Chapter 37 Kane
KANE
Four Months ago
This is a fucking mistake.
It’s like returning to the crime scene. No, worse. It’s like returning to the crime scene to confront your victim and expecting them to understand.
Honestly, sometimes I think Reginald is losing his marbles.
Yet, despite my father’s attempts to leave me with nothing, Reginald is the only reason I’m still standing. So, I owe him this much.
This better not go south, or he’ll take us all down with him.
I park away from the address on my phone. A quarter mile away, in the middle of nowhere. Then I take the long walk to the isolated cottage buried at the foot of the great mountains on the Isle of Skye.
The aurora lights dance, fluorescent blue and green striped across the dark, cloudless night. My pace slows when I approach the driveway, coming to a halt in front of the Skoda SUV. The man I’m supposed to meet is kneeling on the floor, checking the tires.
“Mr. Rycroft,” I call, clearing my throat. The man looks up with furrowed brows, fixing his glasses.
“Yes?” he says. “You are?”
“I’m here on behalf of Reginald Grant.”
The wrinkles on his face grow deeper as he slowly rises and glances over his shoulder through the cottage lounge window. A young brunette sits on the couch cross-legged with her tablet. An older woman, the mother, I assume, comes and removes her headphones, her lips moving.
“Do you have it?” Richard Rycroft asks.
I hand him the heavy piece of paper I have been carrying the long drive through all of England and Scotland.
“Can I ask what you hope to gain from this, Mr. Rycroft? It has been thirteen years. Seems like a lost cause to me.”
An aged smile lights his face when he peers at me over his glasses. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” I answer.
“No kids, I presume?” he asks. My silence answers his question. “If you decide to have kids, Mr…”
“Sterling,” I answer.
“If you decide to have kids, Mr. Sterling, you’ll understand your life freezes the moment your children are born.
From that point onwards, everything is about them.
This man,” he holds up the folded piece of paper, “broke a little girl and stole my legacy. No amount of time will stop me from looking for him.”
Hear that, Dad? Some fathers care about their children and their legacies.
“Anyway. Please extend my thanks to Mr. Grant. I know helping me must not have been an easy decision for him. I’m grateful.”
I nod once, thinking of disappearing, when the rhythmic sound of a bouncing ball interrupts us. A tall, blond young man in a hoodie appears from behind the car, dribbling a basketball.
“Dad?” His brows furrow as he strides toward us, the ball tucked under his arm. “What’s going on?” he asks, looking between his father and me.
“Nothing,” Richard replies. “This young man was lost. Why don’t you go check if your sister is packed?”
“We are only half an hour late.” He shrugs. “There is no way she’s started packing yet.”
“Then why don’t you help?” Richard suggests.
“Fuck that,” he groans. “I’ve gotta stay awake for the drive.”
“You’re not driving, Daniel,” Richard mutters.
“Course, I am,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I hope you find your lodgings, Mr. Sterling.” Richard turns to me. “I would invite you in for some tea, but we are about to leave.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Thanks for your help. Hope you have a safe trip home.”
“Cheers, mate.” Daniel grins, spinning the basketball on his finger. “You should get going, too. It’s about to piss it down, and I’m guessing you’re walking since I don’t see a car in sight.”
Our eyes meet. And suddenly, my plans for tonight change. I nod to Richard Rycroft and walk away from the pair.
“What are you doing helping homeless strangers out here, Dad?” I hear him say as they walk back to the cottage. “That’s how people die.”
“Stop with the dramatics, and light a fire under Bean. We have a long drive.”
I beat them to my farm in Northumberland, the address on the piece of paper I handed to the man whose daughter my father kidnapped and held hostage in this ancient, abandoned farmhouse.
The place was taken care of, deeds changed, evidence eliminated.
They shouldn’t find anything here. That’s what Reginald hopes.
Give them closure and be done with this.
But I had to be sure. That son of his is sharp.
I have a feeling, if there is something to find, he’ll find it.
I go through all the rooms, the lounge. A few random things lie around. Likely unlinked. Still, I don’t take the chance. I grab a bin bag and eliminate any suspicious items with my gloved hand.
But even then, I can’t bring myself to leave. This is too important. If this family finds their way to my father, I’m done. The Council will never trust a Berkeley again. I have to make sure they find nothing. Whatever the fucking cost.
I see their car up the road. The only vehicle in sight. Driving down the winding way, looking for answers they must not find. My fist tightens, dark thoughts flashing through my brain as the SUV drives to the farm.
And in that moment, I feel the desperation of Robert Berkeley and his dark mind.
Then, out of nowhere, another set of lights flares, illuminating the side window of the farmhouse. I watch, powerless, as my truck shreds through the fence, kicking up a storm of splinters and dirt, and slams into the Etheridge car with a sickening crunch, then drags it off the road like dead prey.
“Fucking hell,” I swear, self-preservation my only gear as I blast out the back door.
My fingers work the phone, hitting nine thrice. “Fatal Accident. Hill View Road. NE45 6GS,” I bark into the phone, then hang up, running through the fields in pitch black, plotting my alibi. Whoever took my truck wanted me framed for this accident. I needed to get back to Fort. Now.
