Page 44 of Blood Freed

“That’s what Darick thinks, too.” Rowan nods. “But there’s more. In his note, he says that it wasn’t just Soren working at the facility. That he was behind it all.”

My head spins. “Lucien’s framing Maxwell, too?”

“Looks like it,” Kara says.

“My God.” I exhale the words. “Lucien’s covering all his tracks. With Maxwell dead, there’s no one left to contradict Soren’s confession.”

Gran’s face has gone pale. “Or to reveal Lucien’s true involvement.”

“And now Soren has no maker,” I add, my voice hollow. “No one who could command him to tell the truth.”

“He’s completely alone,” says Rowan.

I shake my head because he’s not.

He has me.

15

Chapter 15

Soren

Ifeel it themoment it happens. First, there’s the sense of belonging that I’ve known since the instant of my making. Then…nothing.

“Maxwell!” I gasp.

The void tears through me, centuries of connection severed in a heartbeat. My legs buckle. The walls blur as reality fractures around me. Without conscious thought, I reach for the shadows.

The containment field around my apartment should stop me. It doesn’t.

I materialize in Maxwell’s darkened entrance hall, abandoning the decades of propriety that always had me knocking at the front door first.

“Maxwell!” My voice echoes through the mansion’s hollow chambers. There’s no reply, just artificial darkness and a senseof emptiness. I move through the UV-protected halls, scanning each room.

The silence grows oppressive, until the stench hits me – fire and burned flesh. I follow it, each step heavier than the last. Down the corridor. Past the portrait gallery where generations of our line stare with accusing eyes.

I stop outside his study, where the air almost threatens to choke me.

I push open the heavy oak door.

The morning sun streams through the tall windows, searing my flesh as it touches me. I hiss at the pain, slamming the door shut, but not before I get a good look at the room. It’s an image that feels burned into my mind.

The windows are open wide, drapes pulled back to let in maximum sunlight. Maxwell would never be so careless. He was meticulous about protection from the sun, had special UV-filtering glass installed. These windows are broken, the protective glass shattered.

In the center, a heap of ashes and charred bone fragments mars the antique Persian rug – Maxwell’s favorite. On the edge of the rug is Maxwell’s signet ring, untouched by the flames, lying perfectly positioned. Too perfectly. Maxwell never took it off, not in the five hundred years I’ve known him. The placement is deliberate, theatrical.

This was no suicide. The scene is staged, arranged to tell a story that isn’t true.

I slump back against the wall, mind reeling at seeing the remains of the vampire who gave me immortality. Who taught me everything I know about power and control and survival. Who I defied to save Mia.

My maker. My father.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t fight down the pain. I deserve it.

The bond’s absence claws at my chest, a physical ache where Maxwell’s presence used to be. Five centuries of connection, guidance, loyalty – even when strained by recent events – gone in an instant. The magnitude of the loss threatens to overwhelm me, but I force myself to focus on the details that don’t add up. The broken windows. The pristine ring. The calculated positioning of everything.

This is Lucien’s work. A message and a warning wrapped in one brutal act. And a reminder that he holds all the power now.

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