Chapter 14
14
Claudius
I watch as Cecely pales. Good. She should be scared.
The truth isn’t pretty, and if she’s just now realizing the depth of the world she’s been dragged into, then she’s already too late to escape it.
But then she moves. Instead of retreating…instead of shrinking into herself…she wanders the room, her gaze moving over the ornate furniture, the grand fireplace, the shadowed corners. Like she’s mapping it out. Looking for something.
It gives me a moment to really take her in.
She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Simple and nothing extravagant. But on her, even something that basic looks irresistible. Because it’s not just what she’s wearing. It’s the way she moves. There’s an unconscious grace, a temptation in the curve of her body, in the way her hips shift with every step.
She’s not trying to be enticing. Which, of course, makes it even more tempting.
My gaze trails upward, landing on her high ponytail. Blonde strands sway with her movements, baring the delicate curve of her neck. And that? That’s a problem.
Because I’ve always had a thing for lovely necks.
Especially when they’re covered in bruises.
From my teeth.
A dark pulse of something primitive curls in my gut, sharp and unbidden. I exhale slowly, pushing it down. Now is not the time. But soon? Soon, she’ll learn exactly what kind of man I am.
She finally comes to a stop, settling into the chair next to me. The chair no one else dares to sit in. No one has sat there since Gabriel because it was his chair. Something dark and sharp courses through me, twisting deep in my chest. I don’t know what it is, only that I don’t like it. But maybe it’s fitting. Maybe she belongs there because the man pretending to be Gabriel is the reason she’s sitting here at all.
She exhales, shifting slightly, clearly preparing to speak.
“So—”
“I—”
We both stop. A beat of silence. Then, to my surprise, we share an awkward chuckle. It feels strange coming from me. From her. From this whole situation.
She recovers first.
“You first,” she says, tipping her chin slightly, waiting.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, studying her.
“I said I would give you answers.”
Her posture straightens.
“This is what I’ve managed to find out so far,” I continue, voice even. “About the man who visited your club five months ago.”
The man she thought was my brother.
The man who isn’t.
Her breath catches, making me think she’s ready for the truth. The question is—is she ready for all of it?
I push the folder across the coffee table to her. She reaches for it, folder trembling slightly in her grip. Slowly, she opens it, lifting the photo first. Her brows furrow, and the confusion in her eyes borders on panic.
“That’s not him,” she insists.
“It is.”
Her fingers tighten around the paper, knuckles going white. “No. I saw his face.”
Her cheeks pinken, and I don’t miss the way she shifts slightly in her seat. I lean back, watching her, studying the reaction. And then I recall what the text message said…
“Something you’re not telling me?”
She swallows hard, setting the folder down with too much hesitation, as if she doesn’t want me to know something.
“I danced for him,” she says finally, voice low. “I was close enough to remember every detail.”
I lift a brow. “That close?”
She glares. I smirk.
“My team is good,” I continue, keeping my tone steady, unwavering. “This is the man. And I suspect he’s also the same man who is after your father and the entire Brotherhood.”
Her frown deepens. “The entire Brotherhood? I thought it was just the Elite Members. Why would he be after all of them?”
“Nearly a year ago, someone started killing off the old Elite Members. Said things needed to change. So far, the new Elite Members have done a good job fostering that change. But I’m sure this prick is just waiting for them to fail, too.”
She hesitates, digesting the information. “Why would they fail?”
“They always do.” My gaze drifts, pulled to the portrait above the fireplace. The familiar unforgiving eyes staring down at me. A reminder. A warning. A curse. “Whether they mean to or not.”
She follows my gaze, taking in the man in the painting.
“Your father was an Elite Member?” Her voice is cautious now, like she knows she’s stepping into dangerous territory. “What happened to him?”
I let the words settle between us, heavy and immovable.
Then, finally, I meet her eyes.
“He was murdered.” A pause. “By your father.”
