Chapter 572
Chapter 572:
“Doing what?” Skye asked, leaning into his touch as his hand found the small of her back.
“Listening for monsters,” Alistair said. He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering at her pulse point. “We pulled him back from the brink, Skye. Dr. Aris performed a miracle. Liam is alive p>
Skye exhaled, the memory of the flatline monitor still screaming in her mind. “Alive, but destroyed. The antidote Aris synthesized was experimental. It saved his heart, but the trauma… Seeing him discharged only to vanish into a bottle p>
“He’s spiraling because he survived when he thought he would die a hero,” Alistair said, his voice hardening slightly. “The tabloids say he’s been banned from three casinos in the last forty-eight hours. He’s self-destructing, Skye. That’s not a threat to us. It’s a tragedy for him p>
“And Lucian?” Skye whispered the name like a curse.
“The sea took him,” Alistair replied, his grip tightening. “But until I see a body, this estate remains a fortress. Harper has drones in the air. Felix has men in the trees. This gala isn’t a celebration, Skye. It’s a spotlight. If he’s out there, he won’t be able to resist the glare p>
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee’s voice boomed from inside. “A toast to the happy couple p>
Alistair took her hand. His grip was solid, grounding.
“Ready p>
“Ready,” Skye lied.
They walked back inside. The applause washed over them, a wave of validation. Skye smiled, the practiced, radiant smile of the Oracle CEO, but her eyes scanned the crowd.
Harper Quinn was by the DJ booth, tapping her earpiece. She caught Skye’s eye and gave a subtle thumbs-up. Sector clear.
Skye took a champagne flute from a passing tray. The bubbles fizzed against her nose. Alistair raised his glass.
“To the future,” he began.
CRASH.
𝘕𝖺𝘷𝗂𝘨𝗮𝗍e 𝘦𝘢𝘀𝗶𝘭𝘺 𝗼𝘯 𝘣𝖾𝗹𝗇𝘰𝘷e𝗹ѕ.cоm
The sound wasn’t delicate. It was the screech of metal shearing through metal, followed by the sickening crunch of a heavy impact against stone.
The music cut out. The applause died in throats.
At the far end of the garden, the wrought-iron gates, reinforced steel meant to stop a truck, were bent inward. A car, its front hood crumpled like a piece of tin foil, sat smoking by the marble fountain.
Steam hissed into the silent night.
The driver’s door was kicked open. A bottle of whiskey rolled out first, clattering onto the pavement. Then came a boot.
Scuffed leather.
Liam Kensington dragged himself out of the wreckage.
He looked like a ruin. Bandages were visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt, stained with fresh exudate where the defibrillator pads had burned him days ago. His tie was a noose around his neck. His hair, usually military-precise, was wild, matted with sweat and maybe blood.
Security guards rushed forward, hands on their holsters.
“Back off!” Liam roared. He swung a new bottle of amber liquid like a club. “I’m on the guest list! I’m the… I’m the ghost of Christmas Past p>
Skye’s glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the marble floor, but no one looked at it. They were all looking at the man who used to own half the city.