Page 22 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

The cool air clings to my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. The estate’s garden, usually a sanctuary, is cloaked in anticipation, as though even the trees and flowers sense the danger stirring beneath the surface.

Then, I see him.

Dominic stands near the hedge bordering the east side, the moonlight casting his sharp features in an almost unreal glow. The gray of his suit contrasts against the deep green of the garden, making him look effortlessly powerful. The fabric fits his broad shoulders too well, like it was made to command attention.

But what catches me the most isn’t how he looks. It’s how he stands—rigid, focused, radiating an authority that no one dares to question.

Charles stands beside him, his expression grim, his arms crossed. The way they stand—one controlled, the other restless—tells me something is wrong.

I inch closer, pressing myself against the rough stone pillar of the fountain, hidden behind the curve of ivy. The stone is icy against my back, grounding me as I strain to listen.

“We shouldn’t go in blind,” Charles says, voice taut with frustration. “Adrian’s a rat. He’ll say anything to save his own skin.”

Dominic doesn’t flinch. “He was terrified,” he says smoothly, like he’s stating an undeniable fact. “That kind of fear doesn’t lie.”

Charles scoffs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fear makes men desperate. Desperate men say whatever the hell they think will buy them more time.”

Dominic tilts his head, unimpressed. “You think he’s playing us?”

“I think it’s possible,” Charles challenges, his brow furrowing. “Adrian’s not the smartest, but he knows survival. And survival means telling you exactly what you want to hear.”

Dominic exhales, long and slow. “If he’s lying, we’ll know soon enough.”

“That’s exactly my point, Dom,” Charles pushes. “By then, it might be too late.”

Dominic’s gaze sharpens, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. “You’re doubting me.”

Charles doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he studies Dominic, his eyes searching, weighing his next words. “I’m questioning whether you’re thinking this through.”

Dominic doesn’t appreciate being questioned.

“I always think things through.” His voice is quieter now, but deadlier. “Pier 12 isn’t just a meeting point, it’s a move.”

Charles shakes his head. “It’s a goddamn risk.”

“So is sitting back and waiting for Samuel to push first,” Dominic counters smoothly. “I don’t wait for people to make the first move, Charles. You know that.”

“Yeah, and I also know you don’t hesitate when it comes to gutting people who betray you,” Charles says, voice lower. “So why the hell are you trusting Adrian at all?”

Dominic’s eyes flash. “Because Adrian doesn’t have the balls—or the brains—to play both sides.”

Charles exhales through his nose, clearly still skeptical. “I don’t like it. It’s messy.”

“It’s necessary,” Dominic corrects.

Charles’ hand flexes over his bicep, fingers drumming once before curling into a fist. “Then let me take a team. If shit goes south, we handle it without you getting your hands dirty.”

Dominic lets out a quiet laugh—but it isn’t amused. “You think I send my men into war while I sit back and sip whiskey?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Charles mutters. “I meant—”

“No.” The single word is final.

A long pause stretches between them before Dominic adds, “I’m going. That’s not up for discussion.”

Charles exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. “Damn it, Dom—”

“Who’s in charge here?” Dominic cuts him off, his voice slow, lethal.

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