My feet falter when a loud bang pierces the night—gunshot. My head snaps back, feet frozen in boot-deep mud, wondering if I imagined it. But I have heard that sound too many times to mistake it.
I should keep going.
Leave now.
That’s what Robert Berkeley would do.
“Fuck,” I hiss and run back to the farm. I draw my gun, barrel loaded, and keep low under the windows in case anyone is watching before peeking through the corner.
Everything is calm for a moment, only the hum of the wind, then the engine growls. A tall man in a suit gets back into the truck. It’s too dark to make out his face. I take out my phone and hit record as it reverses onto the road, then drives into the horizon.
“Kane.” Alessia snaps her fingers in front of my eyes, carrying a plate of homemade snacks. “Look alive. I need your brain switched on today. And stop caressing the arm already, she barely grazed you.” She rolls her eyes and walks away, muttering something about how I wouldn’t last a day in Sicily.
I hide my plastered arm under my sleeve and follow her into the lounge, to attend the undesirable guest—Daniel Etheridge.
I knew it was too late the moment Mason took a punch from him and didn’t retaliate.
Mason doesn’t restrain. He doesn’t make exceptions.
But he made one for her that night. Since then, he hasn’t just broken rules, he’s obliterated them.
The girl has been his kryptonite from the moment she set foot here.
No one saw it. As always.
No one heeded my warning. As always.
And now it’s too late. He would sooner let her brother tie him to a horse and drag him from York to London, William Wallace style, than give up on that fucking princess.
Even if she gave up on him, what’s left of him won’t be worth keeping around.
I should know. I live with the ghost of my father, who in all the ways that matter died a decade ago. Mason will be no different.
But Reginald’s mind is made up. Grants are a line of stubborn dickheads. Reginald wants his truce. Mason wants Eva. And neither one of them is going to back down. Usually, the one who wins is the one Alessia sides with. But something tells me that won’t be enough this time.
“Krumiri?” Alessia offers the plate to Daniel Etheridge.
His eyes drop to the savories, then flick to Alessia before he shakes his head with a polite smile.
“Your sister likes them,” Alessia insists, all but shoving the plate in the golden boy’s face.
Daniel purses his lips, then takes one out of courtesy, but doesn’t eat it.
This is going to be catastrophic when Mason returns, with or without the princess.
I moved my father out of the lodge after Mason learned about our buried secrets.
Did I think he would hurt him? Probably not, but you never know with Mason.
When it comes to her, the fucking tense doesn’t matter.
Her past, present, future—everything is fair game to him.
At least now my father can come back. My short moment of bliss, over.
The irony is almost poetic—how the architect of ten years of carnage will never realize the devastation he caused was for nothing. For the wrong fucking girl. Nothing about that incident fit neatly, but snatching the wrong kid? That’s a new level of incompetence, even for Robert Berkeley.
Which still leaves one question hanging in the air. If not her… who? And how much does Daniel Etheridge know?
“Just so I’m abundantly clear.” Daniel leans back on the sofa and strokes the armchair as if it were his own. “If my sister is hurt, in any way, the truce is off. For good.”
“If she’s hurt, it will be because of your secrets, not ours,” Alessia replies. “I’m sure your parents taught you to take responsibility for your actions.”
“My family is none of your business,” he spits.
Reginald’s jaw ticks at his tone, but he clenches his teeth. Mostly because Alessia doesn’t need help putting dicks like him in their place.
“It became my business when you touched my son, torso.” She snorts. “I wouldn’t think about doing that again if I were you. I trust you know my background well.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He nods. “And that is reason alone why Eva will never have anything to do with this family.”
My phone pings, loud enough to demand everyone’s attention.
I slide the screen up and freeze.
Hugo
She took off. Flying a helicopter! Can you believe it?
Can I believe it? I could tell him the exact location where Elton Etheridge arranged her first flying lesson when she turned sixteen. Where she did all her lessons. Same as her brother. All sixty hours of it. Which also tells me the most likely location she’ll land. Their beach house in Dorset.
Hugo
Mason’s fucking lost it. He’s coming for the Etheridge prince.
How long do I have?
Hugo
15 if you’re lucky.
“Any news?” Reginald asks from his Chesterfield armchair.
Daniel’s gaze fixes on me.
I shake my head and secure my phone in my pocket. Daniel, unconvinced, continues to stare at me, dissecting my face for information he won’t find.
Mason says I know everything. All the fucking time. He calls it my super-annoyance. The idiot would know it’s only attention to detail if only he had a longer attention span than a toddler’s. Except when it comes to the princess. Then he is fucking Einstein.
But I don’t know everything. If I did, I would have solved this clusterfuck already.
This is bigger than Fort. It’s bigger than Etheridge.
It’s tangled up, carefully, purposefully.
Every avenue leads to ten different avenues that all end up in dead ends. I have two live trails left to follow, but nothing more to go on with. And, if we are going to get ourselves out of this unscathed, I need to know what Daniel Etheridge knows.
So, I must convince him, it wasn’t one of us who killed his parents. It was one of them.
In fifteen minutes.
Fuck my life.