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“How about we bring a stop to this?” he continued. “I’m tired of being Father’s pawn. Aren’t you?”
I monitored the war beneath Trace’s features, the flashes of these brothers’ pasts uniting with the present, Trace’s conflict of deepening Theo’s hurt versus letting him go.
My stomach sank. At the worst time—or the best, depending on your perspective—a door slammed from above and more footsteps sounded.
Gordon was on his way.
The sound registered with Trace, shutting down any weakening. His stare went to blue ice.
“Nice try, Theodore,” Trace said, the corners of his mouth ticking up higher with each syllable. “But we both know only death will stop this competition.”
Gordon, the same height as his sons, came to a stand beside Trace.
Theo said nothing. A fast study of him revealed how hardened he’d become, as if bracing for the next hit. But he wouldn’t flinch—he’d take the bruise, the break, the further amputation from his family. He’d done it enough times.
“You don’t have to, anymore,” I said to him in a whisper.
With a flicker of surprise, he glanced over long enough to tell me he was listening, but focused his attention back on his father.
“Tracey,” Gordon said, without looking away from Theo.
These two men, one the patriarch, the other the prodigal son who failed him, faced off with an intenseness that would heat this cave into an inferno if left unbanked.
“You brought Tracey back into the family,” Gordon said without any inflection. “For that I thank you, boy. I’ll concede you’re the smartest, hence my request going first to you.”
Trace’s mask faltered for the barest of seconds before falling back into place.
Theo remained silent. I felt an infinitesimal brushing against my knuckles and I resisted the urge to glance down.
Theo was trying to tell me something … warn me? But what? I frantically thought through any potential scenarios.
“I would hope wanting me to return to the Saxon dynasty was more than just your ego, Father,” Trace said.
“My eldest, you must admit, you’re not the brightest.” Gordon turned his attention to me before continuing. “The escapade of years ago notwithstanding. I lost millions in that transaction, dear girl. You’ll have to pay penance. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve stayed away from the Saxons,” I began, but Gordon was already back to speaking with Trace.
“And you absconding like that … that is not how I raised my boys. And certainly not how I expect you to act in the future.”
The silk in Gordon’s voice took on a tautness, as if it were tearing, but slowly. Deliberately. Trace showed no outward turmoil—unless you were looking for it. I caught the lightest of flinches, of fingers twitching into a fist and then releasing, before he caught himself.
“There will also be consequences foryou. Bring her down.” Gordon didn’t call behind him—he didn’t have to. Whoever was listening had predicted his command, and a scuffle of feet, a garble of muffled fear, cascaded down the staircase.
The sounds of struggle became visible when Butcher stepped into the bare cone of light with his captive.
Drea.
Still so bruised, her legs pale sticks in a simple red romper. Crescents of cuts rained down her arms, and her neck was almost purple from previous pressure of someone’s—Trace’s—hands.
I couldn’t see how her mouth was doing, her bandaged nose, because Butcher’s meaty hand was across them.
“Why is she down here?” Trace asked.
He was terrified. If I could see it, Theo certainly could. And Gordon.
It was amazing to me that a known batterer and killer could have feelings for this girl. But it was right in front of me. Trace did not want his father to hurt her.
Oh, but he would.
