Page 62 of Twisted Thorns

Liam claps a hand on my shoulder. "Make it count, brother."

They move out, and the forest swallows their presence, leaving me alone with the thrum of my heart and the mission at hand. I slip through the darkness, every sense heightened, moving with a predator's grace. The side of the house looms ahead, the guards unwitting pawns in a game they don't understand.

My hands are swift, my movements precise as I approach the first guard from behind. A quick chop to the carotid artery and he crumples, silenced before a cry can escape his lips. I catch him, easing his unconscious form to the ground with the care of someone handling something precious. One down, more to go.

The second guard isn't as lucky. His mistake is turning at the last moment, eyes widening in terror. There's no time for subtlety now. My fist connects with his jaw, a crack echoing in the cool air, and he goes down hard. I drag his limp body into the underbrush, a prayer for forgiveness whispered into the night.

With the path clear, I find myself at the window, its pane reflecting a distorted version of myself back at me. For a moment, I see not a man but a specter, a ghost of vengeance and unspoken desires. Then I push those thoughts aside. This isn't the time for reflection—it's the time for action.

My elbow, wrapped in the thick fabric of my jacket, makes quick work of the glass. It shatters with a satisfying crash, shards falling like raindrops of rebellion. I'm through the window in an instant, the familiar smell of old books and whisky greeting me as I step into the lion's den. The O'Neil manor, with all its shadows and sins, now houses a new secret—me.

The study is a sanctuary of solitude, a rich tapestry of knowledge and power woven into every book-laden shelf and polished mahogany surface. I move with silent purpose, the ghost of my reflection haunting the glass doors of antique cabinets. My fingers trail across the spines of leather-bound tomes, brushing against the accumulated wisdom of generations that will soon be lost to the flames.

Beneath the heavy, somber portrait of some long-dead patriarch, I find my weapon of choice—not a blade or a bullet, but a crystal decanter of aged scotch. It glints seductively in the dim light, promising oblivion. I consider a sip, a brief respite for my parched throat, but there's no time for the indulgence of vices, not when vengeance courses through my veins like a wild, raging river.

I uncap the decanter with a swift, calculated motion, the scent of peat and wood smoke permeating the air, intoxicating in its potency. The curtains beckon me, opulent velvet that has never felt the caress of anything less than golden sunlight. They'll burn beautifully. I tilt the decanter, and the liquid cascades out, each droplet catching the moonlight as it races to soak the fabric. It's almost a shame, this desecration of finery, but the thought is fleeting, smothered by the roar of blood in my ears.

The alcohol snakes its way across the Persian rug, an expensive piece now marred by my deliberate vandalism. The desk, littered with papers that whisper secrets of wealth and corruption, receives the same dousing, the liquid greedily absorbed by parchments filled with deceit.

Finally, I stand back, the decanter empty, its purpose served. The air is thick with the fumes of impending destruction, an acrid prelude to the symphony of chaos I am about to conduct. From my pocket, I retrieve the lighter, a simple instrument of silver that gleams with deadly promise. My thumb rolls over the flint wheel, a spark of life birthing a small, dancing flame.

With a flick of my wrist, the fire leaps from the lighter to the soaked curtain, a passionate kiss igniting an inferno. The heavy fabric, once a symbol of his ill-gotten wealth, soaks up the fuel eagerly. I can't help but feel a sense of grim satisfaction. This is more than just a fire; it's retribution. With a flick of the lighter, flames dance to life, hungry and relentless. My heart beats a furious rhythm, echoing the crackle and roar that begins to consume the room.

"Time to go," I whisper to myself, backing out into the hallway. The heat licks at my back, a beast unleashed, tearing through the gaudy interior of Sean's fortress.

As I move back out the window I broke through, the sound of alarms and the clamor of disoriented voices reach me. Sean's guards are shouting orders, their focus shifting from guarding to salvaging. They scramble, tripping over themselves in a desperate attempt to contain the blaze that’s eating up the mansion's innards.

The night air is cool against my sweat-drenched skin. I sprint across the lawn, senses on high alert. My gaze locks onto the front where Sean stands, his figure illuminated by the eerie glow of the inferno behind me.

There she is. Avalina. Her shoulder-length copper hair reflecting the light of the fire, outlining her like a vengeful angel. She's on her knees, and I can see even from this distance, the defiance in her green eyes. It's that same spirit that drew me to her, long before the accident that stole her memories of us. Blood is splattered across her face and dripping down her torn dress, her wide eyes meeting mind across the expanse between us.

"Kieran, we've got three coming your way," Liam warns, his voice cool but strained on my earpiece, signaling the effort he's putting into taking down Sean's men.

"Thanks," I respond, not breaking stride as Cass, silent as a shadow, emerges from the bushes to my left. Her movements are graceful and lethal.

"Go, I’ve got these," she whispers, her eyes glinting with the thrill of the fight.

"Thanks, Cass," I say, sparing her a brief nod before continuing my advance.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat a drum of war as I approach my nemesis. Sean's eyes meet mine, a smirk on his lips, but I see it—the flicker of fear. He knows what I am capable of. He knows this night won't end well for him.

"Come and get her, Kieran," he taunts, voice cutting through the chaos. But I'm already moving, already planning the moment I reclaim what he has stolen from me.

Avalina’s safety is all that matters now. Everything else—the fire, the family feud, the past—it all fades away. There's only her, and the burning need to pull her from the clutches of a madman. I'm close now, so close, and I can almost feel the warmth of her skin, the pulse of her life beneath my fingertips.

Sean's hand is tangled in her chestnut hair, the barrel of his gun cold against her temple.

"Kieran," she whispers, her voice trembling through the veil of smoke and fear.

"Let her go, Sean," I growl, the words tearing from my throat like shards of glass.

Sean sneers, tightening his grip on Avalina. "Drop your weapon and get on your knees, or she dies."

Every muscle in my body screams to charge forward, to unleash the fury boiling within me, but Avalina's life hangs by a thread—a thread Sean would sever without a second thought. With a snarl of defeat, I let my gun clatter to the ground and slowly sink to my knees.

"Good boy," he mocks, his laughter grating against my ears. "But here's the twist, Kieran. You think you'll watch her die? No. She'll watch you die."

I can feel Avalina's gaze on me, filled with a silent plea. The air thickens with the scent of fire and blood, and I brace for the moment Sean will pull the trigger.

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