How she still thought the best of him after all he had done made her either incredibly kind or incredibly stupid. Such a kind soul would have perished quickly if she had grown up in as harsh a village as he had.
Finnigan didn’t trust her at all and continued to urge him to get rid of her as soon as possible.
He would. But not yet.
She was the final gem in his collection, and he wanted to savour it.
He had spent many years hunting the families that had played a role in his father’s death.
Each family, no matter how well-concealed, he had found. He struck them down, one by one, in untraceable ways. For some, he ruined their fortunes, beggaring them until they fell from royal favour. With others, he convinced their prized daughters to run off with him, tarnishing their family names. He’d make them fall in love with him, only to break their hearts. Caspian had watched themdie alone, ending their respective legacies. He could always kill them some other way, but there was a level of satisfaction when he watched them grovel, broken beyond repair, and struggle to put themselves back together.
As he had done when everyone he loved had died, and he was left in this godsforsaken world alone.
Their deaths were not enough.
He wanted them to know true despair before their ends.
A fitting punishment for their ancestors who had condemned his family to die.
His family’s line had ended, and so too would theirs.
Finnigan, sharp as he was, had been the first demon in his household to notice and ask why he was inviting mortal women into his home, why he insisted on going on long, daunting hunts that brought them perilously close to discovery, only to return with a prize he grew tired of in a few short months.
He still recalled that conversation. Finnigan had cornered him one night, searching for answers. Not to admonish him, he was only a mid-level demon, after all, but to sate his curiosity.
“Why do all your hunts, for women or for blood, end in the demise of someone whose ancestry traces back to the nobles who ruled Israr five centuries ago? And even with your conquests elsewhere on the continent—there seems to be no pattern, but there is one, isn’t there?”
“Whatever could you mean, Finnigan?”
“I think after you destroyed every family that was a part of that ruling council in Israr, which I understand, because the mortal man whose body you inhabit asked us to help enact his revenge upon them. But after that was done, I think you sought others. You’re trying to destroy the descendants of those who outlawed the use of magic users in wartime. The families that formed the treaty, the ones that ordered the slaughter of the Seraphine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When does it end? We were almost seen this time. Some of these humans you hunt … forgive me, Master ... but they have not wronged you. It was their ancestors, over five hundred years ago, who signed the treaty. I traced the lineages, and there are hardly any leads left on who these people are. I don’t see how this makes any sense. And why the women? Why target their finances? Surely murdering them is easier.”
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, Master, I simply ask to understand you. We have devoted considerable resources to this … quest of yours. I wish only to understand you better.”
“There is more than one way to destroy a man. To erase his family off the map, to liken his name to dirt, or to have it disappear entirely. And to answeryour other questions, insolent as they were, I will not endanger our cause. My hand will remain unseen. I am patient. I can wait.”
The memory faded as he brought himself back to the present.
He had promoted Finnigan after that conversation. Not for questioning him, but for being sharp enough to figure it out. The only demon in several hundred years to piece together what he had been doing. Everyone else in his household thought his conquests were random.
Elizabeth would fall for him, and he would destroy her heart, leaving her to wander the world hurt and alone.
How deliciously ironic she had confessed her reluctance about children tonight. The girl had no idea she was already doing his work for him. Even if she somehow escaped his web, she would end her bloodline through her own choices—dying alone and childless, having abandoned duty for the illusion of freedom.
But that wouldn’t be enough.
No, he would ensure she understood the full weight of her isolation: cast out by family, destroyed by love, and haunted by the knowledge that she had willingly chosen the very emptiness that would consume her. By her own choices, she would ruin her life.
The Ashcroft line would die.
The final trophy in his collection.
Then, his revenge would be complete.
