Chapter 804
The storm had finally broken, leaving the morning sky scrubbed raw—a bruised purple fading into a pale, deceptive blue. But the air at Cliffside Haven didn’t feel clean. It felt heavy. Charged. Like the static that builds in the split second before a lightning strike.
I stood on the concrete terrace, wrapping my cardigan tighter around myself against the biting sea wind. My hands were shaking, just a little—a tremor in my fingers I couldn’t quite command into stillness. It was the adrenaline crash, the inevitable tax after a night of gunfire, burning steel, and near-death at the old mill.
But more than the physical exhaustion, it was the digital ghost haunting my phone that kept my nerves frayed. That text message from the night before—The pawn has fallen. The King is now in play. Phase Two initiates.—had turned this sunrise into a countdown.
“You’re overthinking it,” a voice rumbled from the doorway.
I turned. Alistair wheeled himself out onto the patio. He looked like a fallen king trying to reclaim his throne from a seated position. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, the white gauze stark against his black T-shirt, and his face was pale, shadows carved deep under his eyes. But his gaze was sharp, undimmed by the painkillers or the blood loss.
𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗌.𝖼𝗈𝗆
“I’m not overthinking,” I said, leaning against the railing. “I’m strategizing. ‘Game on’ implies an opponent we can see. But we’re blind, Alistair. Phase Two could be anything.”
“It won’t be anything,” Alistair corrected, maneuvering the chair with a grimace of frustration at his own limitations. “It will be precise. The Architect doesn’t do random. He’ll strike at our resources or our legitimacy.”
Below us, near the wrought-iron gates, Lucian Graves paced. He looked like a caged tiger—if tigers wore tactical black and carried enough suppressed rage to level a city block. He was dressing down Marcus, the head of the perimeter detail.
“You call this a secure perimeter?” Lucian’s voice was low, but it carried over the damp gravel like a crack of a whip. “A delivery van got within two hundred yards before your sensors tripped. Two hundred yards, Marcus. That’s sniper range. That’s RPG range.”
Marcus didn’t flinch, though his jaw was set hard. “The storm, boss. The atmospheric pressure messed with the thermal imaging. We caught them.”
“You caught them late.” Lucian stepped into Marcus’s personal space. “We are in Phase Two now, Marcus. Late is dead. Late is Skye Sterling in a body bag. Do you want to explain that to Alistair? Because I won’t.”
Alistair sighed, the sound rough with exhaustion. “Lucian needs to switch to decaf.”
“He’s terrified,” I said softly. “We all are.”
“Lucian,” Alistair called out, his voice commanding instant attention despite the distance. “Stand down. The sensors are recalibrated. Focus on the approach vectors.”
Lucian looked up, his eyes narrowing, but he nodded. “Copy that.”
I walked over to him, holding out the cup of black coffee I’d brought out. “Drink this. You’re vibrating.”
Lucian took the cup with a grunt, setting it on the stone balustrade rather than drinking it immediately. His eyes kept scanning the horizon. “I hate mornings. Especially mornings after I almost die. And especially when I know there’s a ‘King’ coming for us.”
“Join the club,” Liam said, leaning against the doorframe, chewing on a green apple. He looked deceptively casual, though his other hand hovered near the holster at his hip. “At least the view is nice. And hey, nobody died. Well, none of us.”
“Where’s Victoria?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t heard her complaints for at least ten minutes.
“In the kitchen,” Liam smirked. “Terrorizing the staff about the lack of specific herbal teas. And Parker is in the server room, ensuring Ethan’s kill-switch didn’t fry our local network. He’s practically welding himself to the terminal.”
Then we heard it.
A low thrumming sound. Rhythmic. Thudding against the chest cavity.
Felix, who was checking the gate sensors, snapped his head up. He raised a pair of binoculars. “Chopper. Incoming. Low altitude.”
“I didn’t authorize a flight plan.” Lucian’s hand moved to his weapon in a blur. “Shoot it down?”
“Wait,” I said, squinting against the sun. The helicopter was sleek, painted a glossy, obnoxious white. “Look at the tail.”
As it banked toward the lawn, the sun caught the gold emblem on the fuselage. A stylized lily.
“The Hayes family crest,” Liam muttered. “Why is your family invading us, Alistair? Or rather… Victoria’s family?”