my palate.
This is the only truth that remains: the cliff-top fortress of my ancestors, hewn from granite and grief, standing sentinel against the relentless Atlantic.
The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs three hundred feet below is a constant, rhythmic roar, the heartbeat of this place. It is a sound that drowns out the whispers, that silences the screams that have been echoing in the back of my skull since I found Ines.
The castle itself is a brooding, gothic masterpiece of crenelated towers and arched windows, stained dark by centuries of sea spray and sun.
It is not a gentle place. It was never meant to be.
It was built as a bastion, a final redoubt for the Templars when their world collapsed in fire and betrayal.
These very stones sheltered the first Grand Masters of what would become the Brethren, men who traded the white mantles of martyrs for the darker shadows of real power.
My mother’s bloodline is in every cold draught, every echoing footfall in the long hallways.
Their legacy is my inheritance. It is a weight I carry without complaint, a mantle I wear with pride.
A deep, settling peace washes over me, more profound than any silence. The hunt is not over, it will never be over until the people who ordered Ines’s death are bleeding at my feet, but it is paused. For this moment, I am home.
I leave my luggage for the staff to see to and enter through the great oak door, its iron studs worn smooth by time.
The interior is cool, dim, a welcome respite.
The air smells of beeswax, old parchment, and the faint, sweet scent of the sea.
My footsteps are swallowed by the thick, ancient rugs that line the flagstone floors.
Portraits of severe men and elegant women, my forebearers, watch my progress from the walls.
Their eyes seem to follow me, not with judgment, but with a grim acknowledgement.
The work continues. The bloodline endures.
My first duty, my primary purpose in this lull, is upstairs.
I take the grand staircase, my hand gliding over the polished mahogany banister and move down the west wing corridor toward the nursery suite. The door is slightly ajar. I stop at the threshold, becoming a shadow in the doorway, unseen.
Inside, sunlight streams through a tall window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
And in the centre of that golden pool sits Ezra, cross-legged on a large Persian rug, surrounded by wooden blocks.
He is smaller than he should be for six years, a little bird of a boy with his mother’s dark, serious eyes and a shock of his father’s unruly black hair.
And he is silent.
A woman sits opposite him. She is middle-aged, kind-faced, with a patience that seems as deep and unshakeable as the ocean outside.
She is one of the best speech therapists in Europe, discreet and generously compensated for her work.
She has no idea the true nature of her employers.
If she does discover who the boy is, then she will be eliminated before she can breathe a word of it to anyone.
“Now, Ezra,” she says, her voice a soft, melodic instrument. “The fox. Can you tell me what the fox says? Remember our sound?”
She holds up a card with a picture of a cartoon fox.
Ezra’s eyes fix on it. His little body is tense, a coiled spring.
I see the struggle in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his small fingers clutch at the fabric of his trousers.
The trauma did not just steal his voice; it built a fortress around it, and he is the lone, terrified prisoner inside.
He opens his mouth. A faint, dry click comes out. Nothing more. His shoulders slump in defeat.
A cold fury stirs in my gut, a black tide I quickly force back down.
Not here. This is his sanctuary. He has to feel safe here.
My fury is for the ones who did this, who put that emptiness in his eyes where light should be, who made him watch as his mother was butchered.
Konstantine is lost to his own bottomless grief, his rage a whirlwind that threatens to consume the entire Brethren.
So Ezra is mine. My ward. My responsibility. The most important relic of our order.
Senhora Almeida doesn’t flinch. “It is a hard sound, I know. ‘Ffff’. Like the wind. Let’s try together. Fff…ox.”
She leans forward, exaggerating the shape of her lips. Ezra watches, appearing mesmerized and then tries again. This time, a breathy rush of air escapes. “Ff…f…”
It is not a word. It is a shattered piece of one, but it is a sound. It is effort, it is a crack in the fortress wall.
A warmth, unexpected and fierce, spreads through my chest. Pride. It is such a foreign feeling, so pure amidst the corruption that defines my life that it almost feels like pain. Good boy, I think, the words a silent command sent across the room. Fight your way back to us.
I do not make my presence known. My watching is a pressure he does not need. I am a reminder of the world that broke him, a world of violence and shadowy secrets. Here, with the kind woman and the sunlit blocks, he is just a boy trying to remember how to speak. I will not intrude on that.
I push away from the doorframe and continue down the hall, the fragile warmth of the moment receding, replaced by the familiar, comfortable chill of my own reality. My peace is not found in sunlit nurseries. It is found in the clarity of control, in the acknowledgement of my own nature.
I descend a narrower, older staircase. One that leads to the south side of the castle, to the parts that were built not for family but for utility, for defence. The air grows cooler, damper. The sound of the sea is louder here. A constant, vibrating hum through the stone.
I push open a heavy, iron-bound door and step out into the Cloister.
It is not a true cloister, not in the monastic sense.
It is a wide, flagstoned courtyard nestled between the high outer wall of the castle and the southern keep, open to the sky but sheltered from the worst of the wind.
Along one side runs a covered arcade, its arches framing breathtaking, terrifying views of the churning Atlantic.
This is their domain. My sanctuary.
And they are here, as they often are. The three of them.
Anya is dancing. Barefoot on the cold stone, wearing a simple, sleeveless linen shift, her fiery red hair loose and whipping around her like a banner.
Her movements are as perfect as the days she performed on stage for the world to see.
Right now, there is no music, no orchestra.
Her body responds to the rhythm of the crashing waves, a physical expression of the wildness I have allowed her to keep. She is all grace and untamed energy.
Julie is curled up in a deep stone alcove of the arcade, half dosing under the warm rays. She looks up as I enter, and a slow, serene smile touches her lips. Her eyes, a calm grey, meet mine with placid acknowledgement before she drops to her knees.
