Chapter 909
Ethan didn’t fight back. He didn’t even try to defend himself. He let the gun clatter to the floor as Alistair drove him into the ground.
“I’ll kill you!” Alistair roared, straddling Ethan’s chest. His fist came down with a sickening crunch of bone against cartilage. Ethan’s nose shattered. “I’ll kill you!” He raised his fist again, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
“Alistair, stop!” Julian threw himself onto Alistair’s back, trying to pin his arms. “He’s not doing it! Look at his eyes — he’s not there!”
Skye slid across the polished floor, snatched the revolver, and kicked it under a table. Then she grabbed Alistair’s arm. His bicep was rock-hard, vibrating with adrenaline.
𝗕𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺
“Alistair!” Skye screamed, slapping his face to break through. “Look at your grandfather — he’s still breathing!”
The red haze in Alistair’s eyes cleared for a fraction of a second. He looked from the bloodied ruin of Ethan’s face to the wheelchair.
He scrambled off Ethan and crawled on his hands and knees through the chaos to the old man’s side. Grandpa Thorne’s head was lolling back. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
“Grandpa,” Alistair choked out, seizing the old man’s cold, papery hands. “Stay with me. The ambulance is coming. Stay with me.”
Grandpa Thorne’s eyes fluttered open. They were cloudy, losing focus. He squeezed Alistair’s hand with surprising strength.
“Beware…” he wheezed, the word wet and heavy. “Beatrice… the island…”
“Which island?” Alistair begged, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood on his hands. “Grandpa, tell me.”
The old man’s grip went slack. His chest gave one last, shuddering heave, and then stilled.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Beatrice stood in the shadow of a potted palm, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. Skye watched the corner of her mouth twitch upward.
Alistair let out a sound Skye would never forget — a howl of grief that seemed to crack the very foundation of the house.
Skye dropped to her knees beside him, wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders, and pulled his head into her chest. She stared over him at Beatrice.
Beatrice met her gaze.
She smiled.
The war hadn’t ended. It had only just begun.
The sky over the Thorne family cemetery was the color of a bruised plum. Rain fell in sheets, relentless and cold, turning the manicured lawn into a treacherous slick of mud.
A sea of black umbrellas bobbed in the wind. Skye stood beneath hers, shivering — not from the cold, but from the aura of desolation radiating off Alistair. He stood a few feet ahead of her, staring at the mahogany casket being lowered into the wet earth. He had refused an umbrella. The rain plastered his black hair to his forehead and soaked straight through his suit, but he didn’t seem to feel any of it. He looked like a statue carved from grief and granite.