Ivan crouched in the shadows of the estate wall, his breath hitching as he felt the intense pressure of the increased security.
*This territory is a fortress,* he thought, his hand tight around the cold steel of the replica pistol in his pocket. *But I can't leave. If I return to the capital without the boy’s head, the Archduke will dismantle me piece by piece.*
To Ivan, Reinhardt wasn't just a master; he was a god who had plucked him from the gutters of the slums and forged him into a weapon. Failure was not an option. He just needed one clear shot at the boy, and then he would frame the Duke and vanish.
“Looking for someone, Zenon?”
Ivan spun around, his heart nearly stopping. Eric Lennon Brant was standing a few paces behind him, his blue eyes as cold and depthless as an arctic sea.
Ivan forced a laugh, his mind racing to adapt. *He doesn't know why I’m here. I’m still his trusted assistant.*
“Your Highness! You gave me a fright,” Ivan said, bowing low. “I’ve been searching for you for days. When you left the capital without a word, the Dowager was frantic.”
“Is that so?” Eric said, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile. “And you decided the best place to look for me was in the shadows of a remote East County estate, armed with an illegal firearm?”
Ivan’s blood turned to ice. *How did he—?*
“You were a kilometer away when I saw your reflection in a manor window,” Eric said, stepping into Ivan’s space. “It would be wise to remove the gun from your coat before I decide to remove the hand that’s holding it.”
Ivan didn't hesitate. He pulled the pistol and fired point-blank.
*CRACK!*
The bullet whistled through empty air. Eric was gone. A second later, a hand like a steel vice clamped around Ivan’s throat, lifting him off the ground.
“Who sent you?” Eric’s voice was a demonic rasp.
Ivan kicked and clawed, but he was a fly caught in a web. “I... I won’t tell you anything! My family... the Archduke would kill them!”
“The Archduke?” Eric’s grip tightened. “So Adolphe is the one pulling your strings. I should have known.”
Eric didn't waste time on questions. He focused his Aura, a needle-thin stream of blue energy that he drove directly into Ivan’s nervous system.
“GHAH—!”
Ivan’s scream was cut short by the pressure on his throat. It was a pain beyond anything he had ever imagined—as if every nerve in his body was being flayed by a thousand red-hot wires. It was the "Infinite Torture" of the Soul Reaper.
“I’ll tell you everything!” Ivan gasped the moment Eric loosened his grip. “Please! Just make it stop!”
Ivan confessed to everything—the embezzlement of the Brant funds, the manipulation of the Dowager, and Reinhardt’s ultimate goal. The Archduke intended to marry Cornelia, eliminate Franz, and seize the throne. Damian was the final obstacle, a blood heir who could challenge his legitimacy.
“He wanted me to kill the boy and frame you,” Ivan wheezed. “He wanted the Princess to see your crest on the child’s shroud so she would turn to him for vengeance.”
Eric’s eyes flashed with a murderous fire. He snapped Ivan’s neck with a single, clinical twist, leaving the body to rot in the shadows.
He stood there for a long moment, looking at his hands. They were stained with Ivan’s blood. *I need to wash this off,* he thought, a sudden, frantic desperation seizing him. *If she sees me like this... if she sees the monster... she’ll run. She’ll run just like she did in the river.*
He was terrified of the look in her eyes—the look that said he was nothing more than a butcher. He wanted to be a human being for her. He wanted to be the man she had deserved five years ago.
***
In the manor, Cornelia paced her study, her mind a whirlwind of political calculations.
“His Majesty is running out of time, Princess,” Marquis Philippe said, his voice grave. “If you wish to see him alive, we must leave tonight.”
“I can't leave Damian,” Cornelia said. “Not with assassins circling the estate.”
“Then take him with you,” Philippe suggested. “Under the Duke’s protection, the capital is the safest place in the Empire for him.”
I sighed, my pride warring with my survival instinct. I didn't want to depend on Eric. I didn't want to owe him anything. But the sound of the gunshot from the courtyard still echoed in my ears. I was a strategist, not a warrior. I couldn't deflect bullets with my bare hands.
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll ask for his help. For Damian’s sake.”
I walked toward the guest wing, my heart hammering. I found Eric’s room and pushed the door open without knocking, my words already on the tip of my tongue.
“Eric, we need to talk about the travel arrangements—”
I stopped. The words died in my throat.
Eric was standing by the washbasin, his back to me. He had clearly just finished washing. He was wearing nothing but a loosely tied silk bathrobe that hung open at the chest, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his torso and the faint, jagged scars of a dozen battles.
Water droplets glistened on his skin, sliding down the curve of his shoulder. He turned toward me, his blue eyes widening in surprise, his hair damp and tousled.
For a long, agonizing moment, I forgot about the assassins, the rebellion, and the dying Emperor. I could only see the man who had been my husband—the man who, despite his cruelty, was still the most devastatingly beautiful creature I had ever seen.
“Cornelia?” he asked, his voice low and slightly husky.
I stood there like a fool, my face heating up as I realized I was staring at the 'monster's' bare chest.