72. Leandra
The helicopter ride is a blur of noise and silence.
The rhythmic thrum of the blades cuts through the air, but inside the cabin, the silence is deafening.
I sit stiffly in my seat, my hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. Lazarus is beside me, and behind us are the guards.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the Black Orchid Club, but I can feel his gaze on me, probing, assessing.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
My mind is a mix of anger and betrayal, a whirlwind of questions and doubts that I can’t escape. Ezekiel’s words echo in my head, taunting me, mocking me. Lazarus already knows all of that. He worked with me to remove Konstantine.
The betrayal cuts deep, feeling like a wound that bleeds with every passing second.
The helicopter lands, and Lazarus steps out first while I follow with my legs trembling beneath me, my body stiff with tension.
We walk through the doors, going down the steps that lead from the rooftop helipad to the main villa. The guards flank us, and their presence is a silent reminder of the power Lazarus wields. I feel their eyes on me, their gazes sharp and assessing, but I don’t care.
And then I see it.
The gun.
One of the guards has it holstered at his side, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without thinking I reach out, my fingers closing around the hilt. The guard reacts too late, his eyes widening as I pull the gun free and point it at Lazarus.
The room erupts into chaos.
The guards raise their weapons, their voices sharp and panicked as they shout at me to drop the gun, but I don’t. My hands tremble but my grip is firm, my gaze locked on Lazarus.
He raises a hand, his voice calm but commanding. “Drop your weapons,” he says.
The guards hesitate, their confusion evident.
“Leave,” he says, his tone firm.
They don’t move.
“Leave!” he roars, his voice echoing through the room.
The guards exchange glances before slowly lowering their weapons and filing out of the room, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
I flinch at the sound of the door closing, but I don’t lower the gun. My hands are shaking, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps, but I keep it trained on Lazarus.
He turns to me, his expression calm, almost serene. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice soft.
I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “You know well enough,” I snap, my voice trembling with rage. “All of this has been a trick. You’ve been using me the same way everyone else has. You’ve been working with Ezekiel all this time....”
Lazarus doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. “I’ve been working with Ezekiel,” he says, his tone calm. “But what is that to you?”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks. I hate that I’m crying, that I’m showing him this weakness, but I can’t stop it.
“You know what Ezekiel did,” I say, my voice breaking. “You must know everything, so stop fucking pretending.” I scream the last of it, and my words echo off the solid walls back at me.
Lazarus takes a slow step towards me, his movements deliberate. “Tell me,” he says.
I snarl, my grip tightening on the gun. “Don’t,” I say, my voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you care.”
He takes another step, his gaze never leaving mine. “Tell me,” he repeats.
I shake my head, my hands trembling. “No,” I whisper.
And then he launches at me.
The gun goes off, the sound deafening but the bullet misses him, embedding itself in the wall behind him. We struggle, our bodies colliding as we fight for control of the weapon. He’s stronger, his grip firm and he wrenches the gun from my hand, shoving it under my chin.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes are dark, his expression unreadable but I can feel the anger radiating off him, a storm waiting to break.
And then I break.
The words spill out of me, a torrent of pain and rage that I can’t contain. “Ezekiel is the one my parents sold me to,” I say, my voice trembling. “He’s the one who worked with Isaac. He’s the one who…”
I can’t finish the sentence, the words catching in my throat.
Lazarus stares at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment I think he’s going to pull the trigger, that this is the end. That I’ve gone too far, and now my recklessness will be the death of me.
But instead he tosses the gun aside, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing through the room.
He scoops me up, his arms strong and steady, and carries me away. I struggle against him, my fists pounding against his chest, but he doesn’t stop.
I think he’s going to lock me in the dungeons, that he’s going to punish me for what I’ve done. But instead he carries me to his room, laying me down on the bed with a gentleness that surprises me.