Then there is Felice. She sees me and immediately abandons the flowers she was weaving into a chain.
She rises and pads toward me, a smile of pure, unadulterated joy on her face.
She is the most affectionate, the most openly needy.
She comes to a stop before me, dropping with a thud in a gesture of submission that is also an invitation.
She doesn’t speak. They rarely do, unless asked a direct question.
Their communication is more subtle, more physical.
I reach out and run my fingers through her light brown hair. She leans into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her. As always she is a contented animal, pleased by its master’s attention.
This is the peace I understand. Uncomplicated. Absolute.
Their love for me is a real, tangible thing, forged in the fire of their conditioning and polished by years of unwavering devotion.
They are my living art. My beautiful, broken things that I stole away, and I am their entire world.
I am not their jailer. I am their god, and a god must be present.
“Did you miss me?” I ask, my voice low.
Felice nods fervently, her eyes wide. Anya has stopped her dance and watches from a distance, her chest rising and falling with her breath. Julie creeps forward, crawling to sit beside her sister.
“I missed you all,” I say, and it is true. Their presence is a balm, a reminder of the order I can impose on a chaotic world.
Outside these walls, everyone wants something from me.
They smile, they flatter, they pretend at loyalty, but every gesture hides a blade.
I am the Kingmaker, the hand that decides who rises and who falls, and no one dares to forget it.
Trust is a currency I can’t afford. But these three women, I can trust them, I have ensured that by the way I have broken them entirely and remade them.
They want my wants, they desire whatever makes me most happy.
I do not have to work for anything here; these women provide me with everything a man could wish for.
I simply have to snap my fingers, and they come running.
It is then that Issac and Clara emerge from the shadowed arcade. They move with a silent synchronicity that speaks of their decades working in tandem. They are the architects of this peace. The master crafters of my collection.
Issac is tall, gaunt, his face a placid mask of perpetual serenity.
The castration was not my doing, it was a condition of his service to a previous Master, a man with less finesse, but it makes him perfect for his role.
He is devoid of base impulse, a clean, empty vessel through which my will is enacted. He is patience incarnate.
Clara is shorter, sturdier, with sharp, intelligent eyes that miss nothing.
She was once a pet herself, long ago, for another keeper, before age and a sharp mind graduated her to trainer.
She understands the journey from both sides.
She is the firm hand, the disciplinarian, the one who teaches the boundaries.
They stop before me and bow their heads slightly. “Master,” Clara says. “Welcome home. We are glad to see you returned safely.”
“The world is full of threats, Clara. But few that can touch us here,” I reply, my hand still resting on Felice’s head. “How have they been?”
“Obedient. Content,” Issac answers, his voice a soft, reedy thing.
“Good.” I let my gaze sweep over my three beautiful creatures. They are perfect, but perfection is not a destination; it is a continuous pursuit. “It’s time we began preparations for the fourth.”
There is a slight, almost imperceptible shift in their posture. Clara’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “The auction isn’t for another few years.”
“I am aware of her age, Clara,” I say, my voice mild but leaving no room for question. “I did not say we were receiving her tomorrow. I said we begin preparations. I like to be organised. A work of art cannot be rushed. It requires foresight. Preparation of the canvas. Selection of the tools.”
I step away from Felice who immediately sinks to her knees, watching me with rapt attention. I walk toward the arcade, out of range for my pets to hear, and my two trainers fall into step beside me.
“This one will be different,” I continue, looking out at the endless grey expanse of the ocean. “The others were blank slates, beautiful clay to be moulded. This one will have a certain arrogance bred into her bones. It will need to be stripped away, not just broken down.”
I turn to face them. “You will need to break her in differently. You will manage her differently. Her conditioning must be more profound, her dependence more absolute.”
Clara is watching me, her head cocked. She is calculating, already running scenarios. “You have a specific end goal in mind for this one, Master?”
A slow smile touches my lips. It is not a pleasant smile.
It is the smile of a man anticipating a long-denied feast. “I do. I want to craft a different kind of pet to my other three. Let’s see how deep the damage can go before the light truly vanishes.
We can explore the exquisite boundary between absolute submission and the flicker of a spirit that knows it was once meant for more.
That way I will own not just her body, but her corruption. ”
The air seems to grow still, even the sea’s roar feels muted.
Issac simply nods, as if I had asked him to prepare a new room with a specific shade of paint.
Clara’s sharp eyes gleam with a dark understanding.
She is not shocked, she is intrigued. This is a new challenge.
A masterpiece, and we will build it together.
“It will require a revised methodology,” she says, her voice clinical. “A different initial approach. More psychological deconstruction before the physical conditioning begins in earnest.”
“Precisely that.” I say, and the anticipation is a thrum in my veins. This is what I need. Not just the vengeance for Ines, not just the guardianship of Ezra, but this: the creative, cruel act of reshaping a soul. It is the purest expression of my power. The best way to channel the chaos inside me.
They bow again, deeper this time, and retreat back into the shadows of the arcade, already speaking in low, quick tones to each other. The architects returning to their drawing board.
I am left alone in the Cloister. My three pets remain, but they are part of the scenery now, beautiful fixtures. My mind is already years in the future, in a room not yet built, looking into the eyes of a girl who does not yet know she is destined to become my magnum opus.
I walk to the edge of the flagstones, right to the point where the courtyard ends and the cliff face drops away into nothing. The wind pulls at my clothes, the spray from the waves far below mists my face. I spread my arms, embracing the void.
This is peace. This is power.
Poor little Grace Ratcliffe has no idea what destiny has install for her. But with her body, with her flesh I will sate this vengeance; this anger, this everything.