Page 122 of Goldflame

The jab lands. For just a moment, her eyes narrow and she grimaces, revealing the injured woman beneath everything. It’s a glimpse into the abyss that created her—the same one that nearly consumed me.

“Careful.” Her voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You forget who holds power here.”

“Do you hold power?” I step closer, feeling reckless. “Or are you just Julian’s puppet master, whispering poison in his ear to feel relevant? To feel needed? Does he even listen to you anymore, or does he just tolerate you like an old, familiar disease?”

Her palm connects with my cheek, the crack of skin on skin loud in the empty room. My head snaps sideways, but I don’t make a sound. I’ve endured far worse than her petty violence.

“You stupid little bitch,” she hisses. “You have no idea what I’ve built, or what I’ve endured. You think your suffering is unique? I watched your mother break. I helped break her. And now I’ll do the same to you.”

There’s plenty of fire in my veins, but for a second, I become still and just observe this hateful woman in front of me.

I’m just… God, I’m so tired. I’m tired of this world where everything, even love, becomes a weapon, where every connection is another vulnerability to exploit. I’m tired of fighting and killing. And maybe, in this moment, I’m exhausted from crossing names off my list only to find more names, more reasons for revenge.

What has all this bloodshed really given me? Not peace. Not justice. Only heartache, more despair, and more bodies to haunt my dreams.

I could walk away. If I survive this penthouse, I could just leave Seattle for good. I could forget the list and the Consortium and find a life beyond revenge. To be something—someone—more than the sum of my wounds.

Otherwise, I’m going to end up like Lady Harrow.

“Nothing to say?” she sneers. “No clever retort?Perhaps Julian was right; you really are nothing special. Just another pretty face easily replaced.”

Well, before I leave, I could crossonemore name off my list.

I lunge at her, fingers clawing for her perfect hair, her flawless yet aging face. We collide in a tangle of limbs, both of us falling awkwardly against an end table. A crystal vase crashes to the floor, splintering into deadly shards.

I’m weaker than I realized—blood loss and trauma have taken their toll—but fury lends me strength. My palm connects with her cheek, a satisfying crack that sends her head snapping backward. Her nails rake down my arm in retaliation, leaving red lines in their wake.

“You pathetic child,” she snarls, spittle flying from her lips. “You think you can beat me? I survived Lucian Harrow for twenty years. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

I’m about to answer when a sudden, deafening crack splits the air. Pain explodes in my side, white-hot and all-consuming. The force of it throws me backward onto the couch, my body suddenly unresponsive.

I turn my head as my vision swims, and I find Julian standing in the archway. The gun in his hand is still smoking.

Julian.

He shot me.

After everything—after all we’ve been to each other—he would end me like this? Not in passion or rage, but with the cold detachment of an executioner.

“I did love you,” I say weakly, the words bubbling up from somewhere deep and untouched.

It’s the truth.

I loved him. Before.

Julian’s face remains impassive, blue eyes watching me bleed onto his pristine couch. “Stop with the lies,” he says calmly. “There’s no need for them now.”

A strange detachment washes over me as I press my hand against the wound and blood seeps between my fingers. Something doesn’t make sense. The coldness in Julian’s eyes is calculated, not impulsive. This isn’t like him at all. If he wanted me dead, he could’ve finished me at Lorenzo’s by ordering his men to execute me. Why drag me back here, only to perform this intimate killing? Why not use me as bait to draw Adrian out and then kill me in front of him? That would have been the ultimate revenge.

“Why now?” I ask, my voice steadier than it should be for someone with a bullet in her side and stitches in her throat. “Why not kill me earlier in front of your brother?”

He only lifts a brow and parts his lips to calmly reply. But before he can answer, a commotion erupts from the hallway. Guards are shouting. Something crashes. A storm is approaching.

Then he appears.

Adrian materializes, blood splattered across his vest. He’s completely disheveled—hair wild, suit torn at one shoulder. His eyes find mine immediately, widening at the sight of blood soaking through my clothes.

“Aurelia,” he breathes.

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