Page 62 of Iron Crown

“Of course, I’m going to…”

Kieran’s eyes turned to the blood-soaked room.

I followed his gaze, confused at whatever the hell he was trying to tell me.

The room was horrendous. Blood everywhere, along the desk, where photographs were meticulously laid out in a semicircle. But what struck me was the sheer number of books. There were stacks of them everywhere. The bed wasn’t fancy, but even I could tell from this distance that the sheets were not the threadbare prison kind. They were luxurious, and clean, as was the velvet duvet. The desk was an ornate oak, topped with a Tiffany lampshade of green-stained glass.

This was more like a dorm than a prison, not at all how I expected Morelli to be kept.

There were no cuffs or chains. He was just… living here. Confined.

When I opened my mouth to ask for more information, Kieran had already turned away, his phone to his ear, rapidly talking to the mortician—or so I assumed.

Eoghan had taken care of him. I had been afraid that Morelli had endured three years of torture and pain, but instead, he’d been kept in a gilded cage.

I rushed up, assuming that maybe he was going to take a bath, and almost ran into him in the dark foyer. He was standing in front of his large painting, staring up at it.

“For fuck’s sake, Eoghan!” I said quietly, as I fumbled for a light.

When the light flicked on, Eoghan was as red as the painting in front of him. His head was tilted back as he looked at his masterpiece—his self-portrait.

I shuddered.

“Morelli managed to forgive me for this,” Eoghan said, quietly.

I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to himself.

“I bled him for weeks.” Genuine remorse ghosted over his features. “When my madness passed, he forgave me.”

He leaned forward, until his nose practically touched the canvas.

“Or was he cleverer than I ever thought?” Eoghan was talking to himself. “Was he just pulling my strings the entire time?”

He stepped back, his head moving with his eyes, as he searched the canvas.

“I did not think this was a prophecy when I made it.” There was something mad about the way Eoghan looked, his head tilting from side to side, his body moving unnaturally as he searched for answers in his own artwork.

He lifted his hand and carelessly placed his bloody palm against the painting.

It took everything in me not to lunge forward and remove his hand! The old habits of working in an art gallery hadn’t completely left me, it seemed.

“But it’s all come to be, hasn’t it?” He let out a sad, almost crazed laugh. “My madness has not lessened any, has it?”

He wiped his hand down, leaving a bloody handprint against the face of the self-portrait devil he’d made.

“I am still mad,” he laughed to himself, and I…

Well, I definitely agreed with him. He was acting crazy.

I was afraid… notofhim, butforhim.

“Eoghan,” I whispered, reaching out tentatively. “Come back to me, sweetheart.”

I tried to coax him back to me, to bring him from this strange stupor. Was he in shock?

Was he finally broken after killing Morelli?

Eoghan stepped back, moving out of my reach. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. As if unaware of everything around him, he lifted his hands and put them in a prayer position in front of him.

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