Chapter 8
By sunset, the clouds over Blackwood Manor had turned the color of bruised plums.
Inside the vast, two-story grand library of the estate, a massive fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the leather-bound volumes. Faye and Della sat by the hearth with colored pencils, drawing pictures of great stone castles, while Beckett slept soundly on a plush velvet settee under the watchful eye of two armed guards.
The heavy double doors creaked open. Miller shoved Edward and Marguerite into the room.
Marguerite stumbled, catching herself against a mahogany display case. Her hair was matted, her face swollen and discolored, but her eyes burned with hysterical venom. Edward followed behind her, leaning heavily on a cane, his dignity utterly eviscerated.
"Did you bring us here to gloat, little sister?" Marguerite sneered, her voice cracked and venomous. "Enjoying Mother’s library? Enjoying playing queen of the castle while your bastards color on the floor?"
Linnea sat in the high-backed wing chair beside the fire, a porcelain teacup resting casually on her knee. She did not look up from her tea.
"Take the children upstairs to the playroom," Linnea instructed the guards softly.
"Come along, little ones," the female security officer whispered, gently gathering Faye, Della, and the sleepy Beckett.
"Mommy?" Faye asked, pausing at the doorway with her drawing clutched to her chest. "Are those bad people going to yell again?"
"No, darling," Linnea answered softly, looking at her daughter with utter tenderness. "They are done yelling. Go upstairs with your brother."
The doors closed behind the children. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of burning oak.
Linnea set her teacup down on the saucer with a deliberate click. She rose from the chair, walking slowly toward Marguerite until only a single foot of air separated them.
"You called Italy," Linnea whispered.
Marguerite didn't flinch; instead, a sickening, broken laugh tore from her throat. "Yes! I called him! I told him everything! I told him you stole his blood! By tomorrow morning, Marcus Valerius’s private jet will touch down at JFK. You think you're powerful because you have a trust fund? Marcus will slaughter your guards, burn this estate to ash, and take those three filthy children back to Europe in chains!"
Linnea’s hand moved faster than the human eye could track.
She seized Marguerite by the throat, driving her violently backward against the heavy oak bookshelves. Leather-bound volumes tumbled around them in a shower of dust.
"You stupid, pathetic creature," Linnea snarled into Marguerite’s ear, her fingers tightening like steel bands. "You think you called down a god of vengeance? You think Marcus Valerius is your savior?"
Marguerite choked, clawing frantically at Linnea’s wrists as her face turned mottled purple. "He... will... kill you..."
"Marcus Valerius doesn't answer to you, Marguerite," Linnea hissed, leaning in so close her breath warmed her sister’s bruised cheek. "Six years ago, I didn't hide from him. I bankrupt his southern fleet, poisoned his second-in-command, and took custody of his three children because he was a monster who tried to raise them as weapons. And do you know why he hasn't stepped foot in North America for five years?"
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Edward stepped forward, his cane shaking against the floorboards. "Lynn... please... let her breathe..."
"Because," Linnea said, throwing Marguerite to the floor like a sack of wet salt, "the moment Marcus touches American soil, the United States Marshals have an unsealed red warrant for his arrest. Signed by the Attorney General. Delivered by my hand."
