Chapter 38
The house smelled of smoke, blood, and lemon polish. A contradiction that made her stomach roll every time she drew breath. The carved panelling of the study, so carefully preserved over centuries, felt wrong now, like a stage set torn open by violence.
Oliver’s body lay sprawled across the rug, half-covered with a discarded blanket. Her father groaned softly from the sofa where Savannah Decker bent over him, efficient, calm, her hands red to the wrists, the woman she’d met earlier commanding the room. And her mother…
Penelope Sutton sat perfectly upright, a bloodied pistol still loose in her lap. Her face was pale, rigid, eyes staring at nothing. The shake of her hands was the only sign she hadn’t turned to stone entirely.
Clara’s whole body trembled. She hadn’t realised Jonas, Watchdog, still held her until she tried to move and his hand flexed on her shoulder, grounding her.
His voice had been the only thread through the storm, the only thing that had kept her from screaming when Oliver’s fingers closed around her throat.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, not for the first time. His tone was steady, unshakeable, even as his pulse still hammered hard against her side.
Safe. She didn’t feel safe. But she felt him, and that was enough for now.
Lotus crouched in front of her, eyes steady, voice low. “Lena’s secure. Damon has her on comms. She’s scared but unhurt.”
Clara nodded, relief washing through her like a tide that almost knocked her over. She swayed, and Jonas’s arm caught her tighter.
Her gaze drifted unwillingly to her father. His shirt was crimson, his face ashen, yet he was alive. Alive after conspiring, after trading her future like currency, after letting a man like Oliver hold a gun on her.
“Why?” The word tore from her before she knew she was speaking. “Why would you do this?”
Her father’s eyes cracked open, unfocused, but his lips twisted in something too close to a smile. “For you,” he rasped. “For all of us. Sutton bloodline… untouchable.”
“No.” Clara’s voice broke. “Not for me. You nearly destroyed me.”
Her mother flinched, pressing the heel of her hand against her mouth, as though Clara’s words were more unbearable than the gunshot ringing in her ears.
Duchess’s voice cut in, brisk. “We need to move. Savannah will stabilise him for transport. Eidolon will take custody from there.”
Clara turned sharply. “Custody? You’re not taking him to hospital?”
“No.” It was Bás, his voice like iron. “No police, no authorities. He goes to Eidolon. They’ll handle him and everything he’s tied to. This doesn’t touch daylight, Clara. Not if you want to walk free of the mess he dragged you into.”
“What or who is Eidolon?”
His lips gave a small lift. “I’ll explain later.”
“Okay. But he won’t be hurt, will he? I know what he did was wrong, but he’s still my dad.”
Jonas cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes at the feeling of safety this man gave her. “Clara, he’ll be treated fairly, but he will receive the justice he deserves.”
She stared at him, acknowledging the quiet finality in his tone, then at her father’s slumped figure, her mother’s vacant eyes. A weight pressed down hard in her chest until she could barely breathe.
Jonas bent his head, his breath warm against her temple. “You’re not alone in this,” he whispered.
And she believed him. Even as her world fell apart, even as she stared at the ruin of her family, she believed him.
Valentina came in with Monty and Scout at her heels, the dogs instantly alert to the tension in the room. Monty nosed at her knee, whining softly, and Clara let out a broken laugh, burying her fingers in his fur.
The tears came then, sudden and hot, spilling over as the dogs pressed close. Jonas held her while she cried, while the team orchestrated the aftermath like a machine around them, packing evidence, securing bodies, setting the next chain of movements in place.
It was chaos. It was order. And in the middle of it, she knew something had shifted.
Her family’s empire had crumbled. Oliver was gone. Her father was a traitor. Her mother was shattered.
But she wasn’t. Not completely.
Because Jonas was there, steady and solid, his hand warm over hers, anchoring her in the storm.
The house blurred at the edges, the noise of boots on polished wood, Savannah’s clipped instructions, Duchess’s orders, all of it became a muffled hum against the steady thrum of Jonas’s heartbeat under her cheek.
She clung to it. To him. To the one solid thing that hadn’t cracked in this night of breaking.
Her father’s ragged breathing scraped at her nerves. Her mother’s soft sobbing was a blade that wouldn’t stop cutting. None of it mattered half as much as the way Jonas’s hand smoothed once down her spine, grounding her, steadying her in a way she hadn’t known she needed until this moment.
“Breathe,” he murmured again. And she did. Because when he told her to, her body listened.
She tilted her head, searching his eyes. There was no judgement there. Only shadows. Old ones. Deep ones. But steady all the same. She wanted to tell him she saw it, that she knew his calm was something hard-won, that it cost him to hold it. But before the words came, heavy footsteps approached.
Bás.
He looked carved from granite, arms folded, eyes assessing, his presence filling the room in a way that drew every thread of attention. The team parted for him without thought. He stopped in front of Jonas, gaze flicking once to Clara before settling back on him.
“They’re secured,” he said simply. His voice carried the weight of finality. “Savannah has Sutton stable enough for transport. Oliver’s gone.” His eyes hardened further. “That leaves one more.”
Something electric crackled through Jonas, though his body didn’t move. Clara felt it under her hands, a wire drawn tight.
Bás’s tone dropped lower, colder. “Hendrik Voss. We pulled him from the south wing. He’s in the garden. What do you want done?”
Clara froze. The name meant nothing to her, yet everything in the way Jonas stilled, in the way his jaw locked and his pulse jumped beneath her palm, told her.
Her breath caught. Her stomach dropped. And then, all at once, the truth slammed into her.
This was the man. The one who’d hurt him. The one whose ghost lived in Jonas’s silence, in the shadows under his voice.
Jonas’s eyes met Bás’s, a thousand unspoken words in the stretch of quiet. Then he exhaled, sharp and controlled. “Hold him in the garden,” he said, voice level but laced with steel. “I’ll be right out.”
The hum of the room seemed to pause. Clara’s chest ached as she gripped his hand, realising what this meant, what he was about to face.
And for the first time, she wasn’t just afraid for herself. She was afraid for him.