32. Lorcan
LORCAN
Alistair’s voice carried down the hallway outside, low and controlled, and every muscle in my body seized. Fear hit hard enough to sour the back of my throat.
Liath jerked toward the door, her eyes widening.
“Hide,” I hissed.
The handle turned before she could answer.
Liath scrambled off the bed so fast the mattress bounced beneath me. The hospital frame sat low to the ground, leaving barely enough room beneath it, but she dropped onto the floor anyway, the metal frame rattling as she shoved herself underneath.
Fuck.
The door opened and Alistair stepped inside.
I straightened automatically against the pillows, my shoulders squaring and my spine locking upright despite the aching protests inside my body.
I hated myself for it. Twenty-two years of conditioning still buried in my muscles.
Alistair closed the door quietly behind him.
“Father,” I said, the lie coating my tongue like poison. “Thank you for coming.”
He wore the same cruel face, the same controlled posture, the same measured way he entered a room. Nothing about him had changed.
Only me.
Something detached itself inside my chest while I looked at him now. The confusion was gone, and so was the need for approval. All that remained was cold hatred sharpened into focus.
This was the man who murdered my mother.
This was the man who tried to kill Liath.
I will make you pay for it.
Just not today. Today I still needed him unsuspecting.
Alistair approached me, moving closer to where Liath hid beneath the bed, every step tightening the pressure in my chest.
He stopped beside me and looked down the length of my body with an unreadable expression. “I was told you’d been attacked.”
Warm blood slid down my neck and my vision narrowed.
“Yes,” I said. “But as you can see, I’m fine.”
“Who attacked you?” he asked. “Why?”
I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I don’t know who,” I lied. “Or why. He was wearing a mask.” I paused. “At first I thought it was one of the Sons. I heard that not everyone was pleased of my arrival.”
I hoped it would seed some doubt in him at Bewley’s loyalty. Hoped the threat of descent would start corrupting his precious Sons from the inside out.
Alistair studied me for a beat too long. “Perhaps… But a knife to the throat in the dark,” he murmured. “So cowardly.” His eyes drifted briefly toward the window before returning to me. “It sounds so very similar to what happened to your grandfather.”
The implication landed heavily between us.
Deargán.
I forced a scowl onto my face. “I thought you said he was dead.”
Alistair shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps he isn’t.”
I let anger settle visibly into my jaw before speaking. “Well, if Deargán is alive, I hope you’ll let me at him before you deal with him.”
Alistair watched me closely.
Then he reached toward my throat.
Every instinct in my body wanted to recoil when his fingers caught the edge of the bandaging wrapped around my neck, but I held perfectly still. This was what he had trained me to do since childhood, accept pain without flinching, accept scrutiny quietly, and receive his attention without weakness.
I stared at the wall past his shoulder while his fingers peeled back part of the dressing.
Cool air brushed the wound instantly, and pain pulsed deep beneath the stitches.
Alistair hummed softly under his breath while examining the damage. “That will leave a scar.”
His fingers pressed briefly against the side of my throat as he replaced the bandage back into position.
I kept breathing evenly through it. I could hear my own heartbeat louder than the monitor beside me.
Underneath the bed, Liath remained silent.
Alistair stepped back. “I shall have security tripled by the time you return to the manor. Nothing will happen without my knowing it. No one will get in or out without my approval.”
The noose tightened even further around me.
Alistair checked his watch. “Once you’re recovered, you have one more task before you pass probation.”
Suspicion sharpened instantly through me, and my pulse stumbled once. Was this real? Or had he somehow figured it out already? Did Elias tell? Did he know I overheard Bewley?
Was this my final test before I was granted access? Or was this the moment he discarded me?
I cleared my throat against the pain. “Sir?” My voice sounded rougher now. “What task?”
“Get yourself discharged.” His gaze moved once toward the bandaging at my throat. “Then we’ll talk.”