26. Lazarus
The jet’s engines roar, a guttural, tearing sound that vibrates through my ribs as it climbs into a sky the colour of a day-old bruise.
I stand on the tarmac, hands shoved so deep into my coat pockets my knuckles ache, watching until the plane is nothing more than a speck swallowed by the horizon.
The wind whips at my face, cold and sharp, but I don’t move. I can’t.
Ezra is gone. Safe. Or as safe as he can be.
The thought should bring relief, but it doesn’t.
It brings a hollow, gnawing terror that coils in my stomach like a snake.
Antonio’s loyalty is unquestionable, and Portugal is far enough from the chaos here, far enough from the blood-soaked halls of this family.
But it is still a weakness, Ezra is a weakness, a chink in my armour no matter how I look at it.
My mind churns the entire car ride back. I know I could walk into the villa right now and gut Konstantine. I could slit his throat and watch the life drain from his eyes, and god it would feel good, so fucking good.
But what would happen then? What would happen after?
I know the answer. I would be arrested, dragged before the Guardians in chains, and executed like a rabid dog.
The Guardians would then have to step in and act as some sort of Regent Council until my son is of age, my son, who would grow up an orphan surrounded by vultures, never knowing the truth of who I am, truth of why I did what I did.
I may hate my brother, may be fuelled by the notion of vengeance, but that is not the end to it.
I want more. I want not just vengeance, but I want to take everything he took from me.
I want to take everything God bestowed on him and prove that I am the worthy one, I am the worthy brother.
Besides, death is too kind for him. I want him to suffer.
I want him to feel every ounce of the pain they inflicted on me, stretched out over years, just as mine was.
Six years they kept me prisoner, their plaything, their slave.
Six years of darkness, chains, and the sound of my own screams echoing off stone walls.
Six years of Ines’s laughter, high and sweet like poisoned fucking honey.
A moment’s justice is not enough to pay that back.
I want him to know what it feels like to be broken, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but a raw, weeping nerve.
I want him to beg for death the way I did, and I want to deny him that mercy the way it was denied to me.
And anyway, the Guardians would know if I acted now.
They always know. Their eyes are everywhere, their whispers threading through the walls like smoke.
And Antonio, Antonio would know too. He’s sharp, observant.
He’d see through the charade in an instant, and then everything I’ve built, every careful lie, would crumble. I can’t risk that. Not yet.
I sigh, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window.
The chill seeps into my temple, a small, grounding pain.
No, this isn’t a game of brute force. This is chess.
Every move calculated, every piece positioned with precision.
Konstantine is the impulsive one, the reckless one, not me.
I am the one who sets the traps. I am the one who waits in the dark, patient as a spider, feeling every vibration in the web.
The villa looms ahead, its grandeur a stark contrast to the darkness that festers within.
The stone facade glows pale in the moonlight, beautiful and cold as a mausoleum.
I step out of the car, the crisp night air biting at my skin, carrying the faint, metallic scent of frost. The guards nod as I pass, their faces impassive, their eyes empty.
They don’t see the storm brewing beneath my calm, impassive face.
They see what I want them to see; the loyal brother returned, the steady hand, the shadow at Konstantine’s back.
They don’t see the monster wearing a man’s skin, the thing that was forged in six years of hell and sent back into the world with a single, burning purpose.
Inside, Konstantine paces the entrance hall like a caged animal.
His footsteps are erratic, slapping against the marble floor in a frantic rhythm.
His hair is dishevelled, his eyes wild, pupils dilated so wide they nearly swallow the iris.
He’s already unravelling, the threads of his sanity snapping one by one, and it’s both satisfying and terrifying to witness.
Satisfying because this is what I’ve worked for, this slow, creeping dissolution.
Terrifying because a cornered animal is the most dangerous kind, and my brother has never needed much provocation to draw blood.
“Where have you been?” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom, his hands twitching at his sides as if he’s imagining them around my throat.
“Ensuring Ezra’s safety,” I reply evenly.
