Page 146 of Claiming Pretty

That voice that had seemed so familiar.His voice.

“You dare second-guess my command? You are my fucking heir. You will do as I say. Now… take care ofit.”

My breathing quickened as it clicked into place. The voice I had heard during my abortion—the one giving calm, authoritative commands—the voice that had haunted my dreams wasn’t just familiar. It washim.

Ebony’s father.

My mind reeled. Her father had been the monster behind all of this, the architect of so much pain. My stomach churned with the realization. But another thought came, sharp and desperate.

Ebony had been forced into this by him. Of course she had.

“Get dressed.” Ebony’s voice was clipped as she tossed my top and skirt at me.

The fabric hit my chest and slid to the floor, my shaking hands barely managing to catch them in time.

I fumbled to tug the pieces back on, my movements clumsy and frantic. The chill of the tomb still seeped into my bones, and my feet were bare, my shoes lost somewhere on the uneven floor.

“Now get out of here before they return,” Ebony hissed, her eyes darting to the door where the guards had disappeared. Her urgency felt raw, genuine, and for a moment, hope sparked in me.

Whatever they had on her, she’d been trying to protect me all along. She was still trying to protect me.

“No,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but urgent, my resolve stronger than the terror coursing through me. “They’ll kill him if we don’t get him out too.”

Ebony’s scowl deepened, her face twisting into a mask of irritation. “This is your last chance, Ava. Otherwise, I won’t be able to help you anymore.”

“No.” My voice wavered, but my words were firm. “I’m not leaving without Ciaran.”

“Stubborn girl,” she muttered, her voice a blade of frustration.

“Ebony,” I croaked, my voice breaking. “What did they do to you? Did they threaten you? Please—”

Her laugh stopped me. Cold and humorless, it echoed in the chamber. “Threaten me?”

She stepped closer, her delicate features twisting with something dark, something foreign. “Do you really think I’m some poor victim, Ava?”

I froze as her words sank in.

“I wasn’t dragged into this. I wasn’t forced.” She leaned in, her breath cold against my skin. “This is my birthright.”

Her words struck me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Birthright. The word reverberated in my mind, loud and damning.

My stomach dropped as realization crashed over me like a tidal wave. “You…”

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, cruel smile. “Iam the High Lord.”

“No.” The word tore from my throat as I scrambled back, the edges of the altar digging into my back. “No, it can’t—it can’t be you.”

But it was. The High Lord wasn’t some faceless monster. It wasn’t an untouchable evil lurking in the shadows.

It was Ebony.

It all clicked into place, each revelation like a slap tomy face, the numbness in my limbs burning away, replaced with a quickening of my pulse, a thunder in my ears.

Ebony was on the Board of the Darkmoor Alumni.

I remembered her standing in the photo she kept on her desk, the line of steely-faced men, her smile a beacon of charm in a sea of indifference. The only one with bare ankles beneath her sharp black pencil skirt.

She was the only woman on that board.

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