Chapter Fifteen
Enzo
I stared at Killian, the cold marble floor pressing against my knee through my pants. My fingers curled into a loose fist as I tried to remain completely calm, counting each steady thump of my heartbeat. The rich scent of old books and parchment from Stefan's broken bookcase filled my nostrils, mingling with the sharp smell of Killian's fear and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Killian cowered against the splintered bookcase, his knuckles scraped raw and bleeding from where he'd tried to break his fall. A thin cut traced along his left cheekbone, a dark line of blood slowly trickling toward his jaw. Wood splinters clung to his hair, and his chest rose and fell in ragged, panicked breaths. He looked up at me with wide, desperate eyes—a cornered mouse trapped among three, no, four hungry cats if I included Anton.
The afternoon light streaming through the Gothic windows cast long shadows across the scene, highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny spirits. From my position, I could see every detail of his terror—the way his hands trembled against the floor, the rapid pulse fluttering at his throat, the wayhe pressed himself harder against the damaged wood as if he could somehow disappear into it.
My fangs ached with restrained hunger as I leaned slightly closer, close enough that he could probably smell the danger radiating from me. Behind me, I could sense Angelo's cold presence and hear Dimitri's soft chuckle of amusement.
The moment pressed down on us all—this was the breaking point, and we all knew it.
Killian scrubbed his sweaty face with trembling hands, leaving smears of blood from his scraped knuckles across his pale cheeks. “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“That’s not true,” I said. I could smell his terror intensifying with the metallic scent of his blood and the musty air from the broken bookcase. “You keep your blood to yourself or you can keep your son.”
“You call that a choice?” His eyes darted frantically between us, searching for any hint of mercy he wouldn’t find.
I turned my head slowly, deliberately meeting Angelo’s cold gaze over my shoulder. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod—the signal I'd been waiting for. The slight smile that played at the corners of his mouth drained all the warmth from the office.
"Stefan," Angelo's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding, "please escort Kara to my car." He pulled out his phone with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving across the screen. "Pascal, ready the plane."
"No!" Killian's voice exploded in a raw, broken cry that echoed off the office walls. He struggled to push himself up from the debris, blood from his cut cheek dripping onto his shirt. "You can't do this!"
I rose slowly to my feet, savoring the way Killian's eyes tracked my movement like a trapped animal watching a predator. I stepped back, giving him a perfect view of his defeat."We're not doing it," I said, each word edged with steel. "You are."
Killian pushed himself off the floor with shaking arms, his scraped palms leaving bloody prints on the marble. He swayed slightly on unsteady legs before hanging his head in defeat, his shoulders sagging like a man who'd lost everything. "You don't play fair."
I met his sad stare, noting how the cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding but left a dark trail down to his jaw. "Meaning?"
The raw misery in his eyes sent an unexpected twinge of guilt through my chest. But it wasn't enough—not nearly enough—to stop me. Joy's life hung in the balance, and I'd burn this entire building down, leave a room full of bodies, to save her.
Killian's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he stared at his bloodied knuckles. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant tick of Stefan's ornate clock and the whisper of pages settling among the scattered books. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air drifting through the tall windows.
"Please," he whispered. His voice cracked like breaking glass. "There has to be another way."
"There isn't," I said simply.
He closed his eyes, a broken sound escaping his throat—half sob, half growl of defeat. When he opened them again, tears tracked silently down his cheeks, mixing with the dried blood. "I can't let you take my son."
My muscles tensed. This was the dangerous moment—when a desperate man had nothing left to lose. Killian was broken, but cornered animals were the most vicious. I shifted my weight, ready to move if he lunged.
His hands trembled violently as he slowly began to roll up one sleeve, the fabric catching on his shaking fingers. Thepale skin of his forearm seemed to glow in the afternoon light streaming through the Gothic windows. "I'll give you my blood."
Too easy. After all that resistance, he just... surrendered? Every instinct screamed this was a trap. Was the blood cursed? Would it turn toxic the moment it touched the stone? I didn't trust this sudden capitulation—not from an Unseelie prince who'd fought us every step of the way.
“Not with a syringe or even me biting you.” Angelo pulled out the blood stone from inside his jacket pocket. “This is a blood stone. If you are telling the truth, the stone will draw your blood and turn dark red.”
Killian’s face paled as he stared at the stone.
Angelo turned the stone over in his fingers. “But if you’re lying, it will turn orange. Are you giving this freely?”
Killian's shoulders slumped further, and he couldn't meet Angelo's eyes as he whispered, "Yes." The single word came out hollow, drained of all fight. His hands hung limp at his sides, still trembling from the aftermath of his decision.
Done. We had what we needed. I should have felt elated—one step closer to Joy, to bringing her home. Instead I felt nothing but a grim, tired acceptance. We'd achieved our goal by breaking a father's will. Necessary? Yes. Something to celebrate? Not even close.
Angelo stepped closer, his footsteps echoing against the marble with deliberate precision. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his cold presence loomed over Killian's defeated form. "If you're lying, we'll know immediately.” His voice was conversational, almost gentle, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. “Then I take your son.”
