Chapter 817
Alistair’s voice came from the living room. He appeared in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame. His recovery was miraculous, but the toxin had taken a toll on his stamina. He looked at me, then at Lucian, sensing the static in the air immediately.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I forced a smile onto my face, though it felt brittle. “Just tired. The chaos in the city is draining. Lucian, could you get me a glass of water? Ice. No lemon.”
“Of course.” Lucian bowed his head slightly and turned toward the kitchen.
The second he was out of earshot, I stepped into Alistair’s space. I didn’t whisper. I mouthed the words against his ear, my hand gripping his forearm.
T𝗁𝗲 𝗆𝘰𝘴𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝘱u𝗹а𝘳 ո𝘰𝗏𝖾𝗅s o𝗻 g𝘢𝘭𝘯𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝘴.𝖼𝘰𝗺
Check Lucian’s movements tonight. He left the grounds. He met someone.
Alistair’s muscles went rigid under my touch. His eyes, usually warm when they looked at me, turned to shards of ice. Protective instinct flared in him.
“Are you sure?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
“I saw him,” I whispered. “Near the Old District. He took an envelope.”
“You think he turned?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t know.” I pulled back as I heard footsteps returning. “But he lied to me. He said he was here. And with the Phoenix tearing the world apart, secrets are dangerous.”
Lucian walked back into the room holding a crystal glass. The ice clinked softly. He extended it to me.
I took the glass. My fingers brushed his. His hand was cold.
I sipped, watching him over the rim. Then my gaze dropped to his shoes.
Black tactical boots, polished to a shine. But just above the sole on the left boot was a smudge.
Red clay.
The estate was built on granite and limestone. The soil here was dark, rich earth. That specific reddish hue was unique to the iron-rich runoff of the Old Industrial District—exactly where I’d seen him.
“Lucian,” I said, lowering the glass. “You have mud on your boot.”
He looked down. For the first time, a crack showed in the armor. His jaw tightened—just a fraction.
“Must have stepped off the path during the patrol,” he said. His voice was too calm.
“The paths are paved, Lucian,” I said. “And the soil here is black.”
Silence stretched between us, taut as piano wire.
His pocket buzzed. A single, short vibration.
He reached into his coat—the same pocket where he’d put the envelope—and silenced the phone. But he wasn’t fast enough. The screen lit up for a second.
I had excellent peripheral vision.
New Message from: T.T.
“I’m going to bed,” I said abruptly, handing the full glass back to him. “I have a headache. Don’t disturb us.”
I took Alistair’s hand and pulled him toward the stairs. I needed to get away from Lucian before I screamed.
Because the only T.T. I knew was Travis Tate—the degenerate son of the Tate media empire. A man who dealt in blackmail and filth.
And my head of security was taking packages from him while the world burned.