Chapter 31
31
T he air is thick with tension the moment we step into the great hall. The pounding in my chest is almost deafening as my heart races. Realization crashes over me—the fight on the stairs is nothing compared to what we’re about to face.
Josiah stands in the center of the room, flanked by my sneering father and at least a dozen more mercenaries, while his sycophant disciples encircle him. His eyes gleam with malice, and the cruel smile he wears is locked directly on me.
“Well, well,” he sneers, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “If it isn’t my lovely bride-to-be, and her little knights in tarnished armor.” He laughs as his attention shifts to them. “You’ve come all this way for what? Something that was never yours to take? She’s been mine for eleven years, and no matter how far she runs, she’ll always belong to me. You can’t save her. You’ll never take her from me. You can’t claim what’s already mine.”
His gaze returns to me, something terrifying glinting in his eyes. “Now, Celestina, it’s time for your little game to end. You’ve condemned them to die for daring to touch what’s mine. Painfully. I promise you that. And when they’re gone, you’ll accept your place by my side—or not. It matters little to me how willing you are. You know how much I enjoy hearing your screams, and there’s nothing they can do to stop me.”
“Does this guy ever stop blowing smoke up his own ass?” Quinn murmurs to us.
Whit shifts protectively in front of me, Beckett and Quinn move into position on either side, forming a wall between me and Josiah, who throws his head back, laughing manically at the display.
I can tell they’re exhausted, their injuries catching up to them. Whatever they took in the cellar has got to be wearing off by now. Despite all that, they stand tall and resolute.
I stay behind them, knowing they need to focus and not waste energy worrying about me. Being unarmed and weak from my time in the cellar makes me more of a liability than a help. But still, my fists clench at my sides, ready to act if the chance arises. The least I can do is watch their backs.
“Bring them to me,” Josiah orders, his voice flat, as though the idea of anything being a challenge bores him. “Don’t damage her too much—I still need her to look like a bride later. But if they resist… well, I’ve always found pain to be a good motivator. They’ll learn quickly enough what happens when they get in my way.”
The hall erupts into chaos. The mercenaries charge, their weapons gleaming in the soft light of the chandeliers as they close in on us. The air is thick with tension, the sound of boots on stone echoing through the room.
Whit ducks under a brutal slash from a mercenary’s large serrated knife, the blade cutting the air just above his head. Without hesitation, he reaches up, grabbing the mercenary’s arm with both hands, and in one smooth motion, he dislocates the elbow. The knife slips from the now-useless hand, falling straight into Whit’s grip. In a heartbeat, the blade moves from his side to his opponent’s throat, and with deadly precision, Whit ends the fight, the man crumpling silently to the floor.
The second mercenary doesn’t even see it coming. In one fluid motion, Whit steps forward, slashing upward. The man’s body jerks, and just like that, he joins the first in a bloody heap at Whit’s feet—both throats slashed cleanly, the floor darkening beneath them.
Beckett fights with cold precision. The knife he took from one of the guards on the stairs flies from his hand, its trajectory sharp and sure as it embeds itself into the eye socket of a man lifting a gun.
The guard stands for a moment longer, his gun slipping from his hand, clattering to the floor and disappearing into the chaos of the fight. Then, with a muted thud, he crashes to the ground.
Beckett doesn’t bother to watch.
It doesn’t surprise me when I hear Quinn’s taunting voice cut through the fray. “My God, man, who taught you how to fight? Guess we’ll never know,” he says, glancing down at the now-motionless body at his feet.
He dances effortlessly through the chaos, weaving between bodies and blades as if the world around him is a blur of movement. He shifts, spins, and ducks—his movements fluid and unpredictable. The fight rages on around him, but Quinn moves in his own rhythm, as if there’s music only he can hear. And, apparently, there is, because he starts to hum, then sing, his voice sharp and clear.
The tune cuts through the chaos, his voice strangely upbeat while his eyes burn with a cold, steely rage. “In my dreams I have a plan…” One of his knives leaves his hand, burying itself in the gut of one of the guards. “If I got me a wealthy man…” Then, without missing a beat, he drives another blade down hard into the base of the guard’s neck while he’s doubled over. “I wouldn’t have to work at all, I’d fool around and have a baaaall…”
His voice drags out the word “ball,” as if he’s performing for an audience. “Money, money, money…”
I blink, trying to make sense of what he’s singing—it’s a tune I don’t recognize, but the way he spins and fights, I can’t look away.
“Must be funny…”
Just when I think he can’t possibly shock me more, he grabs one of the guards by the hand and twirls him into another, like a ballroom dancer, knocking them both to the ground. He continues to sing, “In the rich man’s world.”
“Jesus, Quinn, what’s with the soundtrack,” Beckett murmurs, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his voice, while Whit just laughs.
“Come on, Beck,” Whit says, “you know you love ABBA.”
