Chapter 1040
Skye sat on the deck of Alistair’s private yacht, anchored miles offshore in international waters. She was wearing a white sundress, the bandages on her shoulder hidden beneath the fabric. The sun was warm on her face.
Alistair walked out carrying two mimosas. He sat beside her and handed her a glass.
“To the victors,” he said softly.
“To the survivors,” Skye corrected, clinking her glass against his.
“Liam gave his statement,” Alistair said, looking at the horizon. “He cleared everyone. He claimed Bastian had a psychotic break and held everyone hostage. He said Preston died trying to disarm a bomb Bastian had planted. He painted Preston as a hero.”
“Smart,” Skye said. “It keeps the Hayes family quiet. Victoria gets to mourn a hero instead of a traitor.”
“And Julian?”
“Julian is officially missing, presumed dead.” Skye smiled. “He’s enjoying his retirement in the Swiss Alps. Ethan is with him. They’re finally free.”
“What about Lucian Graves?” Alistair asked.
𝗝оіn о𝗎r 𝗰𝗈𝗆𝘮𝗎n𝘪t𝗒 о𝗇 𝗀𝗮𝗅𝗇о𝘷𝗲𝘭s.сo𝘮
“Found at the Fortress,” Skye said. “Malnourished, beaten, but alive. He’s corroborating Liam’s story about Bastian’s breakdown. He won’t talk about us.”
“And us?” Alistair turned to her, his dark eyes searching hers. “Skye Sterling is officially dead. Phoenix is retired. Who are you now?”
Skye looked at the ocean. She thought of the girl who had been pushed down the stairs. The woman who had clawed her way out of a grave. The warrior who had burned down a mountain.
She reached out and took Alistair’s hand, lacing her fingers through his.
“I’m Skye,” she said. “Just Skye.”
Alistair smiled. He leaned in and kissed her—not a desperate kiss, or a hungry one. It was a promise. A seal on a future that didn’t involve running.
“Hello, Skye,” he whispered against her lips.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A text from an unknown number.
The ashes are swept. The board is clear. But I found something in Bastian’s safe deposit box. A ledger. It wasn’t just him. There are others. — L
Skye stared at the screen. A cold chill ran down her spine.
There are others.
She looked at Alistair. He saw her expression change.
“What is it?” he asked.
Skye deleted the message. She looked at the sun, bright and blinding.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just a loose end.”
She set the phone down. But her hand was shaking.
The war was over. But the battle—the battle was just beginning.
She squeezed Alistair’s hand.
“Ready to go home?” Alistair asked.
Skye smiled—a dangerous, sharp smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Not yet,” she said. “I think I want to stay out here a little longer. The storm isn’t quite over.”
She picked up her drink.
“Let’s wait for the thunder.”
“Let’s wait for the thunder.”
The words hung on her lips, a soft murmur against the imagined salt spray of the ocean. She was supposed to be on a yacht, three days later. Safe. But as the thought formed, the phantom breeze shifted—no longer smelling of sea foam, but of ash and decay.
The polished teak deck beneath her feet dissolved, warping into jagged rocks and charred concrete. The crystal mimosa glass in her hand didn’t shatter; it simply ceased to exist.