28. Roman
ROMAN
T he flames consumed everything.
I stood over Declan’s crumpled form, my knuckles split and bleeding, smoke burning my lungs with every breath. The mahogany staircase—carved by my great-grandfather’s hands—crackled and groaned as fire ate through generations of Creed history.
Declan’s pale eyes fluttered open, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where my fist had connected. His breathing was shallow, labored, but that fucking smirk still played at his lips.
"Kill me, Roman," he wheezed, coughing up blood that splattered across the marble floor. "That’s what you’re supposed to do to traitors."
My hands were empty—the gun had been lost somewhere in our brutal fight, knocked away when we’d crashed into the gasoline-soaked furniture. I could see it now, glinting in the firelight several feet away, too far to reach without leaving Cassie exposed.
Cassie stood behind me, her back pressed against the wall, watching with wide eyes as I made a choice that would have been unthinkable just months ago. The old Roman would have used his bare hands. Would have snapped Declan’s neck without hesitation.
But something stopped me. Maybe it was the smoke choking the air, making everything feel like a fever dream. Maybe it was Cassie’s presence behind me, her quiet strength reminding me I didn’t have to be the man who solved everything with violence.
Or maybe I was just tired of being a monster.
Instead, I yanked off my belt and used it to bind his wrists to the wrought-iron stair railing. The leather bit deep into his skin, but he was too weak to resist.
"You’re going to live with what you’ve done," I said, my voice rough from smoke and rage. "If you survive this burning inferno, you’re going to wake up every day knowing you destroyed everything and got nothing for it."
Declan’s laugh turned into a coughing fit that painted his lips crimson. "Soft," he gasped. "Just like I said. She made you soft."
I turned away from him, reaching for Cassie’s hand. Her fingers were trembling but warm, anchoring me to something beyond the violence that had defined my world for so long.
The mansion groaned around us, century-old timbers surrendering to the fire. The gasoline Declan had splashed throughout the house was doing its work—flames raced along the walls like living things, consuming everything in their path.
"We need to move," I said, pulling Cassie toward the back of the house. "Now."
She nodded, her hand tightening in mine as we moved through smoke-filled hallways. I knew this house—every board, every corner, every escape route my father had drilled into me as a child. The main staircase was already engulfed, forcing us toward the servants’ stairs at the back.
The heat was unbearable now, turning the air into liquid fire that seared my lungs with every breath. Cassie pressed close behind me, one hand on my back for guidance through the thickening smoke.
A beam gave way overhead, sending sparks and burning debris cascading down like deadly rain. I spun, wrapping my arms around Cassie and taking the impact across my shoulder as a chunk of flaming wood crashed down. Pain exploded through my arm, but I kept moving.
Nothing else mattered. Not the pain, not the smoke, not the family legacy burning around us. Only getting her out alive.
The back exit loomed ahead through the haze, its frame outlined in orange fire but still intact. I kicked the door off its hinges and stumbled into the night air, Cassie close behind me, both of us gasping for clean oxygen.
We made it ten steps before I collapsed to my knees in the damp grass, Cassie dropping down beside me. The mansion—my father’s kingdom, my birthright, the symbol of everything the Creed name had built—was dying in flames that reached toward the stars.
And I felt nothing but relief.
Cassie’s hand found my face, her fingers gentle against skin that reeked of smoke and violence. "You’re hurt," she said, noticing the blood seeping through my shirt where the beam had caught me.
"I’m fine." I brushed soot from her hair, marveling at how beautiful she looked, even covered in ash and exhaustion. "Are you? The baby?—"
"We’re okay." Her hand moved unconsciously to her stomach.
The sound of engines filled the night air. Cars approached through the gates—Connor’s BMW in the lead, followed by Tommy’s SUV. My men, finally arriving according to the timeline I’d given Connor.
Twenty minutes after I’d entered the mansion. Twenty minutes to ensure that if this was a trap, I wouldn’t take them down with me.
Connor was out of his car before it fully stopped, his silver hair wild, his eyes bright with urgency. "Boss! Jesus Christ, what happened?"
One of the men stepped forward. "Is Declan dead?"
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. For the first time in my adult life, I’d chosen something other than the blood price our world demanded.
Behind us, the fire continued to rage, and the sounds of sirens grew closer.
Cassie stirred beside me, her voice shaking as she spoke. "You didn’t kill him."
It was more of a statement than a question. She was there. She saw it. But still, my jaw tightened as I answered, "No, but that doesn’t mean he won’t die."
It felt like a confession, like the beginning of something I couldn’t yet name. Behind us, the flames reached higher, and I knew with absolute certainty that I’d left more than just a house burning in that inferno.
I’d left the man I used to be.