Konstantine stops pacing, his gaze locking onto mine. There’s something feral in his eyes, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “I want them hunted down. All of them. And her family. I know they’re behind this. I know her family did this…”
“I can manage the Brethren,” I say slowly, each word a carefully placed brick in the wall I’m building around him. “I can hold the fort, keep everything together while you hunt down Ines’s murderers. While you focus on getting her justice.”
Konstantine’s eyes widen, a manic gleam lighting them up from within. It’s like watching a flame catch in dry tinder. He thinks I’m helping him. And I am, he just doesn’t realise it’s into an early grave.
He grabs my shoulders, his grip bruising, his fingers digging into the muscle with a desperate, almost childlike strength. “Yes,” he breathes, his voice trembling with desperation. “Yes, I knew you’d understand. I knew you loved her as much as I did.”
I grit my teeth, burying the rage that surges within me.
Love her? She was a fucking monster. Why the fuck would I ever have any feelings for that witch?
The words claw at the inside of my skull, screaming to be let out, but I swallow them down like broken glass.
Not now. Not yet. I force my face into something resembling sympathy.
“Do what you have to do, brother,” I tell him, my voice steady, a lie wrapped in silk. “Leave everything else to me.”
He releases me, nodding fervently, his head bobbing like a broken doll. “Yes, yes. I’ll find them. I’ll make them pay.”
He rushes off, his footsteps echoing down the hall, a frantic staccato that fades into silence. I watch him go, my fists clenched at my sides, my nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain is a small, bright point of clarity in the fog of my hatred.
It can’t be this easy. Surely, Konstantine can see what I’m doing?
The thought is a cold finger tracing down my spine.
He’s paranoid, yes, but he’s not stupid.
Or is he? Grief and obsession have a way of rotting the mind from the inside out, and let’s face it, my brother’s mind was never particularly sturdy to begin with.
I turn, ready to retreat to my old study, and just as I do, I see them.
I blink, wondering if my mind is playing tricks, if this is some after-effect of the drugs, some ghost conjured by a brain that spent too many years in the dark. How are they here? And how are they together? What the fuck is this?
The girl is tiny, fragile, her long blonde hair framing a face marred by scars, jagged, pale lines that crisscross her cheeks and forehead like a roadmap of suffering.
Her eyes are glass, literal glass, two polished spheres that catch the light and reflect it back without seeing.
They stare out as if focused on some distant object, something only she can perceive, and the effect is deeply, profoundly unsettling.
She has her arm tucked into the great giant of a man beside her, her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve with a trust that speaks of long familiarity.
I know who he is too. I know from all the records I found, all the bits of evidence that have no doubt been destroyed.
Devin Blake. The name rises from the depths of my memory like a corpse floating to the surface of a lake. Paitlyn Hesletine, and Devin Blake.
But why are they here? What the fuck is going on?
They’re standing as though this place is familiar to them, as though they’ve been here enough times to feel at home. I can see a bunch of lilies in Paitlyn’s hands, flowers for mourning. Are they hear to give their condolences? What the fuck is this?
Devin stares back at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of control that rivals my own.
But there’s something in his eyes; a flicker of recognition, of calculation even.
He guides Paitlyn into a side room, his movements gentle yet possessive, his large hand hovering at the small of her back without quite touching.
The door closes behind them with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot in the silence.
Did my brother have them brought here? Did he heed my words after all, in some rare moment of lucidity?
Or is this something else? Something more nefarious?
I don’t like not knowing. I don’t like surprises.
Surprises are how you end up back in chains, back in the dark with a woman’s laughter ringing in your ears.
When Devin returns, stepping back into the hall with that same unreadable calm, I jerk my head toward the study in a silent invitation.
I suppose now is as good a time as any to start making moves.
While my brother continues his bullshit hunt for justice, chasing ghosts and shadows, I can be putting all my little pieces in place.
I can ensure I own the entire board, every square, every piece, every possible move.
And by the time he realises, if he realises, it’ll be far too fucking late for him to do a damned thing to stop me.