Page 102 of The Tower

Liam’s jaw tightened. “Massive blaze at his retreat in Aspen. Nothing could have saved him. No body was recovered—just a few teeth that somehow survived the inferno and the charred remains of his signet ring.” He held up his bare right hand. “The gold had partially melted, but the family crest was still visible enough for identification.”

“Signet ring?”

“All Grimm sons wear identical rings—except me.” The words came out more bitter than he’d intended.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. He hadn’t intended to even hint that he cared. Because he didn’t. He had no respect for Elias Grimm. So why the fuck would he want that patriarch’s crest on his hand?

They walked in silence for a while, passing several empty rooms before reaching the door at the end of the hall. Liam hesitated, his hand hovering over the keypad.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, but why are we here? He’s in a coma, right? Why do you want me to see him?”

He slid his hands into his pockets. “You believed Elias killed your mother for years. He was the monster who lived under your bed. Seeing him like this … Well, it can change how you see the world.”

For a moment, she only looked at him. Then she turned to look at the still-closed door. When she returned her gaze to him, there was no uncertainty on her face. “He’s not my monster, Liam,” she said softly. “You’re the one who pulled him out of that role and recast the true monster in my memory.”

She met his eyes. “Elias Grimm is the monster under your bed. Not mine.”

He shook his head, knowing she was right, but not wanting to know it.

For a moment, the corridor was silent but for the mechanical whirring and clicking of equipment. Then she took his hand. “Yes. I want to see him. I want you with me, though.”

Something soft and warm washed over him. “Of course. We’ll go in there together.”

He drew in a breath, then tapped in the code, steeling himself for what lay beyond. He’d only come once before. And Sasha was right—no matter how much he told himself this trip was to slay her monsters, the only monster beyond that door was his.

The door unlocked with a soft click, and he pushed it open, gesturing for Sasha to enter first. She hesitated just a moment before stepping through, her shoulders set in a determined line.

The room was dimly lit, dominated by a hospital bed surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed in a rhythmic chorus. And there, lying beneath pristine sheets, was Elias Grimm—or what remained of him. The once-imposing frame was now diminished, the face sunken and waxy. And a colorful array of tubes and wires connected him to the various machines that sustained his minimal functions.

The nurse seated in the corner barely glanced up from her tablet as they entered, merely acknowledging his presence with a perfunctory nod. “Mr. Grimm.”

“Any change?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Stable but unresponsive,” she replied. “Blood pressure’s been good today.”

Liam watched as Sasha moved closer to the bed, studying her face as she took in the man who had occupied such a significant place in her nightmares. The man who, according to Victor Reed’s lies, had murdered her mother.

“He doesn’t look like a monster,” she whispered.

“That’s the problem with monsters,” Liam replied, his voice flat. “They rarely do.”

He moved to stand beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body but not quite touching. His gaze fixed on his father’s face, searching for some trace of the terror he’d once inspired. There was none, of course. Just a frail old man tethered to machines, all his power stripped away by biology’s cruel efficiency.

“So this is the man who supposedly pushed my mother off a roof,” Sasha said softly.

“And who discarded my mother when she became inconvenient,” Liam added, feeling the familiar rage rising like bile. “The man who brought me into his home only to spend the next twenty years making sure I understood I was unwanted.”

He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. His time with Sasha was making him careless, loosening the tight control he’d maintained for so long.

“Did he ever love anyone?” she asked, her question echoing his own childhood wonderings.

“He loved power,” he answered without hesitation. “Control. His own reflection, perhaps.”

He felt her touch before he saw it—her fingers tentatively brushing against his, the contact so unexpected he nearly pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low. “For what he did to you.”