LOGINALISTAIR'S POV:"Dad," I say. "You are hurt. You need to rest.""I am not going to rest while that man is out there," he says. "I am not going to let him hurt my family. Not again."I open my mouth to argue. But I stop. I look at him. I see the determination in his eyes. I see the same fire that burns in me."Together," I say.He nodded his head."Together."*LYSANDER'S POV:*We work side by side.Hours pass. The sun rises and sets. The world moves on outside the walls of the study. But we do not move from there neither do we stop nor do not rest. The shadows lengthen across the floor, stretching toward the doorway as the hours slip away.Alistair's system is running. The data is flowing. The leads are coming in. We track every digital footprint, every transaction, every communication and we are getting closer. I can feel it."He is in Eastern Europe," Alistair says suddenly. "A safe house, remote, isolated which is defensible."I look at the screen. The coordinates are
LYSANDER'S POV:The morning after the attack, I stand in the ruins of my home and I feel nothing.The house is still standing, but barely. The windows are shattered, the glass scattered across the floors like diamonds. The walls are scarred with bullet holes, the plaster cracked and crumbling. The furniture is overturned, the paintings torn, the carpets stained with blood. The security system is destroyed, its wires hanging from the walls like dead vines. The gates are bent and broken, the metal twisted into grotesque shapes. The garden is trampled, the roses crushed under the boots of the men who came to destroy us, their petals scattered across the ground like fallen soldiers.I walk through the wreckage, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The smoke has cleared, but the smell of it still lingers, sharp and acrid in my nostrils. My arm is wrapped in bandages, the wound from the fight still throbbing, a dull ache that pulses with every heartbeat. My face is pale. My eyes ar
ELARA'S POV:We fight our way through the house together.Alistair is beside me, his hand wrapped around mine, his eyes scanning the darkness. He is not a fighter even though he has black belt he earned whilst growing up but tonight, he is a warrior and he is fighting for our family.I am fighting too. I am fighting with everything I have. I am fighting for Hope. I am fighting for Alistair. I am fighting for the family that I almost destroyed. We step carefully over fallen debris, our breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps as we push past the burning velvet drapes in the corridor.We find Lysander in the great hall. He is wounded, his arm bleeding, his face pale but he is still standing and he has a gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger."Dad!" Alistair shouts.Lysander looks up. His gray eyes are wild. There is blood on his face, a cut on his forehead. His shirt is torn. But his voice is steady."Get your mother," he says. "Get everyone to safety. I will hold them off.""
ALISTAIR'S POV:The house is a war zone.I am in the hallway when the explosion hits, thrown against the wall by the force of the blast. My ears are ringing. My vision is blurry. The world seems to tilt around me, the walls spinning, the ceiling pressing down. But I am still standing. I lean heavily against the paneling, coughing as thick gray smoke fills my lungs.I push myself up. I shake my head to clear it and then look around.I see them. Armed men, their faces hidden behind masks, their weapons raised. They are moving through the house like shadows, searching for something, searching for someone. Their boots echo on the marble floor. Their voices are low and guttural.I do not wait. I move.I have never been a fighter. I have always been the quiet one, the brilliant one, the one who solves problems with his mind instead of his fists. But tonight, I have no choice. I am fighting for my family. I am fighting for Elara.I grab a fire poker from the wall. It is heavy and sol
ELARA'S POV:One Week Later...I am sitting in the living room of Ashcroft Manor with Hope, a cup of tea in my hands and the house is warm and peaceful. Outside, the garden is dark and silent, the roses sleeping under the moonlight. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn, the world outside hidden from view.Hope is curled up on the couch across from me, her legs tucked under her, a book in her hands. She is fifteen or so now, growing up so fast that it makes my heart ache. Her dark hair is falling across her face, and her brown eyes are bright with concentration. She looks so much like our mother sometimes that it takes my breath away. She shifts slightly on the cushion, turning a page with a gentle rustle of paper."Elara," she says, looking up from her book. "Can I ask you something?""Of course sweetheart," I say.She hesitates but sets down her book and then looks at me with those eyes that see too much."Did you really try to destroy our family?"I freeze. The question
PRESENT DAY:I pull out my phone. I dial the number I have memorized, the number that belongs to Lysander Ashcroft which I know he is still using till date.He answers on the third ring."Lysander Ashcroft," he says. His voice is calm, measured, the voice of a man who has faced worse enemies than me. It is the voice of a man who has never known true loss. A man who has never had everything taken from him."Nikolai Drakon," I say. "I am sure you remember me."There is a pause on the other end of the line and I can hear him breathing."I remember you," he says. "I thought you were dead.""I should be. But I am not." I lean back in my chair. "I am out of prison, Lysander. And I am coming for what is mine."I take a breath. The words are cold and deliberate."I want my daughter. I want Camille. I want the money you stopped my father from making when you took him down. You will help me rebuild the Drakon empire, give me back what is rightfully mine, or I will destroy everything yo
Kier Thornwell looked like he belonged on a magazine cover even when he was just standing in an elevator. Thirty eight years old. Strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Eyes so dark brown they looked black. A mouth that rarely smiled, but when it did, women forgot their own names. Six foot two. Carried h
The forgotten anniversaries. There had been three of those. Three times she had dressed up nice and made dinner and waited and waited and waited until finally getting a text that said "working late sorry" with no exclamation points, no emojis, no nothing.The cruel comments. Those were worse."You
KIER'S POV:I pour myself a drink and I sit in the dark and I wait for her to come back.She always comes back.But she does not come back.A week passes. Then another. The penthouse stays empty. My calls go straight to voicemail. My texts go unanswered. I send messages through her email, through s
Celestine Valancourt stood in the bathroom of her penthouse apartment, her bare feet cold against the imported marble floor, staring at a little plastic stick that had just completely and utterly rearranged her entire universe. There were two little pink lines staring back at her. Two little lines







