Life. Our life. Growing in this hellhole.
I feel dizzy. The concrete floor seems to tilt under my feet. A child. My heir.
No. It’s not possible. She was put on contraception, they ensured it before the auction. “You’re lying,” I rasp, but the conviction isn’t there. The truth is in Grace’s eyes, in the way her hands instinctively, protectively, move to cover her belly.
Lucas barks a laugh. “See for yourself…” He says, handing over a bit of paper. No, not a paper, a sonogram.
I barely glance at it. I can’t take my eyes off of hers.
“…We needed to be sure, of course. We did a test to find out who the father was, seeing as you were so generous, letting everyone have a turn with her.” His voice drips with vile insinuation. My fists clench so tight I feel my nails bite into my palms. “But you’ll be pleased to know it’s you. Congratulations, papa.”
He says it like it’s a joke. The greatest punchline ever fucking told.
“That,” he continues, his smirk vanishing, replaced by a cold, businesslike ruthlessness, “makes her infinitely more valuable. She’s not just your wife anymore, Antonio. She’s the carrier of the sole heir to the Macrae fortune. The next in line. A full fucking legacy, right here.” He gestures toward her with a flick of his wrist.
A low growl rips from my throat. I take a step toward him, but two of his men are on me instantly, grabbing my arms, holding me back. I could fight them, maybe take one or two down, but it would be a death sentence for Grace. For our child.
“You’re running out of time, Macrae,” Lucas says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. He gestures toward Grace. “A woman’s body can only endure so much. The stress, the malnutrition, the excitement. It’s a fragile life on board. Very fragile. She’s already almost it. Do you want to be responsible for causing her to miscarry your son? Your daughter? Do you want to hear her scream through that, too?”
His words are meticulously chosen poison, each one designed to eviscerate me. He’s right. I can see the tremors wracking Grace’s body. She’s hanging on by a thread. The slightest push could break her. Could breakthem.
I look at her. Really look. Past the dirt and the blood, past the terror in her eyes. I look at the woman I love, carrying my child. Trapped in a cage because of me, because of my name, because of my fucking life choices. A profound, devastating helplessness washes over me, so powerful it threatens to bring me to my knees.
But if they wanted me dead, they would already have pulled the trigger. No, it’s not my death, not yet anyway. These bastards want something else. I can see it in their faces.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, fight to keep my brain rational, coherent. I’m the fucking Kingmaker. I can do this. I can beat this, beat them.
“What do you want?”
Lucas’s smile returns, wide and triumphant. He knows he has me. “You know what we want. You’re the only one who can get close enough. You alone have his trust, his ear. You alone can do this one, simple task.”
He leans in close, his breath hot on my face.
“Kill Konstantine. Put a bullet in our dear Grand Master’s brain. Do that, and you can have your wife back. Do that, and all of this…” he waves a hand around the dungeon, “…stops.”
Kill Konstantine. It’s not just a murder; it’s a coup. It’s the end of everything I’ve built, everything my family has built for almost a millennium. It’s the ultimate betrayal.
Before I can even process the enormity of it, a sound shatters the tense silence.
A scream.
Not a whimper. Not a cry. A raw, blood-curdling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror.
My head whips around toward the cell.
Three men. They’ve appeared from a dark corner of the dungeon I hadn’t even noticed. They’re masked, their features hidden behind grotesque black fabric and they are naked, their bodies pale and threatening in the low light.
They are inside the cell with her.
Grace is scrambling back, trying to press herself through the solid concrete wall, her screams escalating into a continuous, piercing plea. “No. No, please…”
They descend on her. Hands grabbing, pulling, violating.
“Cry for your husband.” One of them taunts as he holds her legs open.
“No.” The roar that tears out of me is inhuman. I surge against the men holding me, a frenzy of pure, unthinking violence. “LET HER GO! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL ALL OF YOU!”
But they hold fast, their grips like iron. I am dragged backward, away from the bars, away from her as the world reduces to a tunnel.
