The hunter had become the protector, and his world had narrowed to a single, terrifying purpose: me.
The revelation was a seismic shock that had reshaped the very ground we stood on. Julian Thorne. Not a business rival to be crushed, but a murderer to be brought to justice. The man who had pushed Eleanor Blackwood to her death and let an innocent man — let a boy — carry the guilt.
Lysander was a different man in the wake of it. The cold, calculating fury that had defined him was gone, replaced by a quiet, terrifying focus. He was a blade that had been reforged in the white-hot truth, his edge sharper, his purpose absolute. He moved my father and me from the safe house to a penthouse in a different, unnamed Blackwood property, a sleek, impenetrable fortress high above the city. The window
