Page 172 of Knot So Fast
The whiskey I pour is Macallan 25—smooth, expensive, completely wasted on my current state of mind. But the burn is what I need, something to cut through the numbness that's been my only defense against complete breakdown.
That's when I sense it—that prickle at the back of my neck that says I'm not alone. The shadow in my peripheral vision that shouldn't be there. The faint scent of cologne that's almost identical to mine but not quite.
"You have one minute to explain why the fuck you're in my suite," I say without turning around, "or I'll shoot your ass."
It's not an empty threat. The security team insisted I carry after the third attempt on Auren's life, and the weight of the Glock against my ribs has become almost comforting. A last resort I never wanted but might be about to use.
Lucius steps out of the shadows by the door, and even in the dim light, I can see he looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble that's gone past fashionable to unkempt, the kind of hollow expression that comes from carrying guilt that's eating you alive from the inside.
"I wasn't the one who did that to Auren," he says immediately, words tumbling out like he's been rehearsing them. "I didn't plan this shit. It wasn't supposed to escalate?—"
I don't let him finish.
The distance between us disappears in two strides, and my fist connects with his face with all the force of three years of suppressed rage. The impact is satisfying in a primal way—the crack of bone against bone, the way his head snaps back, the immediate bloom of blood from his nose.
He staggers but doesn't fall, coughing and spitting blood onto the pristine marble floor. "Okay," he gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I deserved that."
"You think I'm stupid?" The words come out as a snarl, barely human. "That I didn't know you were being blackmailed because of the gambling debt you incurred last year?"
His eyes widen, shock replacing pain for a moment. He actually thought we didn't know. Thought he'd been so clever, so careful in hiding his shame.
"You think we weren't tracking those people down in Switzerland who set you up?" I continue, advancing on him again, and he has the sense to back up. "Every transaction, every threat, every fucking move they made—we knew. We've known for months."
"Then why—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Because you always want to do shit alone!" The words explode out of me, years of frustration given voice. "Instead of relying on people who actually give a damn, who want you to be happy, you decide to play lone wolf. Instead of coming to me—your older brother—you took shit into your own hands."
I gesture wildly at the space between us, at the chasm that's grown over years of his stubborn independence and my inability to bridge it.
"And where did it get us, Lucius? Where did your grand plan lead?"
He opens his mouth to argue, to justify, to explain, but I'm not done. Not even close.
"THREE TIMES!"
The words rip from my throat with enough force to make him flinch. To make me flinch. The number that's been carved into my brain since the call came, that plays on repeat every time I close my eyes.
"She died three fucking times in that operating room."
The silence that follows is absolute. I can see him processing this, the color draining from his face as the reality hits. He didn't know. Of course he didn't know—he'd been too busy hiding in his penthouse, drowning in whiskey and self-pity, to know what his actions had cost.
"Three times, Lucius. Three times they had to restart her heart. Three times she slipped away and they had to drag her back. And you want me to listen to your bullshit? You want me to care about your excuses?"
My voice cracks on the last word, the professional composure I've maintained for hours finally cracking. "No one knows if she's going to remain in a coma. No one knows if she's going to die at any minute. The doctors use words like 'critical' and 'unstable' and 'wait and see' because they don't have answers."
I turn away from him, unable to look at his face anymore. Unable to see my own features reflected back at me, twisted with guilt and regret.
"And yet you want to make excuses. Want to prove you're not complicit in this bullshit."
Through the windows, I can see the track being prepared for tomorrow. Crews doing final checks, lights being tested, everything being made perfect for the show that must go on regardless of personal tragedy. The world doesn't stop for one Omega in a coma, no matter how much I want it to.
"The security footage," I say quietly, "shows her leaving the hospital at 2 AM. She shouldn't have been able to walk, muchless drive. But she did. Got in her car and drove straight to your place."
I don't need to turn around to know he's processing this, putting together the timeline.
"She left your building fifteen minutes later with blood on her face. The cameras caught that too. Then someone—someone who knew exactly when she'd be on that specific road—ran her off the cliff."
The whiskey glass is in my hand again, though I don't remember picking it up. The liquid catches the light, amber and gold, reminding me of her eyes when they caught the sun.
