Shadow of the Crown

Chapter 6: The Silver Wire

The floor of Xander’s master suite was cold, but the silence was colder. Eleanor lay on a thin silk rug at the foot of his massive, ebony-framed bed. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the sniper rifle pointed at her sister’s bakery.

Above her, she could hear the rhythmic, steady breathing of the man who had dismantled her world. He slept like a king—untroubled by the blood on his hands.

Clink.

The sound was no louder than a coin hitting a carpet. It didn't come from the hallway; it came from the balcony.

Eleanor sat up, her heart hammering. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, a shadow moved. It wasn't one of Xander’s guards. This figure moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, sliding a thin silver wire through the seal of the sliding door.

Eleanor looked at the bed. Xander was still out, his arm draped over his face. This was it. If she stayed silent, the Queen’s assassin would end her nightmare. She would be free. Her sister would be safe from his threats.

The door hissed open. The assassin stepped in, the moonlight glinting off a jagged combat knife. He didn't head for Eleanor; he headed straight for the bed.

If he dies, who stops the sniper in London? The thought hit her like a lightning strike. Xander was a monster, but he was a monster whose orders kept the rifle from firing. If his heart stopped, his "dead-man’s switch" might go off.

"Xander!" she screamed, the sound tearing through the room.

The assassin lunged. Xander didn't wake up slowly; he exploded into motion. He rolled off the bed just as the blade buried itself into the mattress where his chest had been a second before.

Xander hit the floor, swept the assassin’s legs, and was on top of him in a heartbeat. The struggle was brutal—no cinematic flair, just the wet thud of bone on flesh. Xander grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the marble hearth. Once. Twice.

Silence returned, save for Xander’s heavy breathing. He stood up, his white undershirt soaked in a fresh coat of red. He didn't look at the dead man. He looked at Eleanor, who was shaking in the corner.

"You warned me," he rasped, his eyes dark with a mixture of adrenaline and suspicion. He walked toward her, stepping over the corpse as if it were a piece of trash. "Why? You hate me. You want me dead."

Eleanor stood her ground, though her legs felt like water. "I don't care about your life, Xander. But I know how your kind works. If you die, your men kill my sister to tie up loose ends. I didn't save you. I saved her."

Xander stopped inches from her. He reached out, his bloody hand hovering near her throat before he gripped her chin, forcing her to look at the c*****e.

"A logical choice. You’re learning." He leaned down, his voice a gravelly whisper. "But you just proved something else, Eleanor. You’re already thinking like one of us. You chose the devil you know."

He let go of her, his gaze flickering to the door as his guards finally burst in. "Clean this up," he commanded, not looking back. "And get the car ready. My mother didn't just send an assassin; she sent a declaration of war. We’re moving to a safe house in the city.”