Page 103 of Ruthless God

“Did anyone die?”

Agnes swallows. “No, but Mr. Blanc was injured.”

A brief wave of relief. Then unease.

I still don’t believe my brother is alive, but that casket was empty. And now there’s been another attack.

Agnes hesitates before speaking again. “Sir, I don’t think you should bring Mr. Blanc here.”

My gaze snaps to her. “Who said anything about bringing him here?”

Something flickers in her eyes. A moment of hesitation. Too fast to read, but it’s there.

“You did,” she says carefully. “When you texted me.”

A beat of silence. The air shifts. Slowly, deliberately, I scroll through my messages again. Nothing. No texts from me to Agnes.

I lift my gaze, cold, calculating.

“There are no messages from me to you, Agnes.” My voice is calm, but underneath it a storm brews.

She doesn’t flinch, but I see it. The tightening of her fingers and the flicker of unease.

“What game are you playing?” I take a step forward, my voice dropping into something low, lethal. Something that warns. Something that promises. “Does this have anything to do with why you shoved that fucking needle in my neck?”

Agnes’ lips part, but no words come.

For the first time since I walked in, she looks uncertain. Not afraid. Not yet. But close.

“Sir, you know why I shoved the needle in your neck.”

I don’t blink. “Explain it to me as if I don’t.”

I cross my arms, my stance unmoving, unrelenting. I wait.

Agnes inhales, and for the first time, I see the slightest tremor in her hands.

“Please don’t ask me to do this again.”

Again? The word rings in my skull like a gunshot. My eyes narrow. She’s done this before. The realization sinks in, sharp and slow.

I tilt my head, studying her the way a predator does prey.

“When?” My voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way.

She swallows but says nothing. She’s hiding something. Something I should have known. Something I need to know.

“Agnes.”

The single word cuts through the air like a blade. Sharp and deliberate.

She spirals instantly.

“You need to get help, sir! I can’t keep doing this.” Her hands wring together, knuckles white, fingers trembling. “Youcan’t keep doing this!”

My pulse kicks up, but my expression doesn’t change.

“Doing what?”She doesn’t answer, and I move closer. “Doing what, Agnes?”

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