Bone crunched beneath my knuckles. Blood sprayed.
Tristan’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled.
He collapsed, limp and unmoving.
“Roman!”Lee’s voice broke through the roaring in my ears. “We have to get out of here. Grab his torso—I’ll get his legs. Now!”
But I barely heard him.
I focused on Tristan’s lifeless form, his blood pooling beneath him.
I had spent years waiting for this moment. Swearing vengeance and promising to kill him for what he did to Olivia.
And yet?—
He wasn’t dead.
Not yet.
I wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
Chapter 9
Olivia
As soon as Malik left the room, worry settled deep in my gut.
This was his domain—a place steeped in secrets, where shadows lurked in the corners, and whispers of the past clung to the air.
The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books, their spines cracked and worn from years of handling. A massive mahogany desk commanded the center of the space, its surface cluttered with papers and files. What kind of secrets lay hidden within those documents?
Outside, the wind howled, a shrieking gale that rattled the rafters as if the very bones of the house resisted our presence.
I scanned the dimly lit space, a sense of foreboding coiling around me. Something was wrong here that made my skin prickle. Malik was a force of darkness, an enigma, and we were trespassing in his world of secrets.
My gaze dropped to the journal in my hands.
I turned to Emily, finding my apprehension mirrored in her wide eyes.
“Should we be reading this here?” I whispered, gripping the diary tighter. “I’m apprehensive about going through Mom’s words… and doing it in his space? It feels like we’re stepping into something we won’t be able to escape.”
Emily exhaled, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her skirt. “I know what you mean. But maybe… maybe this is exactly where we need to be. The perfect place to unravel the truth.”
I swallowed, nodding. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Emily moved wordlessly across the space, took a seat at the opposite end, and then joined me on the sage-green velvet sofa.
Neither of us spoke.
As I held the journal in my lap, its weight felt disproportionate—heavier than it should have been, as if it carried both words and burdens. Secrets. Clandestine knowledge pressed between the worn leather cover, waiting to be unearthed.
I ran my fingers over the faded surface, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Did I truly want to see what lay inside?
I wasn’t sure.
But I had to.
