Chapter 23 Axl
Axl
The silence that answers is a fucking void.
It stretches, thin and sharp, for a full ten seconds.
I can picture him on the other end, his face an unreadable mask of aristocratic control, processing the implications.
Sorcha’s hand finds mine, her fingers lacing through mine in a silent show of support.
Ciar and Cillian are statues, watching me, waiting.
“Ardal Gannon was a visionary,” Dad says, his voice dangerously soft.
“You knew,” I state. It’s not a question. “Why the fuck am I not surprised?” Somehow, that lifts the burden of this knowledge.
“I suspected. The whispers in our family’s history were always there.”
“When did these whispers stop?”
Alex snorts. “If you’re asking if I’m contemplating overthrowing the King, you don’t think very highly of me.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know? Clearly, our family has been up to some shady shit, trying to bite the hand that feeds them.”
“Oh, please. Who wasn’t planning a coup at that time? For centuries before and decades after. The Irish managed it eventually.”
He has a point. “So this is just another day for you? Finding out your ancestors were plotting to commit high treason?”
“History is written by the victors, son,” Dad says. “Our ancestors chose a side. It didn’t work out. We adapted. The Rhodes family always adapts. What else did you find out?”
I relay the details, still mentally shaking my head at my family.
What a bunch of dicks. But it all makes a sick sort of sense why the Rhodes’ of years past were so determined to wipe the other founding members off the board.
They were determined to win this race to gain control of the Order and stage a coup that would have been bloody and brutal.
I leave nothing out. The details of the Order, the Warden, the sanctum.
“So the Kavanaghs were traitors to the traitors,” Dad says, a note of dark amusement in his voice. “Fitting. They have always been on their moral high horse.”
“This isn’t a fucking history lesson,” I bite out, my patience gone. “Kavanagh is out there now. He blew up my house. He’s coming for Sorcha.”
“Then you stop him. This changes nothing. The legacy is yours now. Defend it. The past is dead. Bury Kavanagh with it.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the phone, the silence in the room is a heavy blanket. Fucking hell. No comfort, no outrage. Just a fucking order. Bury him.
“Well,” I say, tossing the phone onto the armchair. “That was bracing.”
Sorcha squeezes my hand. “He’s not wrong.”
I look at her, at the fire in her ice-blue eyes. She’s not scared. She’s pissed. She’s ready. My queen.
“No. He’s not. He never is.”
“We wait for the paperwork to come through, and we storm the proverbial castle.”
Dad’s right. History is just a story. The here and now is what matters, and right now, Reginald Kavanagh is breathing our fucking air.
“The sun will be up soon. We should get some rest before we do any storming,” Cillian says, being reasonable as always.
Reasonable as always. My body is a live wire, humming with the aftershock of two centuries of family secrets and the promise of imminent violence. Sleep is a fucking luxury we don’t have time for. My father’s words echo in my head, not a comfort, just a command. Simple. Final. The Rhodes way.
I look at Ciar. He’s propped in the armchair, a fucking machine carved from pain and rage. He won’t sleep. He’ll just power down, conserving energy for the moment he can get his hands on the man who is responsible for the hole in his chest.
Sorcha moves from my side, her hand trailing down my arm before she lets go. She walks over to Ciar, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She curls up next to him on the sofa, her head on his lap.
I nod at Cillian. “Fine. But I’m taking first watch.”
No one argues. We’re all too wired to properly sleep anyway.
It’s just a waiting game now. Waiting for the sun, waiting for the paperwork, waiting for the signal to burn Kavanagh’s world to the fucking ground.
I stand at the window, my back to the room and watch the black sky bleed into a bruised purple.
The silence is a lie. It’s the breath before the scream, the moment before the blade sinks home.
Traitors.
The lot of them. My ancestors were plotting to overthrow the very system that gave us our power. The fucking irony is thick enough to choke on.
I look over my shoulder. Ciar’s hand rests on Sorcha’s hair, his thumb stroking slowly, a gesture of ownership.
Cillian hands him a bottle of water and two painkillers.
He doesn’t even try to refuse. He takes them, and that tells me everything.
He’s in pain. But he’s here. He’s with her. That’s all that fucking matters.
There are a few hours until sunrise, and a few more until Ben notifies my dad that this is a done deal. Assuming nothing stands in the way. I lean my forehead against the cool glass and sigh. It’s going to be a long few hours.
My reflection stares back at me, a ghost in the window. Behind it, the dark silhouette of the campus rises like a tomb. Our tomb, if we’re not careful. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that’s settled there like concrete.
The room is quiet. Sorcha’s breathing has evened out, a soft rhythm against Ciar’s lap. Cillian has his eyes closed, but I doubt he is asleep.
We’re waiting. Always fucking waiting.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting Dad or Ben with an update. Instead, it’s an unknown number. My thumb hovers over the screen.
“Don’t answer that,” Cillian says, his voice low but sharp.
Too late. My curiosity gets the better of me. I swipe to answer but don’t speak.
“Lord Rhodes.” The voice is smooth, cultured, Irish. Older. “I believe we have much to discuss.”
I smile savagely. Kavanagh. “You thought wrong.”
A dry chuckle crackles down the line. “On the contrary. You picked up. That tells me I have your attention.”
“You’ve got about five seconds of it before I get bored and hang up. So make them count.”
“Your ancestors were traitors, Lord Rhodes. A stain on your noble house. Imagine what the press would do with such a story. The King, I imagine, would be most… displeased.”
I laugh, a short, sharp sound. “You’re threatening me with ancient history? You really are a relic. Here’s a more current news story for you: I’m going to flay you alive and feed your skin to the fucking wolves. How’s that for a headline?”
The line goes silent. I don’t give him the satisfaction of another word. I end the call and toss the phone onto the sofa.
“He’s getting desperate,” Cillian observes.
“He’s getting dead,” I correct him. “Cillian was right before. There is only one way to stop an extremist.”