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My grandfather watches from the balcony railing with that rare, unsettling expression on his face—approval in the form of a smile. Strange to see it after a year of being looked at like a corpse. At least I’ve done one thing right. He may not agree with how I run things, but I’ve never required agreement to be correct.

My brothers stand with him, along with my uncle. Even my cousins have shown up. The whole bloodline is gathered to witness me carry what they were never certain I could handle. I must admit, their pride makes this legacy easier to bear.

I don’t know if my mother and father can peer through whatever veil falls between us to see what I’ve made of myself. All I can hope is that they’re proud of me wherever they are. That they can see I’m becoming the man they believed I could be, with the only woman capable of softening the worst of me.

My guardian angel. My purpose.

For the first time in my life, I understand the obsession with continuing this bloodline. I want an heir. After thirty-five years of resenting the role I was born into, I never imagined wanting to place that burden on someone else.

But now I can picture a child with her eyes.

Not yet, though.

Zaiya has only begun to belong to herself. Her parents stole enough of her youth. The Order has taken its share of her.

I can wait.

The guards drag in Michael, hands bound behind his back. A gag cinches his mouth. Poor guy is tired and disheveled, which is perhaps the kindest thing a week in the Crypt can do to a man.

They drop him to his knees.

He looks around, eyes darting at all the faces circling us from above, searching for someone to save him.

No one cares.

Men with money are easy to come by. Loyalty to the Order is above all else here. Once severed, it’s impossible to grow back.

“Michael Shaw,” I say, my voice carrying beautifully in here. “You admitted to tampering with the vote.”

His eyes close as he nods reluctantly.

“By your actions, you have forfeited your place in the Serpentium Order.”

Relief breaks through his fear. Idiot. As if exile might be his escape route. Disappear. Change his name. Buy a new life somewhere.

I’ll help him understand what this is.

“Your sentence is death.”

The relief evaporates. His eyes widen. His body tries to recoil, but the guards lift him to his feet as he struggles in their grasp.

I draw my knife and toss it from hand to hand, testing the steadiness of my healing arm. This isn’t something I take lightly, no matter how worthless Michael is. A Sovereign should understand the weight of each judgment.

I cross the few steps between us in a split second. No second thought. No hesitation.

I drive the knife into his gut and pull up to rip him open. He cries out around the gag. I’m not in the mood to hear his screams.

The guards release him, and his body drops, twitching as blood leaks into a puddle.

The chamber remains silent. A quiet understanding that rules will be followed.

Zaiya doesn’t bat an eye. Her fingers find mine, pressing warm reassurance into my hand.

Michael’s body is dragged away, leaving a smear across the floor just as the Connellys are brought in. Patrick looks down at his friend’s lifeless form without a hint of guilt or sadness. Merely disgust at the inconvenience of stepping over his trail of blood.

The couple is placed in chairs and restrained. Patrick remains defiant despite his bruised and swollen face, looking like he’s been chewed on and spat out.

Bridget is less confident. Her eyes keep cutting to Patrick, waiting for him to save her. The longer she waits, the more the truth sinks in.