I expect her to break down. Maybe even try to deny my words.
Instead, she leans back in her chair, exhales slowly, and says, “Well, I think this is making some of the puzzle pieces come together.”
I narrow my eyes. Not the reaction I expected.
“Meaning?”
She taps the folder, fingers still slightly tense, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze now. A calculation that wasn’t there before…
“My sperm donor killed your dad. It would give Gabriel a pretty damn good reason to want to return the favor.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “You, too. Though… you might not have been sad when your dad died.” She pauses, eyes flicking over my face, reading me. “Were you?”
The air between us tightens, a slow, suffocating pull.
I don’t flinch. I don’t react. But for the first time, I wonder if she’s more dangerous than I thought. Because she’s starting to see me too clearly. And that’s a problem.
“Well?”
“I wasn’t sad when he died.” The words come easily, without hesitation. “And, for the last time, Gabriel is dead.”
Her eyes narrow. “You said you saw him die?”
She’s testing me. I lean forward, mirroring her intensity.
“I said I pushed him to his death.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Instead, she asks, “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s waiting for something to click into place.
“Well, every killer has a motive.” Her voice is steady, deliberate. “What was yours?”
A slow, sharp heat coils in my chest.
“You watch too much TV.”
Her lips curve slightly. “Maybe. So?”
I reach for my cigar, rolling it between my fingers before taking a slow, measured puff. The smoke curls into the air, thick and deliberate, buying me a second before I answer.
“He had to be stopped.”
Cecely doesn’t blink. Instead, she leans forward even more, eyes locked onto mine.
“That’s vague.”
I exhale smoke, watching as it drifts between us. “That’s the truth.”
“Okay, so you saw him fall because you pushed him.” Her voice is calm and even. “Are you the one who recovered his body?”
My eyebrow lifts. “What kind of question is that?”
“Don’t act shocked.” She leans back, crossing her legs, her expression unreadable. “You just told me you killed someone.”
I say nothing.
She says, “Humor me. I’m establishing a timeline.”
I take another slow pull from my cigar, letting the smoke curl through the air before answering.
“His body wasn’t recovered for a few days.”
“Why?”
I exhale sharply, irritation curling at the edges of my voice. “Jesus, woman. Do you hear yourself?”
Her expression remains unmoved. “It’s a reasonable question, Claudius.”
And just like that, something shifts. Hearing my name on her lips does something to me. Something I shouldn’t like. But I do. It slithers under my skin, settling somewhere dark and dangerous.
I take another drag from my cigar, masking the way my pulse kicks up, the way my muscles tense in ways that have nothing to do with anger.
This woman…she’s going to be a problem.
Finally, I say, “His body wasn’t recovered because I pushed him off the cliff during a storm.”
Her lips part, questions already forming, accusations maybe, but I hold up a hand, cutting them off before they can leave her mouth.
“The night he died, we were fighting. I told him he needed to stop.” A sharp flash of memory dances through my mind. Gabriel’s eyes burning with fury, the rain drenching us, the wind howling like a beast. “He challenged me to a duel.”
Her brows furrow, but she stays silent, letting me speak.
“We both agreed to meet on the cliff where one of us wouldn’t be leaving.”
The words come out matter-of-fact, as if they don’t carry the weight of years of conditioning. Because that’s what it was. Just the way dear-old-dad always had us solve our problems. A fight to the death, wrapped up in honor and blood. The only difference? This time, he wasn’t there to make sure Gabriel lived. And I wonder… If he had been, would I be the one who went over the edge instead?
I know the answer. I would have. It’s the same way I got the scar on my face. The same way I have countless burns on my back. My father did whatever it took to protect Gabriel. Even dying for him.
“I can still hear his screams, you know?” The words slip out quieter than I expect. Not weak—never weak—but weighted. Heavy. “The way our eyes locked as he fell.”