“Money, money, money…” Quinn continues, unbothered, as he collects the knives off the bodies around him, avoiding blades slashed at him, his movements effortlessly smooth and carefree.
“Always sunny…” He throws two knives back-to-back into his next target. “In the rich man’s world.” One of the three guards attacking Whit crumples to the ground. Quinn takes a bow, as if the fight were nothing but an afterthought.
I drop low and kick out the knee of one of the mercenaries as he tries to stab Whit while he’s dealing with someone else. He screams as he falls, clutching his ruined knee, but Whit silences him permanently with a swift motion of his knife.
“Thanks, princess,” Whit says with a wink.
Finally, the mercenaries’ numbers dwindle to a final few, but the guys are breathing hard, their movements becoming lethargic as their energy wanes. Just then, Josiah’s disciples’ fanatical eyes lock onto me. My blood runs cold as they rush forward, bypassing the guys entirely while they’re still occupied with the remaining guards.
I manage to fight off several, landing punches and using their momentum against them to send them stumbling, but there are too many, and my body is already running on fumes. Their hands grab at me, pulling me away from the others.
“Celest!” Beckett’s voice calls out, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound panicked. He tries to get to me, but the remaining mercenaries are of a higher caliber than the ones scattered across the floor.
Josiah steps forward, the rest of his disciples parting for him like water. He moves with a calm, deliberate stride, rolling the sleeves of his oxford up his forearms without a glance at the chaos around him, as if he has all the time in the world. I watch in horror as he approaches Beckett, casually waving off the two guards he was fighting with, his confidence unwavering.
For all his manipulations and hiding behind others, Josiah proves to be a skilled fighter.
Beckett lands a few solid blows, but Josiah barely flinches, his focus unshaken. It doesn’t help that Beckett is weighed down by his earlier injuries, his strength already depleted from the prolonged fight, while Josiah stands fresh and rested, seemingly unaffected by the battle.
“You’re impressive,” Josiah sneers, his voice dripping with mock admiration. “But let’s see how well you fight after I make you watch your friends die. I know a few… creative ways to make death last longer.” His eyes gleam with sadistic delight, a twisted smile playing at the corner of his lips. “And maybe—if you’re lucky—I’ll even let you watch me take Celest on our wedding night.”
Rage flares in Beckett’s eyes, and he surges forward with renewed strength, landing a brutal punch to Josiah’s jaw. But exhaustion quickly takes its toll, and soon, Josiah overpowers him. I cry out as Beckett collapses to his knees, his arms pinned by a few disciples while Josiah looms over him, a knife gleaming in his hand.
My breath catches as Josiah lifts the blade and presses it against Beckett’s throat. I glance at the others—they’re beginning to falter, their movements slowing, losing the force they once had. My vision narrows, and my gaze locks onto the fallen pistol lying just a few feet away. Without thinking, I rip out of the disciples grip and dive for it, the cold metal heavy in my trembling hands.
Josiah watches with sick fascination, his cruel laugh echoing through the hall. “Oh, how sweet. Do you think you have it in you, Celestina?” he asks, forcing Beckett to stand, using him as a shield so that only Josiah’s face is visible. “Go ahead. Take the shot. Let’s see if you can kill me without hitting your failed hero.”
My hands shake, the gun—larger than I’m used to—visibly unsteady in my grip, which only makes Josiah laugh louder. I look at Beckett, his eyes calm despite the blood dripping down his face. He gives me one of his rare smiles, and my eyes burn with emotion as a tear slides down my cheek.
Memories from the past few months with them flash behind my eyes. I spent such a small amount of time with them in the grand scheme of my life, but it left the largest impact. They’ve pushed me to become stronger, they’ve never doubted my capabilities, and they’ve shown me what it is to love.
“Be a good girl for me,” he says, his voice confident. He gives me the slightest nod—a reassurance only he can give.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I focus on everything Beckett has taught me, blocking out everything else. I recall every lesson he drilled into me, every moment we spent at the shooting range, every second he spent pushing me to be better.
When I open my eyes, the world sharpens, and the edges of reality narrow to a single point. I adjust my stance and lock my arms, bracing for the recoil with my shoulders. My eyes dart to Beckett one last time to see him nod his approval.
That’s all I need.
I line up the shot. “I was never yours,” I seethe, my finger tightening on the trigger, and I fire just as Josiah’s eyes widen in shock.
The bullet strikes true, hitting Josiah directly between the eyes. His head snaps back, and he crumples to the ground, lifeless. Beckett jerks away just in time, the blade grazing his neck but leaving only a shallow cut.
For a moment, the room is stunned into stillness. The only sound is the ringing of the shot in our ears.
Then, all at once, everyone begins to move again as the remaining disciples scatter, the unknown now their biggest nightmare. The guys don’t bother chasing them. Their focus is on me.
