Page 35 of Capricorn

A grunt of pain.

Blood dripping down his welted back.

Horrified stares from half the men surrounding him.

I squeeze my eyes shut until the images fade, but reality doesn’t shift. I’m still in the dungeon, trapped in a new month, forced into another terrorizing visit to the place where I had no choice but to watch the love of my life hang in those shackles, his spirit breaking in front of me.

Now, it looks like I’m the one who’s going to break.

Too many men crowd the space, but all I see is Pax, arms folded over his broad chest as he lounges beside the St. Andrew’s cross. That relaxed stance is a lie, because his soulless eyes promise nothing but pain.

Before I can draw a full breath, he moves.

A nightmare stalking closer.

Heavy boots thudding with purpose.

Then a hand clamps around my wrist.

12

Pax drags me through the fray, straight for the towering X on the wall, with its medieval shackles poised to claim its next victim. The dungeon churns with movement, voices clashing for dominance, and that’s when I notice the fracture.

The men are split into two distinct groups.

Allies to the left.

Villains to the right.

Before Pax reaches the wooden planks, Liam steps in front of him, nostrils flaring, hatred boiling under the surface.

“Let her go.” His voice is low, simmering with the kind of fury that wants to combust. Hands curling into fists, he grinds his teeth so hard I half expect them to crack. Vance, Landon, Ford, and Hugo flank him, sensing the ticking bomb that is the chancellor.

“Everyone, calm down.” Liam’s father joins the group as two more legacy members crowd in, blocking the space between Oliver and me.

And that’s when it happens.

A pair of emerald eyes lock onto mine, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense. My stomach lurches as if I’ve stepped off a ledge, caught in a weightless free fall before recognition slams me to the ground.

It’s him.

Landon’s father.

My father.

I look nothing like him, but I can’t help searching for a trace of resemblance. The cheekbones are wrong, and so is his mouth, but still…

Something’s there.

A pull deep in my marrow.

Familiarity without logic.

He returns my scrutiny, his dark brows dipping, and I know what he’s seeing.

My mother.

Because I’m a replica of her. Same flaxen hair and brown eyes, though I used to believe that part of my genes came from Edwin Van Buren, whose lineage was chock full of brown-eyed ancestors. But my mother’s secret journal made it clear—Franklin Astor is responsible for my existence.

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