“I’m leaving now,” I say, “and I expect you to be gone by morning.”
They don’t move. Not at first. But I watch the resolve drain out of both of them.
I walk out, calm, hands still clean. This went exactly the way I wanted. I needed to know how far Douglass had gotten in his hunt for Martine. Clearly not far.
If his end goal is killing her, which I’ll never allow him to accomplish, this means I have one last thing to do.
Take his life.
Because I’m not bluffing.
I’ll gut this whole estate before I let a man like Douglass come within a mile of her again.
And now I know.
She was never assigned a Chosen because she isn’t a Huntington-Russell. This is why she wasn’t forced to be with Archibald. And whatever happened with her mother, whatever Douglass started to say before I shattered his jaw, that’s the piece I’ve been missing. The fracture. The rot. The reason she was always an outsider in that house.
I storm out, barely hearing the guards shouting after me. I don’t stop. I get in the car, grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles go white.
I need to get back to her. My body’s screaming for it, every nerve lit, every muscle wound tight. But I’ve got too much rage in me to walk into that house the way I am now. If I see her like this, I’ll terrify her. And not in the way I want to. Not the way I control.
So I drive fast and recklessly out past the gates, past the estate, into the dark, where I can speed down the roads and bleed the fury out of me. I need to come down before I get home to her. I need to be able to touch her without shaking. Speak to her without snarling.
Her last name doesn’t matter. Never did. She was always meant to be a Herron. My wife. My possession. My problem.
And I’ll kill every man alive who tries to take her from me.
Chapter twenty-one
Martine Lillian Herron
Present Day
The emerald catches the morning light as I rest my hand on his chest, the diamond stones surrounding it glint with a quiet arrogance that feels almost appropriate. His skin is warm beneath my palm, smooth and slightly golden, and I let my fingers drift along the edge of his sternum. He’s still asleep, so I stay there for a moment longer, soaking in the weight of him beside me, the quiet hush of the room, the heavy silence that only comes after giving yourself over entirely.
I imagine this morning is a moment in my life I’ll never forget.
The sheets are tangled between our legs. One of his arms is stretched behind his head, the other curls around my waist like a tether. I glance down at where his Brotherhood of Death signet ring rests on his pinky finger, pressed between us, cold against my skin. Mine now. Whether I like it or not. I wasn’t surprisedto see his matching chest scar, having seen my brother's fresh brands on our summer trip to Italy not long after they got it.
Branded like cattle, just another soldier for the Brotherhood, with or without the ring, you belong to them and them alone.
There’s a knock at the door, softly pulling my eyes from the angry white scar on his pectoral muscle.
“Coffee service,” a footman calls through the wood.
He enters without waiting for a response, wheeling in a silver tray with practiced precision. Two small white porcelain cups, a dish of sugar cubes, and cream in a crystal pitcher. The scent of dark roast cuts through the stillness. His eyes flick toward the bed, but he says nothing. Trained to see it all and remain silent.
When the door clicks shut again, Hayden shifts beneath me.
“I’d prefer it if it were you bringing me coffee naked,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep, eyes still half-closed.
"I don’t think I’ve ever poured my own morning coffee before," I say, reaching for a cup and wrapping both hands around it.
His mouth lifts slightly. “I’m saddled with a spoiled brat.”
I sip slowly, the coffee bitter and rich. “So…are you going to tell me where you’re disappearing to this afternoon, or should I just assume you’re off to do something that would make a priest pass away?”
He leans up on one elbow, amused. “Brotherhood meeting.”
