Morning broke too soon.
Henry summoned me to his study—alone. No one else around meant no pretense, not even a hollow greeting. I knew his kindly clan facade was a lie; he knew my silence masked a defiant spirit.
He studied me for a long moment, a cold snort escaping him before he slid a few photos from his drawer and held them out.
The images seared into my eyes. My pupils shrank, fists clenching until my knuckles blanched. Owen—gaunt on a hospital bed, tubes snaking from his body, fresh gashes on his arm oozing blood.
Henry savored my fear, his satisfaction palpable. With a deliberate flick, he tossed a knife to the floor. Dried blood crusted its blade, laced with Owen’s scent—proof Henry had wielded it against my brother.
His voice stayed deceptively gentle, words measured. “Where