For a moment, I’m not here. I’m back on that cliff. Rain pounding against my skin. Wind roaring in my ears. And Gabriel— His face twisted in rage, in shock, in something I still can’t fucking name.
I let out a bitter laugh, one that tastes like ash and regret.
“Fuck. It felt like it took forever for him to hit the water.”
I can still see it. His body twisting midair, arms outstretched, gravity swallowing him whole. And then he was gone. Taken by the waves.
She says my name. Softly. “Claudius?—”
I shake my head. No. Not now. Not when I can still feel the phantom grip of his fingers clawing at nothing.
“I wanted to dive in after him,” I admit, voice gravel-lined and raw. “But I didn’t.”
Because I knew jumping in after him would have been a death sentence. Instead, I made my way down the jagged path to the beach, slipping, stumbling, half-blinded by rain and darkness.
And I searched. Until my feet bled. Until the storm faded. Until the sun came up. Until it became painfully clear that I was alone.
Gabriel was gone.
And for the first time in my life, I had no idea if I was supposed to feel relief or grief.
“The coast guard found his body three days later.” My voice is even, controlled. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of that memory. “Nearly fifty miles offshore.”
I don’t mention the condition of his body. I don’t mention how I collapsed when I saw what was left of him. How my stomach twisted violently, the bile rising too fast to stop it. How I turned away and vomited into the sand, my hands shaking, my throat raw.
Because no matter how much I hated him, no matter how much blood had been spilled between us… he was still my twin. My other half. And when I looked at what was left of him, all I could think was he’s really gone. And so was the part of me that only existed because he did.
“Did you verify it was him?”
I snap my gaze to her, my irritation flaring hot and immediate.
“Of course I fucking did.”
Cecely doesn’t flinch. But she does work her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking. That look. That calculating, piecing-shit-together look irritates me more than her question.
I take a slow breath, forcing myself to rein it in.
Then she says, “Did they check his dental records with the body found?”
I narrow my eyes. Before I can answer, she rushes on, words tumbling out like she’s afraid I’ll cut her off.
“Because if they didn’t, then you don’t know for sure that the body was his.”
Silence slams between us. A thick, suffocating thing. My grip tightens on the armrest. Because I don’t like where she’s going with this. And worse? I don’t like that I don’t have a fucking answer. Because they didn’t verify his dental records with the body that was found. They took my word that it was my brother and that was that.
“You’ve thought this entire time that the man pretending to be Gabriel wasn’t Gabriel.”
Her voice softens, but there’s an edge to it, something almost pitying. I hate it.
She continues, “I think maybe it’s time we consider that it is him.”
A sharp, icy stillness settles inside me. No! But before I can snap back, before I can shut down this ridiculous idea, she leans forward, reaching into her back pocket.
I watch, pulse thrumming, as she pulls out her phone.
“I replied to his text.” Her fingers tighten around the device, like she knows she’s about to drop a bomb. “And he replied instantly.”
She hands me the phone, waiting for me to look. For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want to look. But I do. I skim over the messages, reading between the lines, picking apart the phrasing, the rhythm, the choice of words. Then my gaze snaps back to her.
“He said he was obsessed with you before?”
Cecely shifts slightly, but her voice stays even. “That night at the club.”
The blush is back. Subtle. But there. And suddenly, I’m sure there’s more to this story than she’s telling me. I set the phone down, my fingers drumming against the chair as I watch her.
“If you know something I don’t, now would be the time to tell me.”
She tilts her head, expression unreadable. “Such as?”
I lean forward, gaze locked onto hers.
“Such as what makes you blush like a schoolgirl when that night is mentioned.”
Her breath catches.
“Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you slept with him.”
Her reaction is instant. “Of course not.”
But the way she says it? The way her posture stiffens, the way her fingers curl slightly into the fabric of her jeans— It’s a lie. Or, at the very least, not the full truth.
And now? I need to know exactly what happened that night. Because something tells me it changes everything.