Page 126 of Vows of Ruin

CLICK.

A speaker crackles overhead, warped with static, before a voice slides through the system, smooth and taunting.

“Well,” Sebastian purrs. “What a surprise, I hadn’t even sent out the invitations yet.”

My blood goes cold. His smile bleeds through every word.

“But since you came all this way…” A low chuckle. “…drop the gear. And all the weapons.”

I look up at the dark rafters, knowing he’s watching, knowing he can see every twitch of my jaw, every rise of my chest.

“Come in.” The speaker hums. “Let’s talk.”

The loudspeaker cuts out, leaving the massive room in a suffocating silence. I don’t move at first. I stare at the stage, the pink walls, the tiny bed, the stuffed fox, the chairs arranged like vultures, and fight the urge to tear everything apart with my bare hands.

Instead, I exhale once. Slow. Controlled. I force myself to step forward. I keep my gun raised until I reach the edge of the seating. Then, with deliberate slowness, I crouch and set it on the floor. My other weapons follow, one by one.

The knives from my boots. The Glock from the shoulder holster. The spare mags. The rifle. All of it. Except one. The dagger. Her dagger. The second one I ever gave my Little Warrior, sleek steel, balanced, and deadly. She sleeps with its slightly larger twin under her pillow. I slip mine deeper under the waistband at my back, hidden beneath my jacket. Insurance.

I straighten and walk toward the stage. Toward the bedroom. Toward the man who built a shrine to her childhood. A shadow shifts behind the set pieces. Then Sebastian steps out. He looks exactly like he did in the photo that Wrenley could barely stand to look at. Just older, taller, thinner. Eyes too bright, too sharp. A smile carved onto his face as if someone taught him the mechanics, but not the feeling behind it.

He wears a button-down, sleeves rolled, hands clasped behind his back like he’s greeting an old friend, not one of his sister's husbands. He circles the edge of the stage. I circle the floor beneath him. Neither of us turn our backs.

“Liam,” he croons.

The sound of my name in his mouth feels like a violation. No one calls me that. No one gets to. Except for her. Except for my brothers, when things are bad enough, they forget to hide their fear. But never him. Never this piece of rot wearing a smile. I freeze for half a heartbeat. Sebastian sees it. Sees the twitch in my jaw. Sees the flicker of instinct to reach for the dagger. He fucking smiles.

“It’s strange,” he continues lightly, “Finally saying your real name out loud. I’ve heard her use it so often, but always quietly… softly… like it belongs to the two of you.”

My blood goes cold. He’s been listening.

He tilts his head with that too-bright smile. “She says it differently, you know. Like it matters.”

I take a step forward, very, very close to ending this prematurely. He takes a matching step back. Like a dance. A taunt.

“No need to get emotional,” he murmurs, circling down the steps and onto the factory floor. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

“Start talking,” I growl. “Why all this? What do you want from her? Money? The Ashford name? The estate? She would’ve given you all of that if you’d just left her alone.”

Sebastian laughs. Not a normal laugh. A delighted, childlike sound that doesn’t belong in a rusted factory full of ghosts.

“Oh, Liam.” He shakes his head, pacing slowly around me as I mirror him, never showing my back, never blinking. “You really don’t understand her at all, do you?” he says. “Or me.”

“Enlighten me.”

He smiles wider, edges sharp.

“It was never about money. Or influence. Or even vengeance. She can keep all of that.”

My fingers twitch toward the hidden blade. He notices it. Encourages it.

“I want her legacy,” he says softly. “Our legacy.”

My stomach drops. “What?”

Sebastian’s smile widens again, serpentine, gleeful, sick. “You are thinking so small, Liam. Titles? Inheritance? Approval? No. No, no, no.”

He gestures around the recreated bedroom with a sweeping flourish. “This isn’t about her past. This is about our future.”