Page 51 of King of Violence

“Well, too bad,” he says, and I can hear the faintest smile in his voice, even through his frustration.

I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. For a moment, the world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just us, the hum of the phone connecting us in a way nothing else can.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice steady now.

“Neither am I,” I say, the faintest smile tugging at my lips.

The line goes quiet again, but this time, it feels like a truce.

“Goodnight, baby,” I say softly.

“Goodnight, Julian,” he replies, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

???

The estate feels quieter than usual the next morning. Too quiet. The absence of the usual hum of activity—the sound of footsteps, low murmurs, and clinking coffee cups—fills the airwith an unnerving stillness. It presses against me, thick and suffocating, and my pulse quickens. Something is wrong.

Two of my cousins appear outside my bedroom, their faces expressionless. Their eyes avoid mine, their silence heavy with meaning. One of them speaks first, his voice flat, almost mechanical.

“You’re needed in Elijah’s study.”

The words are brief, impersonal. It’s an order, not a request.

I nod, my stomach dropping as I follow them. Each step echoes louder than the last as I walk through the silent halls of the estate. The usual servants and staff are nowhere to be seen.

When we reach Elijah’s study, the door is already open. I step inside, my eyes immediately locking on him. Elijah stands at his desk, the usual steel in his posture, but his face is unreadable. The air between us is thick with tension, heavy with unspoken words.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. I can’t look away from him. His eyes, hard and cold, don’t soften as they meet mine. They’re sharp, cutting into me like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m worthy of his attention…or if I’m about to disappoint him.

“Elijah,” I say quietly, my throat tight. But he doesn’t respond. He just steps forward and shuts the door behind me with a quiet click. The sound reverberates through the room, making the silence feel even more oppressive.

Then, finally, he speaks. His voice is low and controlled, like the calm before a storm.

“I know what you did,” he says, and there’s no anger in his words, just a quiet certainty that cuts through me like a blade. His eyes are still hard, but now there’s something else in them—something like regret. Maybe even guilt.

I swallow hard, trying to steady my breath, but the room feels like it’s closing in on me. “I don’t know what you mean,” I lie. Butit’s pointless. I can already see the way his jaw tightens and the flicker of anger that crosses his features before he suppresses it.

He steps closer, and the coldness in his voice sharpens. “You stole from me. From my office.” The accusation hangs heavy in the air.

I wince. There’s no denying it, not when it’s right in front of me. “I had to,” I mutter, my voice rough. “I had to do it for Felix.” I try to keep my tone steady, but the words feel foreign coming out of my mouth. They feel like a betrayal of everything I’ve tried to protect.

Elijah doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, and the weight of his silence presses against me. Then, finally, he moves. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t lash out with anger. But I can see it in his eyes—he’s not mad. He’s disappointed.

“You put me in a terrible position, Julian,” he says softly. “You think I want to do this?” His voice cracks, just slightly, as though the weight of what he’s about to do is heavier than anything he’s faced before.

Before I can say anything, his hand shoots out, grabbing me by the collar and yanking me forward. I don’t fight back. I can’t. His grip is unforgiving, but I know he’s not doing this because he wants to hurt me. He’s doing it because he has no other choice.

“I never asked for this,” Elijah mutters, almost to himself. “But here we are.” He lets go of my collar and steps back, and the anger in his eyes burns with something more than frustration.

The next moment, he moves with the precision of someone who’s been trained for this. He doesn’t hesitate. There’s no need for words now. His fist connects with my stomach, knocking the air out of me. I stagger back, my hands instinctively clutching my gut, but I don’t fight him. I can’t.

The second punch lands in my side and I stumble to the floor, gasping for breath. Pain lances through my body, but I don’t sayanything. I’ve never been good at showing weakness, and even now, when it feels like everything inside me is breaking apart, I don’t want to show it.

“I’m sorry, Julian,” Elijah mutters, his voice barely audible. But the regret in his words doesn’t stop him. His next punch lands with brutal force, sending me crashing back into the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of me, and for a moment, I can’t feel my legs.

I can hear the sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven. He’s not doing this because he hates me—he’s doing it because he has to. He has to send a message. He needs to carve my sins into my body in case anyone checks.

The hits keep coming, each one more calculated than the last. Pain floods through my body as bruises form with every strike. I want to beg him to stop, but the words stick in my throat. There’s no point.

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