Chapter Nineteen: The Sentinel's Vengeance

The clock in the hallway strikes twelve, each chime sounding like a hammer hitting a nail. I’ve changed into a fresh silk slip - pearl white, the color of innocence I no longer possess. 

I’ve scrubbed my skin, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of Arthur’s hands, but the skin around my wrists is already beginning to bloom into an ugly, mottled purple.

I push open Ethan’s door. The room is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the glowing embers in the fireplace. Ethan is standing by the window, his hand bandaged from the cinema room, his silhouette sharp against the glass.

"You’re late," he growls without turning around. "The tax increases by the minute, Sapphire."

"I... I’m sorry," I whisper, my voice catching.

He turns, his eyes scanning me with predatory hunger. He stalks toward me, the air around him vibrating with that familiar, dangerous heat. 

He doesn't say a word as he reaches out, fisting his hand in my hair and pulling me into his chest. His other hand slides down my back, pulling me flush against him.

"You smell like his soap," he hisses, his nose pressing into the crook of my neck. "I told you to wash him off you."

"I tried," I murmur, closing my eyes as his hand moves to the hem of my slip.

He lifts me, setting me on the edge of his heavy desk. He spreads my knees, his hands moving with a rough, practiced urgency as he prepares to claim his nightly due. 

He reaches for my hands, intending to pin them above my head - a gesture of dominance that usually makes my heart race.

But the moment his fingers touch my wrists, I flinch. A sharp, hissed breath of pain escapes my lips.

Ethan freezes.

The lust in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a cold, clinical sharpness. He doesn't let go. Instead, he turns my palms up toward the firelight. 

The heavy, blackened bruises where Arthur gripped me are impossible to miss. They are shaped like thumbprints. Violent. Raw.

"What is this? I didn’t do this" Ethan’s voice is a low, vibrating hum that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

"It's nothing," I stammer, trying to pull my hands away. "I just... I tripped. I caught myself on the vanity."

"Don't lie to me, I’m not your pathetic husband!" he roars, slamming his injured hand onto the desk beside my hip. 

The sound echoes like a gunshot. "Those are finger marks, Zola. Someone held you down. Someone forced you."

He grabs my chin, forcing me to look into the storm of his grey eyes. "Who did this? Was it one of the staff? Was it Calder?"

"No," I sob, the weight of the night finally breaking me. "Ethan, please, let it go."

"Who?" he snarls, his face inches from mine. "Tell me, or I swear to God, I’ll wake up every soul in this house and find out myself."

"Arthur!" I scream the name, the word tearing out of my lungs. 

"It was Arthur! He... he didn't want to wait anymore. He tried to take what he says is his. He stopped, Ethan. He didn't finish, he stopped!"

The silence that follows is more terrifying than his shouting.

Ethan lets go of me. He steps back, his face draining of all color until he looks like a marble statue of a vengeful god. 

His breathing is shallow, jagged. I see the realization hit him—the note, the poisoning, and now the physical assault. His father isn't just a murderer; he’s a monster who uses women until they break.

"He touched you," Ethan whispers, his voice devoid of all emotion. "He put his hands on you after you told him not to."

Ethan turns away from me. He walks to the nightstand, pulls open the drawer, and reaches inside. When he turns back, the firelight glints off the matte black finish of a handgun. He checks the chamber with a sickeningly smooth clack-slide.

"Ethan, no!" I scramble off the desk, catching his arm. "You’ll go to jail! You can't just—"

He rips his arm away, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, demonic resolve. 

He isn't the tormentor anymore. He is the sentinel, the one thing standing between me and the grave Arthur is digging.

"He killed my mother with a slow poison because he was bored of her," Ethan says, his voice a dead, flat rasp. "I won't let him do the same to you, and I’m done watching him win."

He stalks toward the door, the weapon held low at his side. He doesn't look back.

"Stay here," he commands. "Lock the door. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the number on the desk."

He disappears into the hallway, a shadow going to hunt a ghost. 

I stand in the center of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs, listening to the heavy, deliberate thud of his boots as he walks toward the master suite. Toward the man he once called Father.