chapter 4

Grey’s POV

I headed straight for the bathroom the moment I got home. It had been a long night, and the scent of fresh blood still clung to my skin.

I wasn’t complaining.

There was something almost ceremonial about washing Frederick’s blood from my hands. I had imagined this night for years — the night I would finally erase him from existence. Not just him. His name. His bloodline.

He had been warned.

I always warn them.

It’s a courtesy I extend before I begin hunting. A final opportunity to correct their sins before I decide they are beyond redemption. Frederick, however, mistook mercy for weakness. He ignored every warning I sent. He believed his wealth and influence would shield him.

They didn’t.

And now he was dead.

Along with one of his son.

Unfortunately, only one.

The others slipped through my fingers, but that changes nothing. They can run. They can hide. It will only delay the inevitable. If Frederick’s blood runs through their veins — even if it belongs to a day-old infant — they are guilty by inheritance.

Mercy does not apply to contaminated blood.

Steam filled the bathroom as I stepped beneath the shower. The water ran red for a moment before clearing, spiraling down the drain like the remnants of a finished chapter.

I had waited for the right justification to end him publicly. Personal hatred alone would have been… inefficient. But when his crimes surfaced, when the public began whispering about corruption and fraud, he handed me the perfect excuse.

I simply finished what fate had already started.

Right now, the public sees me as the villain.

They aren’t entirely wrong.

But perception is currency, and I cannot afford bankruptcy — not yet. My family name must remain untarnished, especially with my brother preparing to run for mayor this year. If he wins, doors will open. Laws will bend. Obstacles will dissolve before they even form.

Power is far more effective when it wears a respectable face.

Frederick forced my hand. Had he shown restraint, had he accepted the warnings and retreated quietly, perhaps his children would still be breathing. But stubborn men rarely die alone.

Killing Frederick was… satisfying.

Watching coward sons try to save themselves….even more so. Fear transforms the arrogant into something honest. He ran well, I’ll give him that. But fear does not grant freedom. It only postpones execution.

I will find him.

I always do.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist as another irritation surfaced.

The daughter.

I keep forgetting about her.

Frederick was meticulous about keeping her invisible. No interviews. No public appearances. No photographs. His sons were easy — financial records, social footprints, business affiliations. Predictable. Traceable.

But the girl?

Nothing.

It was almost impressive.

How am I supposed to eliminate a ghost?

I saw her once. We were children — eight, perhaps nine. I barely remember her face. Just fragments. Ginger head. White fabric. Silence.

Frederick must have anticipated retaliation long before this night. Protecting her identity was his final strategic move.

And yet, of all his children, he chose to shield the daughter.

Amusing.

Did he truly believe a girl would be capable of challenging me? The thought is almost insulting. Even if she somehow possesses ambition, she has neither the resources nor the temperament to wage war against someone like me.

Still.

Underestimation is a mistake I do not make twice.

Whether she is harmless or not is irrelevant. She carries his blood. That alone seals her fate.

I made a promise to my father years ago that I would wipe Frederick’s lineage from the earth. Not damage it. Not weaken it.

Erase it.

Promises like that are not negotiable.

I had just stepped out of the bathroom and into my bedroom when the telephone began to ring.

I already knew who it would be.

Alex never calls unless something requires immediate attention.

I picked up.

“boss, we found some refugees” Alex said over the phone

“Keep them at the gate. Don’t let them in yet,” I instructed before ending the call.

My war was with Frederick and his bloodline — not with the people who served under him. I had no interest in punishing the innocent simply because they lived under his roof. Once I confirmed none of his surviving children were attempting to slip through disguised as refugees, the gates would open.

The destruction of his estate had produced more casualties than I intended. Staff. Workers. Guests he had sheltered for appearances and reputation. I had already ordered Alex to locate any survivors and bring them here. They did not need to suffer for Frederick’s arrogance.

Blood determines guilt.

Nothing else.

Anyone not tied to him by lineage would be spared.

But his youngest son is still breathing.

And the girl.

Both of them remain unfinished business.

Erasing Frederick means ensuring no fragment of him survives to rebuild what I dismantled. The difficulty lies with the daughter. I saw her once, years ago. A child. I would not recognize her now even if she were standing directly in front of me.

Still, there is one advantage.

Every one of Frederick’s children bears the same mark — a small, deliberate scar pressed into their chest during infancy. A grotesque symbol of legacy. That mark will betray them.

All I need to do is look.

I stepped outside and made my way toward the gate. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying with it the scent of smoke lingering from the earlier assault. The refugees stood clustered together beyond the iron bars — women clutching children, elderly men trembling, a few young faces streaked with dirt and dried tears.

My guards stood rigid beside them, awaiting instruction.

I let my gaze travel slowly over the group.

None of them met my eyes.

They stared at the ground as though looking at me directly would cost them their lives.

Fear is an intoxicating thing. It clarifies hierarchy. It reminds people exactly where they stand.

“Check them,” I said calmly. “Look for the mark on their chests.”

The guards moved immediately, parting the group with methodical efficiency, lifting collars, inspecting skin for the faint scar that would condemn its owner.

Murmurs spread. Panic simmered beneath the surface.

My eyes swept across them again — and then stopped.

A girl.

Early twenties, perhaps.

Fiery red hair framed a face that bordered on sinful. Pale, flawless skin stretched over sharp, elegant bone structure, with what is probably the most beautiful green eyes to ever exist. Her lips were full and soft-looking, the kind that didn’t need color to draw attention. A slender neck, exposed just enough beneath her collar, led to a figure that was both refined and undeniably feminine, subtle curves outlined beneath thin fabric.

Even surrounded by smoke and fear, she looked like something carved from fire and defiance.

Dangerous and undeniably beautiful.

I didn’t like that I noticed.

Our gazes locked.

For a moment, the noise around us dulled.

Then she looked away.

Not out of fear.

Out of calculation.

My attention did not leave her.

That look was wrong for someone in her position. People who have lost everything do not stand that straight. They do not hold eye contact with the man who orchestrated their ruin.

I stepped closer to one of my guards and lowered my voice.

“Check her.”