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Chapter 25
CASPER
Charles Winterbourne is a fucking mess. His eyes are bulging red, and blood is crusted over his jaw from the beating Freddie gave him last night. He wasn’t exactly the easiest catch; with the Russians and Francis after him, he was well guarded.
His problem was that the security he bought for himself were useless pricks and left a perfect trail for me.
They came after me, and after I took care of them, it didn’t take me long to figure out the cunts were working for him. And then it was a matter of time until he made contact. Desperate, selfish men make desperate stupid moves. Like contact their errand boys after twenty-four hours of silence.
> I would’ve thought he would’ve been more careful communicating over texts. Especially given he was one of the ministers that dealt with national security issues. But as it turns out, Charles Winterbourne was beyond a fucking joke.
“What have you done?” Fleur gasps beside me. I feel her shudder as I walk us closer.
She looks up at me when he doesn’t move or speak. Wide eyes betray the defiance she’s still trying to hide behind.
“Me? What have I done?” I laugh.
I brush her hair back while I try to ignore the fact that she flinches every time I raise my hand and then stroke back down her soft strands. I missed the feel of it on my skin, the way it cuts into my flesh when I twist it around my fist and tug it. Hard. The way she likes it.
I do it now, and her wide stare becomes conflicted. She doesn’t want to like it or want it, but she does. It sums it all up nicely for us. I didn’t want to like her or want her, but instead I need her like fucking air. Leaving her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I have done some tough shit in my life.
When I lower myself to her height, I pull harder so that her face is tilted all the way up to mine before I say, “I did what had to be done. Nothing I wouldn’t do again and again to keep you whole. Nothing I won’t do, and nothing compared to what I’m going to do to him.”
“Why?” she whispers, swallowing when I turn her to face the pathetic excuse for a man chained to the wall.
A prisoner of war has no luxuries. Williamson, the man he had compromised and killed, didn’t have the luxury of a cell. He died chained to a half wall, in the scorching sun. Limbs were torn from him. What he suffered was inhumane. Because of this man’s greed and betrayal.
Williamson’s blood is on my hands because of him. My men’s blood is a blemish on my soul because of him. My niece’s blood haunts me because of him.
Holding Fleur tight to me, I keep her up when her legs wobble. “He’s going to tell you why. He’s going to tell you what he was going to do to you.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “He’s going to beg for your forgiveness like a fucking dog, and then he’s going to die.”
Breaths push out from her like silent sobs. Fleur’s not crying though, which makes me love her that much more. She’s strong and resilient, more so than she gives herself credit.
“I already know what he did.”
“Do you?”
Nodding, she holds on to my arm around the top of her belly, while I yank the chain connected to the clasp around his neck. “I know what he did to Arabella and…and the baby.”
“This isn’t only about my sister or my niece. Is it, Charles?”
A whimper vibrates from him when I pull hard enough on the chain that his head snaps back to the brick wall. His pained cry is music to my ears. Light on my dark soul. I relish it with my hot, angry blood pounding through my veins. My control threatens to snap when his head falls forward and his bloodshot eyes square on my beautiful girl with a wheezing laugh.
Pulling the chair from under him, I place it a bit farther back before I sit Fleur on it. She’s watching him with pity as he hangs by his arms and neck.
Not an ounce of regret or sympathy flickers inside me as I stand in front of him, not taking my eyes from Fleur. She thought she knew me, all there is to me, but that is about to change.
A shudder quakes through her as I slap the smugness from his face, the sound ricocheting between the brick walls.
Weak and tortured, Charles Winterbourne can barely open his eyes. But when he tells her all the ways he wronged her, when he confesses to her, he will look at her. He will see all that he’s lost, and she will realise that all this—everything I’ve done—is for her.
“Wakey, wakey, sir…it’s time to confess your sins.”
Fleur stands, looking around for the door.
“Sit down or I’ll have to tie you to that chair.”
“We don’t have to do this. You can just—” She swallows. “—end it,” she murmurs wetly.
