Chapter 3
The sound of Osric’s choked, gurgling moans from the floor did not draw a single glance from Bramwell.
Behind his legs, Dulcie’s tiny fingers gripped the wool seam of his trousers, her knuckles white with fear. Bramwell kept his left foot firmly planted, a living shield between the child and the room.
Saskia took half a step forward, her eyes wide, wild, and dark with calculating venom. Her diamond earrings shivered against her flushed cheeks. She didn't look down at her bleeding brother; she reached past Bramwell’s hip, her scarlet nails hooking like talons as she tried to seize Dulcie’s shoulder.
Bramwell’s right hand shot out.
His fingers clamped around Saskia’s wrist with the crushing finality of an industrial vice. He didn't twist, and he didn't pull. He simply arrested her motion in mid-air, holding her hand suspended three inches from the child’s dress.
Saskia gasped, the pain registering behind her porcelain teeth, but her eyes locked onto his with an unhinged, desperate plea.
"I did it for us," she strained, searching his carved-granite face for any flicker of the man who had promised to marry her three weeks ago. "Bramwell, listen to me! She would have ruined your empire! Clara would have dragged you through every court from here to Zurich! I protected your name!"
Dulcie gripped the back of Bramwell’s jacket tighter, burying her face into his lower back.
Bramwell’s breathing remained entirely measured, deep and steady as an ocean current. Yet his jaw was set with such ferocious intensity that a blood vessel pulsed along his right temple.
Slowly, deliberately, he released Saskia’s wrist. Her arm dropped heavily against her silk skirt, dark purple contusions already blooming beneath her pale skin where his fingers had rested.
Bramwell folded the cleaned photograph once and slid it inside the breast pocket of his bespoke jacket, right over his heart. He reached behind him with his left hand, gently resting his heavy palm against Dulcie’s golden hair, pressing her closer into his silhouette.
The entire circle of guests had formed an amphitheater of horror. Old money, city commissioners, cartel bankers—none dared draw a full breath.
Bramwell turned his full, terrifying attention upon his fiancée. His voice did not boom. It did not crack. It dropped into a register so low, so dangerously quiet, that it seemed to vibrate the very wine glasses on the perimeter tables.
"What did you tell me about the mother?"
May you like
Saskia’s chest seized. Her eyes flicked toward Osric, who was sitting in the broken china, clutching his bloody nose, shaking his head in silent, pathetic terror.
Osric stopped moving entirely.