Quinn is the first to reach me, his grin once again bloodied, but still intact. “Well, damn,” he says, shaking his head in amazement. “Remind me never to piss you off, sweetheart.”
Beckett cups my face, his eyes searching mine. “You okay?”
I nod, my hands trembling as I lower the pistol, the weight of it suddenly overwhelming. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it out.
I sway on my feet, my body demanding rest. Whit pulls me into his arms, his grip firm and comforting. “You did it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe.”
Tears blur my vision, but a smile breaks through the shock. My voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s strength in it.
“I’m finally free.”
I’m free. I’m finally free. I keep replaying the words over and over in my mind, but it feels too big to hold. My chest tightens as I take in a shaky breath, the weight of the gun still heavy in my hand.
Disbelief and elation war for dominance, but neither emotion is enough to calm the storm still raging inside me. Still trembling, I force my body to move, stepping out of Whit’s arms. I ignore their protests and shake off their hands as I begin searching the fallen disciples.
He must be here.
I have to find him.
It’s the only way to be certain I’m truly free. My fingers shake as I shove aside the linen robe covering the face of a man, his wide eyes unseeing.
“Where is he?” I demand, my voice raw. “Where’s my father?”
No one answers, not that I expected one. The guys help me search, their movements slower and heavier than usual. Finally, after checking every corner of the great hall and inspecting every empty face, my stomach sinks. He’s not here. He’s gone.
I sink onto a splintered chair and sigh, the weight of the moment crashing down on me. I thought I was free. How free am I if he’s still out there? “He got away.”
Beckett crouches in front of me, his bloodied hand brushing hair from my face. “He’s nothing without Josiah,” he says, his tone steady and sure. “He won’t be a threat without someone pulling his strings.”
I nod, though the bitter taste of disappointment lingers. “Maybe you’re right.” I hope he is.
Quinn gently grabs my chin, lifting it so I’m looking him in the eyes. “We’ll find him, sweetheart.” I nod when he releases me.
“Yeah,” Whit says, reaching out to pull me to my feet. “We won’t let his shadow keep you looking over your shoulder.”
As soon as he says it, I know that’s exactly what I fear. Not necessarily that my father would be capable of pulling off what Josiah could, but what if he does? It’s the possibility of retaliation that will haunt me.
We limp out of the manor, battered, bruised, and exhausted. The cool morning air hits my face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat from the battle we just fought. The first rays of dawn streak across the sky, softening the edges of the carnage behind us. My dress is torn and filthy, hanging in tatters around my legs, and my bare feet are scraped raw. Yet, I don’t care. The air smells of freedom, and despite everything, I’ve never felt so light.
As we step onto the gravel driveway, the sound of tires crunching on the pea gravel breaks the silence. A lone white van comes into view, its headlights muted by the morning light. As it gets closer, a florist logo becomes visible—Petals for Prayers. It stops a few feet away, and the slogan becomes clear, making me giggle.
“Flowers speak louder than gossip.”
The driver’s door opens, and an older woman steps out. Her expression shifts from confusion to concern as she takes us in. Her eyes sweep over me, lingering on my disheveled state before flicking to the men flanking me.
“I’m here to set up for the wedding,” she says tentatively, her gaze darting between us. “Is… is everything all right?”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, a sound somewhere between relief and hysteria. “There won’t be a wedding,” I say, wiping a hand across my filthy face.
Quinn, ever the opportunist, adds with a cheeky grin, “Yeah, next time, the groom should make sure the bride actually wants to be the bride.”
Whit shakes his head, his tone dry but tinged with humor. “You should still make sure you get paid. I’m sure there’s someone around here who can handle that for you.”
The woman’s jaw drops, horror dawning in her eyes. “You were going to be forced into marriage?”
I nod, and her face crumples with sympathy. She moves to the back of the van, rummaging through the riot of colorful blooms before pulling out a bouquet—delicate white roses interwoven with soft greenery. She steps toward me, pressing the bouquet into my hands.
“Take this,” she says, her voice soft and sincere. “Congratulations on your freedom.”
She pauses, her eyes flicking to the three men at my side. A knowing smile plays at the corners of her lips. “Seems like you’ve got plenty to keep you busy celebrating—for a while anyway. Bless their hearts.”
Her words draw a startled laugh from me, and this time, it’s pure and light. I glance at the guys, their expressions ranging from amused to exasperated.
“She’s not wrong,” I say, unable to keep the smile from spreading across my face.
“Well, I’m going to go hunt someone down to take care of this bill. I’m sure the other vendors will be here shortly. Now, be dears and go clean yourselves up. Y’all are right filthy.”
We watch the spunky old lady—clearly someone’s favorite granny—disappear into the manor.
“Should we have warned her about the state of things in there?” Whit asks.
“Something tells me she can handle it,” I say, turning back to them, clutching the bouquet tightly and lifting my chin.
“Take me home.”